Moon Mean (b.1999) is a Seoul-based painter, whose works reconstruct large and small events that happen to him and his surroundings using materials of his own making. He prepares solid and light atypical blanks by layering macerated Hanji and paints on them with turbid pigments he calls metallic tempera. Like the moon hanging over a smudged horizon, the silhouette of the ceiling in his room at night with unknown time, the ripples in the river as someone else would have seen, scenes with no name or owner are slowly transformed by the artist’s hand into uneven images.

For him, reality is an opaque mass of too many superimpositions to grasp clearly. Fragments of images stored in his phone or glimpsed on social media overlap and intermingle in a foggy field of faded light, transforming them into abstractions. Flowing on the edges of painting and sometimes borrowing from sculpture and installation, Moon’s work questions the gap between reality and fiction, truth and misunderstanding, seeing and being.

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

Honestly, I would say “by chance.” 

Before I started my artistic career, I worked as a tattooist for about 5 years – this was the very first practice that led me to art. I entered university without much thought and was making works as class assignments. However, I gradually realized that what I was doing was more than just coursework. 

I feel like I become genuinely myself when I’m working, and it is something that makes men feel alive more than anything else. Tattooing had also been one of the creative practices for me, but it had to involve “clients”, which became inherent constraints in my practice. Art-making, on the other hand, has been an affirmation to myself. It allowed me to work in a much freer and more self-directed way. 

Though I’ve come this far by chance, looking back, the phrase “by chance” encapsulates the time I spent experiencing the difference between the two creative practices. Perhaps it was through that experience that I gained a clearer sense of direction and confidence in my path as an artist.

Are there any particular mediums you prefer working with? Why?

I’m drawn to the materiality and inherent logic of traditional mediums, such as painting and sculpture. These mediums, which rely on the involvement of the body, reveal the process of thinking through hand, and are therefore closely tied to the subjective experience of making—something I value deeply.

My approach to these kind of mediums also connects with how people view the artwork. I prefer viewers to move freely through space and experience the work at their own pace, rather than following a fixed point of view, narrative, or a flow of plot. 

In my current practice, I work primarily with painting, but often borrow the methods of sculpture and installation to create paintings with volume.
Unlike conventional paintings, which presuppose a frontal point of view, my work allows observation from multiple, shifting perspectives—much like sculpture, where no single viewpoint dominates.

For me, the practice of painting is not just about “painting”. It is a process through which thought unfolds and form takes shape. I move between the acts of painting and sculpting, allowing matter and image to exist on the same plane, coming together into a single, cohesive form. In this sense, I see myself not only as a painter but also as someone who treats images as one of those sculptural materials. This attitude toward the medium lies at the core of my work.

How has your artistic style evolved over time?

My first solo exhibition, Doesn’t matter though (2024), explored the tactile senses of skin using paper that I made by hand. The idea stemmed from my past experience within tattoo culture and my obsession with body images, and it was about a process of investigating the boundary between skin and surface.

The series (2023–2024) on the show initially began with sculptural works that reassembled fragments of my own and others’ bodies. As I continued working, however, I was drawn to the inherent qualities of paper itself—its texture, relief, and absorbency—and began expanding its possibilities into a painterly context. In that sense, it was a chance for me to break free from self-imposed limitations, and at the same time was an opportunity to expand my artistic practice as a whole. 

As I concluded the series following the exhibition, I found out that the wooden canvas I had made were warping during production. In addressing this issue, I naturally began questioning the very structure of the support—the frame of the painting itself—which led me to carve and construct the supports by hand.

From there, my practice evolved toward what I now describe as the “standing shell.” These works explore ambiguous forms that exist as both painting and sculpture, both material and image—forms that stand upright on their own.

Can you describe a recent project or artwork that you are particularly proud of?

I wouldn’t say it’s something I’m particularly proud of, but there is a series I’d like to introduce. It’s titled IMAGE HANDLING PRACTICE—as the name suggests, it’s a set of sketch-like studies that train my sensitivity in handling images.

