The Divine Comedy: A Visual Pilgrimage Through Rust and Resonance at AP Space
Photo Courtesy of AP Space
There is something alchemical about rust. In the hands of Korean artist Kim Jongku, it ceases to be the residue of decay and becomes something almost sacred—evidence of transformation, of time passing, of stories etched into material.
The Divine Comedy, Jongku’s newest body of work, was presented at AP SPACE in New York, and unfolded like a journey. Inspired by Dante Alighieri’s epic poem, Jongku reimagined Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso not as destinations, but as psychological and emotional states—layers of experience we all move through, sometimes quietly, sometimes all at once.
The exhibition was not a literal translation of Dante’s hells and heavens. Rather, a visually poetic pilgrimage into the soul—where metal corrodes and heals, where form fragments and realigns, where surfaces hold both tension and peace. Each piece became a page in an unwritten diary: abstract, unspoken, but deeply familiar.
The materials are central to this story. Jongku uses oxidized steel, iron powder, and found industrial forms, not just for their texture but for their ability to embody time. The rust that blooms across many surfaces isn’t applied—it’s grown. It’s the product of intentional exposure, patience, and process. It’s not just part of the artwork—it is the artwork.
In Inferno, metal plates are corroded, jagged, scorched. These are not violent works, but they are confrontational. They ask the viewer to pause, to look directly at fracture, both societal and internal. The compositions feel weighty, like pages torn from memory. They speak of loss, rupture, and the psychological sediment that forms when a person—or a people—passes through fire.
Photo Courtesy of AP Space
Purgatorio is the breath between suffering and clarity. Forms start to soften, as though melted and reshaped. You can feel the uncertainty here—the emotional wobble of something not yet whole, but no longer broken. These works suggest that healing is not about returning to what was, but finding meaning in what remains.
By the time viewers reached Paradiso, the works change. The rust is still present, but it’s no longer the subject—it’s the frame. The compositions open up, space emerges between objects, and the visual rhythm begins to slow. There is no perfect symmetry, no forced order. Instead, there is harmony. Fragile, maybe. Earned, definitely.
Throughout the series, Jongku returned to the idea of Resonance—the invisible frequency that lingers long after an experience is over. His pieces don’t just occupy space—they reverberate within it.
Photo Courtesy of AP Space
The photographic documentation of The Divine Comedy captures not only the scale and structure of Jongku’s pieces but the emotional temperature of the space. The shadows cast by each sculpture, the light bouncing off rusted edges, the granularity of decay—all of it is preserved in these pages, inviting the viewer into a quieter dialogue.
These are not loud works. They do not shout. But they ask something. They ask you to remember your own infernos. To find compassion in the purgatories you’ve endured. And to believe in the possibility of a quiet paradise—not somewhere far away, but perhaps just ahead.
In Jongku’s Divine Comedy, salvation doesn’t come from escape. It comes from attention. From acknowledging where we’ve been and how it’s shaped us. From honoring the beauty of rust—and the resonance it leaves behind.
Tearsheets by Robin Chou, Graphic Design Intern, PhotoBook Magazine
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