So What About Those Dead Animals?

 

                                                                                                                                                               

                                                                                                                                                     Chae Young

  

 

The dead tell no tales. Yet conflict often persists beyond death—and animals are no exception. Even today, when the sanctity of life and coexistence with nature are widely proclaimed, most deaths of animals—still viewed from an anthropocentric perspective—occur with alarming ease. The media thrives on sensationalism and conflict. When a human dies “due to” an animal encounter, the narrative quicikly shifts from mourning a lost life to questioning how to manage these troublesome creatures. When animals lose their habitats to development, their displacement is swiftly reduced to questions of cost and efficiency. A rigid hierarchy among living beings prevails. Nature and animals are ceaselessly driven toward death—all in the name of human survival.

 

The exhibition He vs. It opens with a reflection on a specific kind of death—what is commonly referred to as “roadkill,” the tragic death of animals cast out onto roads by human society. Rather than approaching this as an abstract phenomenon, Soh roots the work in a personal encounter and the sensory impressions it left behind. In this project, Soh reactivates a long-abandoned exhibition space, layering its dormant spatiotemporal textures with visual, tactile, and sonic elements.1)

 

The exhibition is divided into three zones: the interior of the space, the exterior area, and the corridor that connects them. Though spatially distinct, the exhibition unfolds as a single, interwoven work in which individual pieces intervene in and resonate with one another. Upon entering, the viewer is immediately enveloped by a sound piece that serves as connective tissue across various components of the installation. Positioned between the mythological texts and both interior and exterior elements, the sound amplifies a quasi-ritualistic atmosphere, while simultaneously anchoring the audience in sensory reality. Unsettling and ambient, the sound resembles the cry of an animal—yet it appears to emanate from the mechanical ruptures of a construction or industrial site. It conjures ghostly associations with animals drifting at the edges of human life—and with their deaths. These are the same sounds Soh repeatedly hears near the studio: echoes of once-encountered animal corpses, now reverberating throughout the exhibition space.

 

The exhibition space reveals the accumulated traces of time and abandonment. Within this setting, the sound installation casts a darker, more immersive atmosphere over the work. In this somewhat eerie atmosphere, a soft light illuminates the corridor and the upper edges of the interior walls, where excerpts from the Old Testament and Jewish scriptures are displayed. The texts describe Behemoth and Leviathan—their appearances and their eventual deaths as told in the Book of Job. These two creatures belong to the “he” referenced in the exhibition’s title. Unlike other animals in the Bible that are referred to as “it,” Behemoth and Leviathan are directly named by God. But these monstrous beings, once depicted as warning of divine wrath and threatening human order, are ultimately slaughtered and are served at a banquet—attended by righteous figures bearing animal heads and human bodies.2) Their fate hover above the “its,” remaining suspended, until the audience exits the space. Soh refers to the roadkilled animals as “deaths that could not be counted.” Within the exhibition, the deaths of “its” remain subordinated—not only to the “hes” but to humans as well—underscoring the persistent hierarchy of living beings.

 

Suspended beneath the biblical texts is a list of animals—those recorded as roadkill, such as water deer. Rendered on glossy surfaces, these lists not only document counted deaths but also invoke the uncounted. Echoed throughout the exhibition, these records of death are installed alongside circular drawings that evoke the body’s original shape. Through this installation of text and drawing, the artist conveys the sensory impressions of two moments: the moment of encountering the remains of a roadkilled animal, and the fleeting eye contact with an animal that froze and veered away just before the collision.3)

 

If the exhibition is understood as a process of re-staging sensations triggered by this encounter—or trauma—within its own space, it recalls Hal Foster’s The Return of the Real, in which he reads Andy Warhol’s disaster series through the lens of traumatic realism.4) Drawing on Jacques Lacan’s definition of trauma as “a missed encounter with the real,” Foster explains that “the real cannot be represented; it can only be repeated, indeed it must be repeated.” This repetition, he writes, “serves to screen the real, which is itself traumatic. But this very need also points to the real, and at this point the real ruptures the screen of repetition.” For Foster, the torn or obscured portions of Warhol’s repeated images become openings—punctum, as Roland Barthes named it, or tuché, as Lacan, borrowing from Aristotle, described it—through which the shock of death is simultaneously veiled and made perceptible.