Looking back, form has played a significant role in my practice. At various turning points, formal concerns have shaped the work, and material exploration has often served as its foundation. For that reason, I’m always careful not to let my practice remain at the level of purely material or formal experimentation. 

To prevent the Tomorrow series—which physically takes the form of a “shell”—from ending up as something that looks convincing yet hollow, I work on IMAGE HANDLING PRACTICE in parallel, as a way to refine my sense of image-making as a painter. This series serves as both a form of ongoing training and a process of self-correction, helping me to build toward stronger, more grounded works. Furthermore, the IMAGE HANDLING PRACTICE sketches are conceived as a flexible structure that can be re-incorporated into my main working system, serving as a material that oscillates between image and matter. 

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

I’m the kind of person who tends to have a lot on my mind, and perhaps because of that, I draw inspiration from a wide range of things. 

Sometimes I find interesting points or a conceptual idea from a single sentence or a word, and at other times, inspiration comes from music—its melody, emotion, or lyrics. I also find new possibilities in small, fleeting moments of everyday life, and occasionally from scientific fields that seem far away from my work, such as relativity or string theory. At times, I start brainstorming from looking at certain social or cultural phenomena. 

Although there are many different sources of inspiration, they ultimately end up on everyday life and human experience. Looking back, I think it all leads to a broader reflection on how I perceive and live within the world.

More specifically within the realm of visual art, I construct what I call a motif pool—a collection of diverse visual information.

It includes everything from scenes I’ve directly encountered to images imprinted on my retina through a screen. From there, I select, combine, deconstruct, and reconstruct visual materials as part of my process. I also reference works from other media—such as sculpture, photography, and video—adapting parts of their structure or sensibility into my own painterly language.

What projects are you currently working on, and what can we expect from you in the future?

I’m currently continuing my long-term series titled Tomorrow.

In this body of work, I carve the support by hand and create a thick paper that retains the traces of hand, embodying the passage of time and physical gestures within the material itself. On these surfaces, I paint using a material I call “metallic tempera”—a mixture of metal powder, gouache pigments, and animal glue. Through this process, I aim to let the traces and temporality of oxidation naturally permeate the surface.

During the painting process, I layer images captured from different sources and moments. In the final stage, I remove the internal support, leaving only a hollow shell. This emptied shell detaches from the wall and stands on its own—what I call a “standing shell”—marking the moment when a painting becomes a self-supporting structure in space.

As the metallic tempera merges with the surface of the handmade paper, the work acquires contradictory qualities: it may appear like an ancient relic, both solid and fragile, thick yet thin. I’m drawn to this paradoxical point where materiality and processual temporality become entangled. 

Although these works take the form of paintings, they carry the gestures of sculpture. There is no fixed point of view. Depending on where one stands, the image shifts, twists, or becomes partially obscured. The viewer therefore get to choose what to see and from where to see it. Within this imperfect act of viewing, I question the act of seeing itself—what and how to see. The Tomorrow series is a process of exploring how a subject perceives the world, and how I, as that subject, stand within its uncertain boundaries. At the same time, it is an ongoing experiment on how painting can exist within space. Through the form of “a painting that rests on the floor on its own,” I hope to allow viewers to move freely through the space, encounter the works at their own pace, and discover new meanings within them.

Text & photo courtesy of Moon Mean

Website: https://www.m00nmean.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/moon__mean/

Yaerin Pyun is a ceramic artist working between Seoul and London. Her education at the Royal College of Art (UK, 2023) expanded the scope of her creative inquiry, building on earlier studies in ceramics during her BFA at Seoul National University of Science and Technology (South Korea, 2019).

In recent years, Pyun has been recognized with several international distinctions, including the Monica Biserni Prize at the 63rd Premio Faenza (Italy, 2025); finalist at the 6th Triennial of Kogei (Japan, 2025); finalist at the inaugural Seoul Yoolizzy Craft Award (South Korea, 2024).

