Matthew Chung (b.1996) is a Korean American multidisciplinary artist working across image-making, printmaking, and sculpture. Born and raised in Los Angeles and currently based between the USA and the UK, his practice engages with both traditional and emergent technologies to explore new material and conceptual outcomes.

Rooted in a spirit of experimentation, Chung treats his studio as a space of continuous tinkering where analog processes like film photography and printmaking meet digital tools, coding, and computational systems. His work often draws from personal histories, Catholic iconography, and the entangled legacies of Korean and American culture, offering poetic reflections on identity, memory, and belonging.

Chung’s practice is research-led and iterative, often unfolding through processes of documentation, assemblage, and transformation. He approaches materials and media with a systematic curiosity and aims to reimagine how we perceive, process, and share experiences in a rapidly evolving world.

Chung holds an MA in Information Experience Design from the Royal College of Art, where he advanced his interdisciplinary practice through research-led methodologies. His work there focused on the translation of abstract ideas into experiential forms, investigating how information can be articulated through spatial, material, and sensorial strategies.

Can you tell us about your background and how you started your artistic journey?

My artistic journey wasn’t straightforward, but if I had to pinpoint a beginning, it would be the moment I discovered my dad’s old Fujica 35mm film camera, collecting dust behind a pile of forgotten things. Around the same time, I had enrolled in a high school art class, an elective I took just to fulfill graduation requirements. By chance, the classroom had a small, long-unused darkroom tucked away in the corner. I asked my teacher if I could use it, and she enthusiastically agreed to show me how to develop and print black-and-white film. After a few lessons, I was off and running, shooting with my dad’s camera and developing prints in that dim, red-lit space on my own.

That was where I first truly felt connected to art, not just with photography, but with the creative process. With failure. With chance. I learned to experiment, to trust what materials could teach me, and to find value even in what went wrong. That early experience shaped how I still approach making: through patience, curiosity, and quiet transformation.

For a long time, I didn’t think an artistic life was possible. Raised in a family of medical professionals, I believed I was meant to follow that path too. I studied biology and marine ecosystems before slowly shifting course, inspired in part by my younger sibling’s acceptance into art school. I switched majors to business management with a focus on the apparel industry, a compromise between practicality and creativity.

That decision led me into fashion design and garment construction, where I again felt a creative drive, this time with fabric. The act of cutting, shaping, and stitching became another form of storytelling, sculpting soft forms from blank canvases.

After some time working in the fashion industry, I returned to study full-time, earning an MA in Information Experience Design at the Royal College of Art. There, I explored new ways of working and thinking, blending technology, research, and material practice. Though I now work across mediums, from digital tools to found objects, I often return to textiles, drawn by their familiarity and quiet intimacy.

Today, I balance my studio practice with work in product development and project management, weaving together creative and practical worlds to sustain both my life and my art.

How do you stay inspired and motivated to create new work?

My biggest challenge often lies in the tangle of too many ideas. I’m easily swept into starting new projects, each one pulling at my attention, and sometimes they remain unfinished. Still, I believe in the importance of materializing fleeting ideas before they slip away; even if it’s just a quick note or a doodle in a sketchbook. Translating abstract thoughts into the physical world, no matter how small, is always the first step.

When inspiration runs dry, I turn to movement. A walk through the city, a bike ride at dusk, or even a slow drive without destination helps loosen my mind. I let my eyes drift, watch the way light touches surfaces, or how strangers carry their stories. The world never stops offering.

Photography has always been a useful companion in these moments. It keeps me present and tuned in. Holding a camera pushes me to search for compositions, textures, gestures, and so much more; I’m constantly reminded that beauty often hides in the ordinary. It forces me onto my feet and into my surroundings, helping me stay sharp, curious, and aware of moments I might otherwise overlook.

That habit of wandering often becomes searching. Since I was a child, I’ve been drawn to objects like stones with strange textures, bits of fossils, and forgotten things. I would pocket them not just for their beauty, but because they felt like evidence of something quiet and real. That instinct to scavenge still lingers in my work. Found objects carry histories I could not invent. They offer me new directions, new materials, and a grounding presence when I feel lost in abstraction. Perhaps a poetic way to justify my hoarding habits.

