In the late 1960s, a letter from “An art worker” circulated among New York artists. It declared: “We must support the Revolution by bringing down our part of the system and clearing the way for change. This action implies total dissociation of art making from capitalism (Wilson 2021).”¹ The artists and critics in the United States at the time referred to themselves as art workers and sought to redefine “art labor.” In this process, countless entanglements and unsolvable–unresolvable–issues clung together like a lump. Yet, precisely because they viewed their labor as labor, they could keep moving forward. I introduce myself as a “pre-curatorial worker,” and suggest you join in redefining pre-curatorial work.

Pre-curatorial work is labor that happens at the beginning of curatorial labor. However, much of the curatorial work is operated by those workers who are labeled “pre-.” The majority of the curatorial laborers are hired as part of subsidized programs such as the Arts Council Korea’s “Arts&Culture Trainee," The Korean Museum Association and Korean Art Museum Association’s “Professional Workforce Training Program& Prospective Workforce Training Program,” and Seoul Metropolitan Government’s “Attractive Job Project (formerly New Deal Jobs Project).” During the hiring process, the workers go through instabilities of low wages and short-term contracts. After being hired, even though they perform tasks that are indistinguishable from those of curatorial staff, their labor is dismissed as mere “practice” toward becoming a curator. When their contract periods terminate, they are replaced without hesitation. This is a structure where if one pre-curatorial worker slips, another takes their place; in other words, a structure where slipping is easy. Such structures exhaust workers by taking their affection for art hostage, and make them wander around endlessly.

Nevertheless, it is difficult to criticize this structure because of the fear that doing so will push them out of the curatorial field. One curatorial worker recounted that they failed a job interview after being asked about union activities and responding that they cared about curators' rights (Sohn 2023).² Such cases rarely surface, though they are likely countless. The difficulty of raising the issue, however, stems from the fact that doing so may not lead to improved labor conditions, but to the conclusion that one must leave the industry.

What can we do in such a labor condition?

In my case, I first entered curatorial work through the Seoul Metropolitan Government’s New Deal Job Program. My department consisted of 4 full-time workers, 2 contract workers, and 18 New Deal workers. While I found it strange that the majority of those who made cultural art were on New Deal jobs lasting a maximum of one year and six months, I gradually became subsumed into a structure that normalized this strangeness. Even though I sensed something was strange with the pre-curatorial work structure, I could not say this aloud; in this structure, I sometimes felt foolish and ashamed. When people outside of the field of art asked why things operated in that way in the art world, I could only reply, “That’s how things are here.” On the one hand, I did not believe that I possessed the power to change this structure; on the other hand, I couldn’t accept the fact that “I love my exhibition spaces, but exhibition spaces do not love me.” The affection did not fade away even after I confirmed the flip side of that affection. Jokingly, I said this is my karma, but I knew this affection formed me. Even though the exhibition space did not love me, I loved it. After admitting that, I wanted to speak aloud the strangeness in pre-curatorial work.

As a method to speak aloud about the strangeness of the pre-curatorial work, I intend to practice “becoming a termite.” In his 1962 essay “White Elephant Art vs. Termite Art,” art critic Manny Farber argued that the art deemed a “masterpiece” became impotent because it was trapped in inertia. He defined “White Elephant Art” as art that gives meaning within the frame of the canvas, and “Termite Art” as art that advances by gnawing away its own boundaries. Both definitions remain valid in the discipline of art. However, we need to face the structure of pre-curatorial work, and aim for termite art.

To pursue termite art is to have a “buglike immersion in a small area without point or aim, and, over all, concentration on nailing down one moment without glamorizing it, but forgetting this accomplishment as soon as it has been passed; the feeling that all is expendable, that it can be chopped up and flung down in a different arrangement without ruin (Farber 1962, 246).”³ Based on this, being a termite means not submitting to the strangeness of the structure, and declaring the act of excavating and gnawing.

To achieve this, first, we need to define our own labor rather than hesitating in front of the label “pre-.” This definition starts from not romanticizing affection. Romanticizing affection is not a way to protect affection. Acknowledging that “the exhibition space does not love me” means acknowledging the problem that lurks behind affection. In this process, we will stop treating ourselves as expendable, come to understand the pre-curatorial work that others are experiencing, and escape the fear that we might be pushed out of the curatorial work structure. Each person's definition will be a starting point for moving forward. Though I do not know your pre-curatorial work, and you cannot know mine, our respective pre-curatorial work keeps rolling on, however faintly. And because it does, our definitions can be gathered together.

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I once deceived myself into believing that if I stayed still, nothing bad would happen. After that period passed, I learned that if I stay still, I can’t change anything. I want you to remain in the space you love by changing the things you love in a better direction. That is why, through this letter, I propose that we dismantle the system we belong to from our positions and lay the foundation for change together.