In 2025, Pyun presented my solo exhibition Poem for Ephemeral Moments in Hong Kong. She also participated in major international exhibitions such as Design Miami (US), the 6th Triennial of Kogei at the 21st Century Museum of Contemporary Art (Japan); Salon Art & Design (US) PAD London (UK); Fine Art Asia (Hong Kong); Design Miami<Illuminated: A Spotlight on Korean Design> (South Korea); the 63rd Premio Faenza (Italy); Taipei Dangdai Art & Ideas (Taiwan); and Landscape of Materials at Cromwell Place (UK).

Between 2020 and 2024, she also exhibited in multiple countries, including China, South Korea, and the United Kingdom.

Pyun’s works have been internationally collected, including by the International Museum of Ceramics (Italy), Charles Burnand Gallery (UK), and various private collectors.

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

I have been close to nature since childhood, and it has always been a fundamental source of interest and inspiration for me. My current practice began during the COVID-19 pandemic, when I often went to the mountains, looking for places away from people. The most memorable thing at the time was the moss growing on weathered stones. I used to think of tiny things like moss or flowers as fragile and fleeting, but in that space, I came to see their vitality, energy, and the beauty that exists only in that moment.

Nature constantly changes, but instead of losing its meaning or value, it reminded me that the momentary existence itself is precious. I felt that this characteristic of nature resembles human life, and this realization became the starting point of my work.

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

I reinterpret familiar elements of nature through ceramics to make them unfamiliar. My work’s a process of questioning fixed perceptions and values attached to objects. I believe that by observing and contemplating even the most ordinary objects, one can connect with a universal sense of life. This perspective suggests that the essence of being lies not in appearance, but in the process through which emotions, memories, and thoughts accumulate and transform.

In this sense, I regard ceramics as a medium that embodies the boundary between what disappears and what remains, through the unpredictable transformations and traces left in the firing process. I transform seemingly immutable, solid stone into a fragile form with a hollow. I also turn the fragility and transience symbolized by moss into something solid and enduring by coating it with slip and firing it.

Through these transformations of materiality and symbolism, I explore the boundary where the value and meaning of objects shift and are reconfigured.

What role do you believe art plays in social and cultural change?

By translating the world into an artist’s visual language, I believe that art can challenge familiar perceptions and values, opening up new ways of thinking about society and culture.

My work explores how materials from everyday life can be reinterpreted and given new meaning. When familiar materials or forms are transformed into something unfamiliar, they can be detached from their original context and become part of the viewer’s own experience.

This shift in understanding can also extend to how we view society and culture. In this sense, art can serve as a starting point for social and cultural change by suggesting such possibilities for transformation.

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

I think the real challenge for me is not about being an artist, but about how I manage the uncertainty I feel as a person. Because doubt and uncertainty are a natural part of my practice, I make an effort to engage with them in a constructive way. For example, I set regular hours for working each day and spend part of my time caring for various plants. These small daily routines, though seemingly trivial, play a crucial role in grounding and stabilizing me.

Do you collaborate with other artists or creators? If so, how has collaboration influenced your work?

I haven’t collaborated with other artists or creators yet, but I’m always open to the possibility. I believe there is value in how different perspectives and approaches can come together to expand the scope of a practice.

What projects are you currently working on, and what can we expect from you in the future?

The title of my current project is “Poem for Ephemeral Moments”. It suggests a form of memorial intended to quietly observe, sense, and hold the memory of things that disappear or change. I collect elements from nature and transform them into ceramics. Through this process, I hope to encourage viewers to move beyond familiar ways of thinking and see the world from their own perspectives.

Based on ongoing research into ceramic materials, I’m exploring how my work can better interact with exhibition spaces. I aim to expand the work into spatial scenes that invite viewers to pause and reflect in personal contemplation.

Text & photo courtesy of Yaerin Pyun

Website: https://www.yaerin.net/
Instagram: http://instagram.com/yaerin.art/

Bo Kim is a  Seoul-based painter shaped by both Korean and American cultures. She was trained in Painting at the Rhode Island School of Design, where she completed both her Bachelor of Fine Arts in 2017 and her Master of Arts in Teaching in 2018.

