SYNOPSIS

L’art reste is a Korean original musical that explores the intertwined lives of poet Yi Sang and his partner Byun Dong-rim, who later became Kim Hyang-an after marrying painter Kim Whanki. Through her journey — first as a writer and art critic, and later as an artist in her own right — the story reflects on love, loss, identity, and how one woman became the thread linking two of Korea’s most celebrated modern artists. Rather than offering a simple biography, the musical weaves a metaphorical narrative about love, art, identity, and the legacies people leave behind.

The story unfolds across two timelines. In the earlier timeline, Yi Sang and Dong-rim form a passionate, intellectual bond rooted in literature and language. Their romance is quiet but profound, marked by private symbols like shared books and counting raindrops. However, Yi Sang’s failing health and his eventual departure to Tokyo lead to a tragic separation that leaves Dong-rim not abandoned, but forever changed.

In the later timeline, Kim Whanki and Kim Hyang-an’s story is told in reverse. After Whanki’s death, Hyang-an begins to paint for the first time, stepping into a creative life shaped by memory and shared ambition. As the narrative rewinds, the audience witnesses how Hyang-an evolved from a young woman into a guardian of Whanki’s legacy, ultimately founding the Whanki Museum and becoming an artist herself.

The two women — Dong-rim and Hyang-an — often appear together onstage in symbolic scenes, sharing reflections and advice across time. They embody different phases of one continuous journey: the search for meaning through love and the decision to preserve that meaning through art.

The musical integrates poetic language, rich visual symbolism, and music that draws from both personal writings and broader emotional themes. Through its dual stories, L’art reste presents a meditation on how people and art are remembered — not because they are perfect, but because they remain.


REVIEW

I attended L’art reste without knowing much about it — I only glanced at the synopsis on my way to the theater. I was already familiar with Yi Sang and Kim Whanki, two towering figures in Korea’s artistic history. I have long admired Yi Sang’s work; his language is brilliant, strange, and piercing. But as I grew older, I came to see him more clearly — not only as a tragic genius, but as a difficult person, someone I would probably need a few buffer friends around if we ever met in real life. As for Whanki, while I deeply respect his place in Korean modern art, I still find abstract painting difficult to connect with and personally lean toward artists like Lee Jung-seop and Chang Ucchin, whose work speaks to me more directly.

With that in mind, I walked in curious and open — and came away from the performance profoundly moved, so much so that I immediately called a friend who loves paintings and art and urged her to join me for a second visit.

L’art reste, a Korean original musical, is not just a historical biography. It is a metaphor-rich reflection on identity, legacy, and the enduring tension between art and love. Through interwoven timelines, poetic language, and symbolic staging, the musical traces the lives of two intertwined couples: Byun Dong-rim and Yi Sang, and Kim Hyang-an and Kim Whanki. The narrative focuses not on what they did, but on how they lived, loved, and remembered — and ultimately, how one woman chose to become the art that remained.

The staging was visually poetic. The white plastered wall behind the stage served as a quiet canvas throughout the production. It was etched with many of Whanki’s signature concentric circle motifs and, as the story progressed, became a surface for projecting artworks by both Whanki and Hyang-an.

Costuming enhanced the emotional and symbolic contrasts between the couples. Byun Dong-rim wore a dark red skirt and a wine-colored flared coat — muted but full of restrained fire, evoking emotional urgency and youthful courage. Yi Sang appeared in a tailored beige suit or a loose traditional Korean wardrobe (바지 저고리), in unbleached cotton, reflecting frailty, quiet suffering, and understated warmth. In contrast, Kim Whanki was dressed in blue suits in varying shades, while Kim Hyang-an wore calm-toned green or blue — cool, poised, and emotionally grounded. The pairing of warm reddish and cool bluish palettes visually underscored their respective arcs: passion and youthful defiance for Dong-rim and Yi Sang; mature reflection and resilience for Hyang-an and Whanki.

