Where does contemporary art stand today? We can no longer define it as a coherent movement. Since postmodernism, art has lost its central ideology and formal unity, resulting in fragmented and individualized tendencies that proliferate without direction. As discourse and imagery accumulate to the point of saturation, art often appears as a recurring event of self-extinction. One may feel nostalgic for a more enduring form of intuitive realism, yet the dissolution of the order and purity constructed by modernism might have been an inevitable process internal to art itself.

 

　　Since the rise of conceptual art and Neo-Dada, contemporary art has increasingly turned into an elite sphere accessible only to the educated few, leading to a steady contraction of its audience. In both Korea and Japan, artists who survive outside institutional systems are dwindling; unless integrated into museum or biennale networks, most find themselves lost and disoriented. As someone who studied economics as an undergraduate, I believe this situation was, in a sense, structurally inevitable. Measured against the speed and desire of capital, contemporary art is fundamentally too slow. Any system that cannot immediately respond to shifting cultural conditions is destined to be marginalized.

 

　　Yet the deeper problem originates from within. How can we hope to revive the art scene if we ourselves do not actively engage with exhibitions? If even artists and researchers—the insiders—fail to experience any sensorial thrill in contemporary art, how can its legitimacy or vitality be restored?

 

　　Within today’s broader field of visual culture, art no longer occupies a privileged position. The public encounters stronger affective transitions and aesthetic wonder in music, fashion, or digital content. Adorno once denounced mass art as a deception, warning against the rise of uncritical spectators; yet a century later, we paradoxically witness mass culture achieving more effective forms of sensory experimentation and cultural impact than contemporary art itself. K-pop, street fashion, and the visual language of video games are no longer subcultures but the frontlines of aesthetic innovation.

 

　　Nevertheless, many still cling to the illusion of “artistic purity,” using it to justify a privileged status. This expectation is self-deceptive, a refusal to face reality. Theory and discourse remain valuable tools, but the question is how effectively they merge with contemporary artistic practice to generate real momentum. Before moving into a new phase, we must first acknowledge the cultural and technological conditions confronting today’s art and build new strategies for survival upon that recognition.

 

　　In Korea, the pursuit of novelty often manifests through distance from tradition—a tendency shaped by the nation’s geopolitical struggle for survival and its rapid modernization. This impulse reappears in new aesthetic sensibilities visible in K-pop and fashion. Younger, digitally native artists resonate with this dynamic, adopting what Nicolas Bourriaud called a “post-production” attitude—recombining and re-editing existing information to construct their own languages. This is not mere computer manipulation but a meticulous experimentation with color, tactility, and materiality—a new form of craftsmanship and artistic persistence.

 

　　Alternative survival strategies are also emerging. Gallery Shower, for example, operates an art-installation company called “Shampoo” to secure economic circulation and reinvests that capital into exhibition projects. This is not a model of closed authority but one of identity formed through an open network. Shower functions as a scene that experiments with fluid modes of existence through connection with others, independent of hierarchies or institutional legitimacy. The gallery has transformed from a fixed institution into a relational site where sensory practices encounter one another.

 

　　Finally, in an era where AI participates even in aesthetic judgment, artistic authority can no longer occupy a fixed place. Humanity’s much-vaunted exceptionalism may itself be nothing more than an excuse for slow computation and imperfect memory. So how are we, as artists, to survive?

 

　　The answer lies in cultivating a singular vision—an eye, a sensibility, and an ontological attitude that algorithms cannot replicate. Without it, one’s art will soon dissolve. Are you replaceable, or do you possess an irreplaceable sensitivity? An artist should not merely produce images but question the very ways in which the world is perceived and felt. Your gaze, your language, your emotions, and the ways you mediate them—can they proliferate without being absorbed by mass media?

 

　　It may sound unsettling, but as artists we must respond keenly to emerging technologies, including AI. Historically, every technological revolution has transformed not just tools but the entire structure of society and human perception. Such change inevitably provokes resistance and anxiety, yet as Ray Kurzweil noted, this confusion is transitional—it foreshadows the reconfiguration of the human condition itself. The key is speed: how swiftly and flexibly can we adapt? Actively reconstructing the boundaries of human existence and internalizing technology through a cyborg-like sensitivity may, in fact, become the foundation of new artistic inspiration.

 

　　Today, every lifestyle must become a form of art. We must stand as artistic subjects not only in exhibition spaces but in our daily practices and attitudes. Art is no longer a savior. Rather, we may be the last remaining possibility for art’s own survival.

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Sangheon Yee：Sangheon Lee is currently studying Contemporary Art Theory at Goldsmiths, University of London. His research focuses on mediating contemporary phenomena through philosophy and critical theory, with the aim of cultivating open-ended points of connection with broader audiences.