Her work has been the focus of a series of solo exhibitions in Seoul, including “Lifelines, 생명선” (BHAK, 2025), “Impermanence” (BHAK, 2022), “아로새기다, When Light is Put Away” (BHAK, 2021), “Embracing the Moment” (Gallery Ilho, 2021), “HPIX x BO KYUNG KIM” (HPIX Dosan, 2020), “Surface of Calmness” (H Contemporary Gallery, 2020), and “Beauty of Imperfection” (Gallery DOS, 2020). 

Her paintings have also been featured internationally in two-person and group exhibitions, from “Breath, Landscape” at Laheen Gallery in Seoul (2023) to presentations at Francis Gallery in Bath and Los Angeles, Bol Gallery in Singapore, Vortic Art online, Handful of Dust at Palmer Gallery and various institutions and galleries across Korea, the United States, and the United Kingdom, situating her work within a broader conversation on contemporary abstraction and sensorial experience.

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

My mother has an artistic background, so art has been a natural part of my life since I was four years old. In middle school, I attended an international school where I developed a deeper appreciation for Western art history. Later, when I moved to the United States for college, Seoul became the place I longed for the most, a home I could return to only twice a year. That distance, along with seven years of living abroad, led me to question where home truly is. During that time, I became increasingly drawn to Korean traditional culture and Buddhism, which became the foundation of my thesis and continues to influence my work today.

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

Nature is my main source of inspiration, but I am also drawn to quiet, fleeting moments that are easy to overlook. I keep an archive of photographs capturing small moments that might otherwise pass by unnoticed and where I can observe the passage of time, such as the glow of a sunset, the gradual shift of leaves changing color with the seasons, the way tree bark slowly cracks over time, and the way rain gathers in small puddles. I often read poems and collect favorite lines from song lyrics that stay with me. At the end of each day, I write a short diary to reflect on my emotions and memories. Words from those entries, as well as fragments from poems and songs, often turn into ideas for my paintings. These small, ordinary moments of observation and reflection are what keep me motivated to create.

How has your artistic style evolved over time?

In Impermanence, I began by exploring how time leaves traces on material. I applied plaster, sand, and paint over a layer of window screen placed on the canvas, allowing them to crack, erode, and fall apart over time. I was drawn to how those subtle changes could quietly reveal the beauty of things that do not last. It was about accepting impermanence not as a loss, but as something natural and inevitable, something that could exist within the work itself.

With When Light Is Put Away, my focus moved inward. I started to express the passage of time through emotions rather than materials. The works came from small, private moments such as writing before sleep, photographing the sky, and capturing quiet feelings that fade as days go by. Using materials from nature such as hanji (Korean traditional paper made from the mulberry tree) and sand, I wanted to record those fragile states that cannot be held but still linger in memory.

That reflection eventually led me to My Tree, which feels like the most personal extension of my earlier work. Watching my parents age made me think about time in a different way, not only what disappears, but what continues. I began to see trees and roots as forms of connection, symbols of love and endurance that run through generations. In these works, impermanence and continuity coexist, speaking about the warmth that remains even as everything changes.

How do your personal experiences and identity influence your art?

I tend to speak and move slowly. Some friends who have watched me work say my gestures seemslow or even inefficient, but I think this temperament naturally shapes my art. It allows me to create pieces that are repetitive and deeply layered. One of my recent large-scale works, Still and Always One, Where Warmth Lingers (5 x 2m), was built through this process, layering paint, hanji, and sand repeatedly to form more than ten layers in total. I could have applied everything at once, but instead, I chose to build it gradually, observing each change as the layers accumulated. Perhaps this patience, or even stubbornness, is what gives the work its quiet strength.

The same rhythm applies when I write about my work. I believe I live a mostly happy life, but there are moments of pain or reflection that come unexpectedly at night. Those moments often become the starting point for writing. It’s not easy to sit down and begin, but once I start working in that heightened emotional state, the most honest and expressive words seem to come naturally. While preparing for the My Tree series, there were moments when I thought of my parents and began to write a poem, and I felt tears welling up as I wrote. Those deeply emotional moments have had a strong influence on both my writing and my paintings.