​

The story of this experimental process might best be conveyed through the drawings. Although Soh Boram does not explicitly recount their personal experience in the exhibition, the drawings evoke, almost intuitively, a faint light, or darkness, or a void—or an eye, and then a gaze. Soh attempts to approach animal death through this affect of vision. The light reflected in the eyes of the animal—blinded by the headlight—appears as a gaze returning to us. On that day, having looked into the animal’s eyes, Soh found themself looked at in return. This is what psychoanalysis calls the experience of the gaze. In the animal’s blinded eyes, Soh experienced a sudden shift—from seeing to being seen. This shift is now shared with viewers, as the gaze that once confronted Soh emanates through the drawings and installations. Lacan writes that “the gaze sees itself.”5) The exhibition suggests that Soh Boram’s position in relation to these animals, and to their deaths, originates in this experience of the gaze. And if possible, it also invites the viewer to see the its—the dead and the dying—through the gaze.6)

​

Where, then, does the exhibition lead the viewers? The texts that describe the slaughter of the powerful he - animals on the day of final judgment, lead viewers outward—toward the exterior space. Here, the hierarchies between he, it, and the human become entangled. The outdoor installation recalls an illustration of the Last Supper, where the slaughtered Behemoth and Leviathan are served at the table. When viewers put on the animal masks hanging from the ceiling, they take on the appearance of the righteous—the human-like figures who consume the “he” animals at the banquet. Giorgio Agamben, in discussing this illustration, refers to Isaiah 11 of the Old Testament, which envisions a messianic kingdom where the natures of animals are transformed and predators live peacefully alongside humans. Through this installation, Soh Boram imagines a future reconciliation—one in which human and animal relations are transfigured into a new form of coexistence envisioned for the end of time.

​

This installation leads us back to the title of this essay: “So What About Those Dead Animals?”
Is Soh merely mourning the deaths of animals or criticizing environmental destruction and human development? In truth, neither critique nor understanding alone holds much power to transform our perception and the conditions surrounding these deaths.7) We are already well aware of the external causes surrounding these deaths. The work invites Soh—or the viewer wearing the mask—to shift their gaze inward in confronting these deaths.

​

There, one encounters not only oneself—constantly moving, threatened in survival, and easily identified with the lives of animals at risk of roadkill—but also the figure of oneself maintaining a cynical stance despite this awareness of death. Perhaps the title of this essay resides precisely at the heart of such an attitude. Behind the mask, we are now compelled to direct the question inward. It is not ignorance that drives us, but the fact that we act despite knowing. This exhibition reveals that Peter Sloterdijk’s claim—that today’s cynical subject, unlike in the past, fully recognizes the gap between ideological masks and social reality—applies just as much to our everyday lives. We stubbornly cling to our masks, continually finding excuses to maintain them.8) In the final installation, we are invited to imagine a kingdom where humans and animals are united. Yet when we return to reality, we find ourselves still wearing the mask.

​

All life is precious. Yet the danger of roadkill is a direct consequence of human activity. We know this all too well. But then, do we truly understand these deaths? The exhibition raises this question once again, situating it at the intersection of death and the gaze. Will we, once again, shut our eyes tight and step over the bodies, as if nothing has happened?

​

 

​

About the author

Chae young holds a BA in Electronic Physics and Art Management, and an MA in Art Theory. Since 2015, Chae has directed Space Sieon, an independent art space in Jeonju, South Korea, focusing on alternative and sustainable practices. Activities include curating educational programs, writing on visual arts, and co-managing an integrated café and garden within the space.

​