Wonmi Seo is a painter based in Paju, South Korea. Her work moves fluidly between language and image, drawing from personal memory, Korean history, and the subtle sensations found in everyday life. Early bodies of work such as the Facing and Black Curtain series explored the fragility of the human body and the unresolved wounds embedded in Korean society. In her recent practice, daily walks in Paju, shifting seasons, fleeting sounds, and the linguistic overlap between “words” and “horse”—both pronounced mal in Korean—have become central motifs.

Working across drawing, collage, and oil painting, Seo’s images hover between narrative and abstraction, capturing emotions and impressions that arise before language forms. Since her first solo exhibition at Artspace Boan1942 in 2017, she has participated in numerous exhibitions in Seoul, and she is currently preparing for her solo exhibition at the Kumho Museum of Art in 2026.

Could you tell us about your background and how your artistic journey began?

I grew up spending a lot of time alone since both of my parents worked, and drawing naturally became my way of thinking and understanding the world. When I entered an arts high school and encountered oil painting for the first time, painting became not only a medium but a method for making sense of life—and a way to trust myself again.

My earlier work stemmed from witnessing my brother suffer from AIDP, a period when his body changed rapidly. That experience shaped my lifelong attention to the threshold between life and death. Over time, this perspective expanded from personal trauma to the broader emotional landscape of Korean history and society. More recently, my focus has returned to my daily surroundings—especially the subtle sensations found in the landscapes of Paju, where I currently live. These quiet moments have become an important narrative in my work.

What inspires and motivates you to create new work?

My recent work begins with very ordinary moments. I walk the same path in Paju almost every day, but the path never looks the same—its sounds, the direction of the wind, the mood of the light all shift slightly. In the past, I was more drawn to images distant from myself—history, anatomy, or social events. Now my work begins much closer, with sensations that strike me physically before I can name them: a sudden glint of light, a faint smell, or a phrase that appears without warning.

These observations of daily life, small shifts in landscape, and the sounds I encounter have become important triggers for my recent paintings.

What themes or concepts do you explore in your work?

My practice began from two early bodies of work.

The Facing series emerged from witnessing my brother’s illness—an attempt to look closely at a body on the verge of collapse. It dealt with the fragility of the human body and the thin membrane between life and death.

The Black Curtain series expanded this perspective into the historical and social sphere. Drawing from the Korean War, the division of the Korean peninsula, and ruptures within my own family history, the series explored how collective wounds persist across generations.

Although these two series differ visually, they were rooted in the same question: how can an unseen wound become an image?

My current work continues that question in a different way. Rather than leaving the themes behind, the emotional tone of those earlier works has dissolved into the textures of daily life. The landscapes of Paju, seasonal changes, fragments of language turning into images (and vice versa), and the recurring presence of the horse and the word “words”—both of which are pronounced mal in Korean—naturally intertwine and form new narratives.

The boundary between language and image, memory and sensation, and the primitive quality of early marks—like those in cave paintings—are now central to my exploration.

What challenges have you faced as an artist, and how have you overcome them?

I often work with things that resist explanation—residual emotions or moments that cannot be fully captured in language. Attempting to translate this ambiguity into painting can be daunting, and facing that uncertainty has been one of my greatest challenges.

My way through it is to listen to the painting itself. When I allow the canvas to lead—rather than my plans or predetermined language—the work finds its own direction. Waiting for the moment when the painting speaks back to me has been my way of moving through difficulty.

How do you balance artistic integrity with commercial considerations?

For me, the direction of the work must precede the market. Painting has its own rhythm and honesty, and whenever the clarity of what I’m seeing becomes diluted, the work immediately loses strength. I prioritize the sensations and questions that are genuinely present in my life at the moment; decisions about exhibitions or sales follow afterward.

Rather than consciously trying to maintain a balance, I find that when the internal rhythm of the painting stays intact, a natural balance forms on its own. Integrity comes from knowing where I stand, and not allowing that position to blur.

How do you manage feedback or criticism, especially in public exhibition contexts?

I think of feedback as another form of language. Not everyone needs to understand my work, but unfamiliar interpretations often reveal unexpected possibilities within it.

At the same time, I try to maintain a healthy distance. I keep what is necessary and allow the rest to fade naturally—much like erasing unnecessary marks while painting. This approach helps me remain open without losing the internal direction of the work.

Text & photo courtesy of Wonmi Seo

Website: https://www.seowonmi.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/wwonmi/