I often describe myself as both lazy and diligent. It sounds contradictory, but I think it captures me well. My actions are slow, but I devote immense time and care to each step, constantly creating and preparing for exhibitions. The satisfaction I feel when a show comes together is what keeps me going. After releasing that energy, I take time to rest, recover, and gather strength again before returning to the work.

What projects are you currently working on, and what can we expect from you in the future?

The recent series My Tree begins with the aging of my parents, the love within it, and the invisible flow of energy that connects generations. Layering paint and sand on hanji becomes a way to trace how memory seeps through time and how emotion gradually rises to the surface. Moving forward, I plan to explore the visual parallels between nature and the human body, and to weave painting and poetic language together to express emotion with greater depth.

The direction of branches, the flow of the body, the veins of leaves, and the lines of aging skin all connect as one lifeline. Through the diffusion of color, the sediment of sand, and the creases of hanji, I seek to capture the organic rhythm of life and the quiet moment when nature and humanity become one.

Text & photo courtesy of Bo Kim

Website: https://bokim-art.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/_boque/

Ha Haengeun is a Seoul-based contemporary artist whose work explores the boundaries between the visible and the unseen. Through painting and ceramics, she investigates the essence of human existence, relationships, and the fundamental meaning of life. Her practice begins at the threshold where perception meets imagination—where emotion, memory, vitality, and the traces of time interlace to reveal the hidden rhythm of both the inner self and the cosmos.

For more than fifteen years, Ha has developed a body of work centered on the human face as a site of psychological reflection. Half-closed eyes, translucent layers of color, and subtly flattened surfaces evoke the tension between inner and outer worlds, memory and reality. Since 2019, her parallel engagement with ceramics has deepened her exploration of human fragility—embracing cracks, breaks, and material imperfections as metaphors for resilience and the quiet persistence of life.

In Ha‘s recent abstract paintings, her focus has shifted toward a more primordial realm—toward a “pre-form” state of perception. Imagining a fetal viewpoint, she visualizes sensations that precede shape or language, portraying the world as a vast, womb-like cosmos where everything is interconnected. This evolution is not a rupture but a continuous unfolding: a transition from the world that is seen to the world that is felt.

At the core of Ha’s artistic philosophy lies the idea of connection—between past and present, self and world, life and death. For her, art is not a finished product but an ongoing process of reweaving meaning within uncertainty—a way of understanding and loving the world through creation.

Ha has held more than twenty solo exhibitions and numerous group shows both in Korea and abroad. In her recent works, she continues to expand the language of painting, exploring new ways to embody time, memory, and the subtle sensibilities of human connection.

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

I spent my early childhood on a small island called Jindo in the southern part of Korea, where I lived until the age of seven. At that time, I felt I existed within nature, not apart from it. Behind my house was a mountain; my days were filled with running through fields and forests. When my family moved to Seoul, I could no longer play freely outdoors. Instead, I began to make and draw the things I longed for—and that became another kind of nature within me.

A friend encouraged me to enter an art high school, and naturally I went on to art college. Yet even then, I never thought of becoming an “artist” in a professional sense. My real curiosity was about life itself—its beginnings and its ends, its suffering and beauty. I read Zhuangzi, Buddhist philosophy, Wittgenstein, Nietzsche, and Indian mysticism, seeking answers to the question: How should one live?

Eventually, I realized there were no absolute answers—only personal stories told in different forms. I came to understand that art is one such form: a way of expressing one’s own questions through one’s chosen way of life.

For me, living itself is a creative act. Observing the world carefully, choosing the values that make me want to live, and shaping a life around them—this is both an act of responsibility and of self-creation. Among all human pursuits, I believe art is the most beautiful form of such creation. That was how my artistic journey began, and it continues today as a visual exploration of questions that rise from within me: existence, relationship, and the meaning of life itself.