Yi Sang and Dong-rim’s relationship was depicted not as a grand romantic arc but as an emotionally complex meeting of equals. Their bond was forged through books and conversation. When Dong-rim was seen reading The Brothers Karamazov, Yi Sang recognized her as a kindred mind. Dong-rim was no passive muse — she was a reader, a thinker, and a woman who knew her mind even as she followed love into uncertain futures. Their courtship unfolded in quiet gestures: sugar cubes, poems, and long walks. In one poignant scene, they sat by a window counting raindrops, saying, “I hope the rain never stops.” It was a moment of suspended time — neither exposed to the rain nor taking action, just watching. A metaphor for a love poised on the edge of change.

Yi Sang’s departure to Tokyo — only three months after their union — was portrayed as both abandonment and inevitability. Dong-rim later returned with his ashes. Yet her arc was not of being left behind, but of choosing, enduring, and remembering.

The story of Kim Whanki and Kim Hyang-an was told in reverse. It opened in 2004, on Hyang-an’s final day, reflecting on what remains after people are gone. In the 1970s, after Whanki’s death, Hyang-an lifted a brush for the first time. As she touched the canvas, a dot appeared and gradually grew larger — not dramatically expanding, but signaling the beginning of artistic creation. This quiet moment paralleled her decision to not merely mourn but to create. She stepped into art, carrying their shared legacy forward.

Their earlier years in Paris and New York unfolded with gentle humor and emotional candor. In an especially touching scene, Hyang-an insisted that dancing would help her write a better exhibition review, leading the two to waltz around their Parisian apartment. Their dynamic began with Whanki as the nurturing protector in an early encounter — even holding an umbrella in a mirrored rain scene — but over time, Hyang-an became the architect of his legacy, organizing his exhibitions, guarding his archives, and founding the Whanki Museum.

In a dreamlike intersection, Dong-rim and Hyang-an appeared together onstage, particularly in moments of inner reckoning. In one, Dong-rim wrote in the first pages of her notebook while Hyang-an wrote at the back — a visual metaphor for life lived and reflected upon. They exchanged fears and advice. Hyang-an encouraged Dong-rim to trust her “exclamation marks,” even while acknowledging the “question marks” they would inevitably bring.

Eventually, Hyang-an asked Whanki to give her the name Kim Hyang-an — an art name he originally used for himself. He replied, “Then call me Su-hwa.” In real life, Byun Dong-rim had cut ties with her family to marry Whanki and later adopted not only his art name but even his surname. The onstage name exchange reflected something deeper than romance — it was a redefinition of identity through art, partnership, and self-choice.

The music was lyrical and textured — emotional without excess. Repeating motifs gently reinforced the core ideas, and lyrics often quoted from the characters’ actual letters or writings. The score featured piano, violin, and cello, with subtle inversions in musical leadership; in the final scene depicting Kim Hyang-an and Kim Whanki’s first encounter, the violin led, mirroring the evolving emotional dynamics between the characters.

Whanki was portrayed as sweet, visionary, perhaps a touch idealized — likely reflecting the production’s close relationship with the Whanki Museum. He dreamed of rivaling Picasso and building a house that would become a museum, a vision fulfilled in reality after his death. His 1971 painting Universe (05-IV-71 #200) — completed in the year depicted in the show — sold for ₩15.3 billion (~$13 million USD) in 2019, a record for Korean modern art. Though not mentioned in the musical, that legacy resonated in every projection and blue hue on stage.

Yet for all Whanki’s vision and Yi Sang’s genius, this was ultimately Kim Hyang-an’s story. She was the throughline — from spontaneous youth to composed artist, from someone who followed to someone who led. She preserved Yi Sang’s memory, built Whanki’s museum, and quietly stepped into her own voice. Through her, art remains. In L’art reste, she was both the one who loved and the one who remained — the one who turned memory into creation. The art that endures.