Inspiration, for me, comes not in flashes but in fragments. I notice them, gather them, and hold onto them until they begin to take shape.

What are the main themes or concepts you explore in your work?

I’ve never been much of an open book. I tend to keep things to myself, often hiding my feelings without fully knowing why. Maybe it’s something I inherited; a kind of masculinity that teaches you to view vulnerability as weakness. For a long time, I believed that the safest way to move through the world was by staying guarded.

When I first began making art, I leaned into scientific or philosophical ideas. I thought if I kept things conceptual, I wouldn’t have to reveal too much of myself. Those frameworks gave me a way to speak without exposing too much. But the more I created, the more I found myself drawn to the emotional undercurrents; the quiet, personal threads that ran just beneath the surface. I began to understand that my work didn’t need to shout to say something meaningful.

Sometimes, it just needed to be honest. I’ve realized that the work that stays with me, the pieces that feel most alive, are the ones rooted in personal experience.

Now, I see my practice as a way to reflect on what it means to be human; to understand the experiences, contradictions, and emotions that shape us. I’m interested in memory, in identity, in the complexity of family, in the quiet rituals of everyday life. Art allows me to process these things at my own pace, and to offer fragments of understanding to others.

While not all of my work is autobiographical, it’s all personal in some way. I’m trying to make sense of where I come from and where I’m going. Maybe, in doing so, I can open up space for others to do the same.

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

One of the greatest challenges I’ve faced as an artist is the quiet voice that says I don’t belong. I came to art later than some, and that doubt lingers. There’s this constant feeling that I haven’t earned my place, that I’m still catching up. I’ve never been one to take up space easily. Shyness runs deep in me, and stepping into the light has never felt natural.

At the same time, my mind rarely rests. Ideas arrive like waves, one after another, each more urgent than the last. I begin projects in bursts of energy, only to be pulled toward the next thing before the last is finished. There’s a kind of beautiful chaos in it, but also a weight; the pressure to make something new, something meaningful, something no one has seen before. That longing can be paralyzing. It’s easy to get lost in the sauce.

What’s helped is learning to be gentle with myself. To remember that there’s no single way to be an artist, no checklist to follow. I’ve stopped waiting for confidence to arrive. I’m learning to build confidence not by waiting for it, but by doing: by making, by sharing, by stepping into discomfort. I’ve found that honesty is its own kind of compass. I try to remind myself that I’m only human, and so is everyone else. If I can be true to what I feel, what I’ve lived, then I can offer something real. Not perfect, not polished, but ultimately mine.

What do you hope people take away from your art when they experience it?

I don’t expect everyone to understand my work in the same way, but I do hope they feel something. A flicker of recognition, a memory stirred, a question they didn’t know they had.

Maybe even a quiet laugh. If my work can prompt someone to pause and reflect, then I’ve done my part.

I’m not interested in offering answers or instructions. I’m more curious about what happens in the space between the viewer and the work, the kinds of personal interpretations and emotional responses that I could never fully predict. If someone leaves feeling a little more connected to themselves, to others, or to this strange human experience, then I consider that a success.

In the end, I make work because it helps me process the world and my place within it. Sharing that feels like a way of reaching out and if even one person feels seen, moved, or understood through it, then that’s more than enough.

How do you approach exhibiting your work? What are your goals when showing your art in public spaces?

When I exhibit my work, I think carefully about how it can be experienced beyond just being looked at. I’m interested in creating moments that feel immersive where the space, the senses, and the viewer are all part of the conversation. I often consider how to engage not just sight, but also touch, sound, smell, and even taste when it makes sense.

Interactivity is something I value, especially in public spaces. I want people to feel like they can enter the work, not just observe it from a distance. My goal is to create an environment that invites reflection, connection, and maybe even dialogue; a shared experience that lingers in memory, even in small ways.

Ultimately, I see exhibitions as opportunities to extend the life of a piece, letting it meet people where they are and open itself to new interpretations.

Text & photo courtesy of Matthew Chung

Website: https://meingeist.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/chungmatthieu