What are the main themes or concepts you explore in your work?
My work begins with questions that emerge from human life—loss, pain, death, love, hope, and freedom.
“Who am I?”
“What is the meaning of life, knowing it will end?”
“Why is the world so full of contradictions?”

Human beings live in a world of dualities: memory and reality, inner and outer, love and hate. I try to look at that world and find an artistic language from within my own inner landscape.

I love humanity deeply—and because of that, I often suffer. In one part of the world, people destroy each other, while elsewhere, others struggle to save a single life. My heart shifts between anger and compassion, hatred and forgiveness. How can such opposing feelings coexist within one human being?

In my early twenties, I lost my sense of meaning, yet even in despair, I felt a strong will to live. It was as if the traces of love, courage, and hope from previous generations were being reborn within me.

For me, art is an act of believing in connection and possibility.

Creating means enduring uncertainty and ambiguity, yet choosing to keep weaving meaning—to reconnect what has been broken and to discover new possibilities. Art is not my way of escaping the world, but of understanding and loving it.

Recently, I have returned to the origin of human existence through the series When I Was in My Mother’s Womb. It imagines a pre-linguistic space where emotions and memories begin—a primordial state where light and shadow first converse. I see this as a “cosmic womb,” a vast interconnected web in which all life continually emerges and disappears. Through painting, I explore that world— the origin of perception and the hidden truth beneath the visible

How has your artistic style evolved over time?

The question that has guided me for years is: How can painting expand the boundaries of perception and reveal new ways of seeing the world?

For more than fifteen years, I have focused primarily on figurative painting, using the human face as a symbolic surface to reflect universal emotions—identity, vulnerability, and the traces of relationships. During the years I spent mostly at home raising my children, I became deeply engaged with memory, reality, and the imagination, which naturally expanded my vision toward objects and landscapes.

More recently, my focus has shifted toward a more primal state—the realm of sensation before form. This shift arose from a desire to return to the beginning, to imagine the world from a fetal perspective. My exploration of ceramics over the past seven years has deepened this transformation. Through clay’s cracks, textures, and colors, I experienced a world of abstract expression where lines, points, and planes flow like breath. I discovered that what is invisible—emotion, memory, vitality, and connection—often becomes clearer through abstraction.

This change was not a rupture but a continuous evolution—a movement from the visible to the felt, from the surface of form to the depth of sensation.

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

I often face the truth that I don’t fully know who I am—or what the world is. That also means I don’t always know what I want to paint. But I’ve come to accept that not knowing is an essential part of being human. We cannot escape uncertainty; we can only learn to live with it.

If we can love the world, we can begin to see it differently—to resist habitual ways of seeing. To love is to observe without judgment. And in doing so, we can reconnect things that seem separate, creating something that didn’t exist before.

During my process, there are moments of small revelation—when I glimpse and understand a piece of my own inner self. Those moments make me feel alive. Paradoxically, the very uncertainty that challenges me also sustains me. My greatest struggle has been not to lose meaning in the midst of that uncertainty. Yet even in those moments, I search for faint glimmers of possibility. I don’t avoid failure, chance, or imperfection—I accept them. Through them, I continue to paint and shape forms, connecting broken threads again and again.

In this process, I’ve come to realize that art is not a finished product, but a way of reweaving meaning—a way of being in the world.

How do you balance artistic integrity with commercial considerations, if applicable?

For me, artistic integrity means staying true to the questions that first led me to create—questions about life, death, and impermanence. Even when commercial factors enter the picture, I never allow them to dictate the direction of my work.

Art, for me, is an act of listening—listening to the quiet voices that connect time, material, and the world around me. If my work reaches others and finds a place in the world, I see that as a form of dialogue. What matters most is to remain honest to that inner voice, even when faced with external expectations.

Can you describe a recent project or artwork that you are particularly proud of?

In my recent paintings, I explore art as a possibility for life itself. My desire to reach the unseen led me to imagine “the world before birth,” which evolved into the series When I Was in My Mother’s Womb.

In my earlier figurative works, newborns often appeared as beings still connected to that unknown realm before birth. But as I began to embrace abstraction, I felt as if I had crossed into another dimension—a landscape of first perception, where all existence is connected.

From that realization came the series Inner Cosmos. In When I Was in My Mother’s Womb, I imagined the light felt within the darkness of the womb. In Inner Cosmos, I layered the memory of light filtering through a door crack in a dark room—an image that mirrors the sense of safety and mystery I associate with the womb’s inner light.

Through these abstract expressions, I feel I have come closer to articulating the “sensation of the unseen.” These series represent a continuous expansion of my inner world—a journey to understand how existence and the cosmos are intimately connected.

Text & photo courtesy of Ha Haengeun

Website: http://hahaengeun.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/hahaengeun/

Yeonsu Ju is a Korean painter based between Europe and Seoul. She has BA in sociology and painting (First Class), MFA in Painting (Distinction). Her work explores memory, presence, and absence through restrained forms, line, and color, often incorporating materials such as Hanji to add texture and depth. Ju has held solo exhibitions in London, Paris, and Singapore and participated in group shows internationally, including in Madrid, Beijing, Los Angeles, and Turin. Her work is included in private collections worldwide, and she has been recognized with awards such as the Cass Art Prize (2023) and the Window Project (2022).

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

I studied sociology in Seoul before moving to Glasgow and London to study painting. My path to art wasn’t linear—it began almost by coincidence during an exchange semester in Milan. At the time, I was still focused on sociology and had never considered painting as more than an interest. While there, I met the artist Eemyun Kang and began learning from her. One day she told me, “I hope you continue painting ( after you go back to Korea ) .” It was a simple remark, but it stayed with me. It felt like a quiet recognition of something I hadn’t yet realized about myself.

Since then, painting has become the way I make sense of things—an image of myself that feels both natural and necessary. I’ve followed it since, not out of certainty but from a kind of conviction that this is where I’m meant to stay.

How has your artistic style evolved over time?

In the beginning, I was drawn to gesture and immediacy—painting felt like a way to release something internal, almost impulsively. Over time, that energy has become more contained, more deliberate. I’ve grown interested in how restraint can hold emotion just as powerfully as expression can.

Form, line, and color have become the main structure of my work. I used to think of painting as a kind of catharsis, but now I see it more as a process of refinement—paring down, removing noise, and letting the essential remain. The work has become quieter, but also more precise, more aware of the tension between beauty and unease.

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

I just wait until a certain image comes to me. It’s not something I try to force or plan. The image often appears unexpectedly—sometimes from a fleeting memory, a color, or a physical sensation—and once it arrives, it stays with me until I start painting.

What is your creative process like? Do you follow a routine or work spontaneously?

It’s a mix of both. I have little rituals—like smoking before I begin—that feel almost compulsive, a way of marking the start of the process. I don’t follow a strict routine, but I do have a rhythm in the studio. Most of the time, I wait until a certain image or atmosphere becomes clear in my mind. Once it appears, I work instinctively, almost as if I’m trying to catch it before it disappears.

What role do you believe art plays in social and cultural change?

Art’s most important role is to make people see things differently. It challenges habitual ways of looking, thinking, and feeling, creating a space where perspectives can shift. That shift is the starting point for any real understanding or change—subtle, persistent, and often transformative.

Art doesn’t need to instruct or solve problems; its strength lies in opening perception and attention, allowing new ideas and possibilities to emerge. In that sense, art doesn’t just reflect society—it quietly reshapes it.

What projects are you currently working on, and what can we expect from you in the future?

I’m currently preparing for my solo exhibition at The Third in Seoul. Following that, I have a residency in Los Angeles scheduled for March 2026 and a solo exhibition in Paris later that year.

Through these projects, I aim to continue exploring memory, presence, and absence in my work, using subtle gestures, restrained forms, and materials like Hanji (traditional Korean paper) to create paintings that hold tension and ambiguity. My focus is on making work that feels alive and necessary—asking questions, opening perception, and evolving with each new exploration.

Text & photo courtesy of Yeonsu Ju

Website: https://yeonsuju.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/yeonsuju/