By Rachel Stine
One of the most vibrant parts of Seoul's expat community is its artists. From the gritty comics of Aaron Cossrow to Noe Alonzo's viral street photography, each year a new immigrant with exceptional creative talent seems to gain recognition in South Korea's biggest city.
This year has seen the paintings of Lee Sun-jae gaining more traction on social media. Often depicting understated landscapes, Lee's watercolors imitate the style of dongyanghwa, or traditional ink and brush paintings. I sat down with Lee to discuss his childhood growing up in northeastern USA, his first encounters with Joseon era art, and why his work seems to resonate with so many people online.
You grew up in Massachusetts in the United States. Was your Korean heritage a big part of your identity as a child?
My parents always tried to highlight that part of my background, but I had zero interest. I was always totally resistant to any kind of Korean culture or language education because it didn't seem to have much relevance to my everyday life. That part came way later.
In terms of my identity, it was always a bit complicated as a Korean American. Growing up in an almost exclusively white suburb, I had barely any Korean friends. I realized sometime in college that internally, I had been looking at myself as a funny-looking white person the whole time. Later, as I became interested in traditional Korean culture and moved to Korea, I felt a better understanding of my own identity. Although, like many Korean Americans, I still feel fundamentally split between two cultures.
How did your artistic journey begin?
After working as a chemical engineer for three years, I suddenly decided to go into natural medicine after realizing that I could combine all of my interests ― music, meditation, martial arts, wellness ― into one path. I moved to Portland, Oregon, and enrolled in a program to receive my master's in oriental medicine and doctorate in naturopathic medicine. That schooling was the big reason I took calligraphy classes in the first place; it was an elective. I took it and fell in love. It was literally the first time I picked up a paintbrush, and one of the catalysts for beginning my search for learning about Korean culture. My teacher was great at calligraphy, and she was a doctor in oriental medicine, specializing in acupuncture and herbs.
Can you describe how artistic expression went from a hobby to a fundamental part of your life?
So around this same time, I suddenly started getting this feeling that I should be connecting to my Korean heritage rather than trying to avoid it. I started visiting Korea by myself, and took calligraphy lessons with a Korean master. He was a man that my mother, who is also an artist and my biggest artistic role model, introduced me to. He has a private studio and I would take lessons when I was visiting Seoul.
After the calligraphy class, I realized that I also loved painting, which is a very different task. I started by studying the Four Gentlemen. (Author's note: In Chinese painting, "The Four Gentlemen" refers collectively to plum blossoms, orchids, bamboo and chrysanthemums. Together, they represent the four seasons of the year and are ubiquitous in Northeast Asian art.) I got some books, watched some videos, and for almost an entire year, I just painted bamboo. I did entire exhibitions just about that plant. Later, I moved onto the rest of the Four Gentleman.
The only one I never finished was the chrysanthemum, which I found to be the hardest. By the time I reached it, though, I found that I had already started to enjoy painting other things. I branched out into fish, mountains and trees mostly, although I did some abstract work as well. Bamboo and trees were always at the root of it. Since a young age, I've been visually inspired by trees. Their fractal quality is fascinating, and when I started developing an artistic style, they helped to guide me toward one principle that I strive toward in my pieces.
When you look at a tree, you're seeing the shape of the trunk, main branches and twigs all at once. Visually, you are taking in layers of hierarchical detail simultaneously, which creates what I like to think of as an "undeniable texture" ― a texture that is aesthetically pleasing almost unavoidably. I realized that this is the reason why any tree, whether it's an ancient redwood or a sapling on a sidewalk, could look like a work of art. As long as the trunk was detailed with branches, and the branches are detailed with twigs, then the net effect is, visually, undeniable.
And as I began painting trees, I realized that no matter how "ugly" a main trunk was, after I added the next hierarchical layers of branches and twigs, it would almost always look aesthetically pleasing. So I always strive to create this same effect in my other paintings, regardless of the content.
In any case, I got into the rhythm of painting these various themes on a nightly basis while in school. It became my stress relief at the end of the day … pull out the small table and paintbrushes, grind some ink, and make a quick painting or two before going to bed. I have a bit of an addictive personality, so once I got going, it was pretty much daily routine for a good three or four years. It became all the more addicting the more techniques I discovered. Besides drawing comic book-style cartoons as a child, it was my first real effort in visual art, and it was exciting when I first got started.
What caused you to adopt the style of Joseon era folk art? It seems a bit at odds with your own style, which is characterized by atmospheric distance. That's typically absent in most Joseon era works.
I think I've always been attracted to the kind of minimalism that is present in traditional Asian art in general. I remember being shocked at first when looking at some paintings and realizing that the main highlight of the painting was the empty space rather than the subject in the foreground, which mirrored an aesthetic that I always strove for in my musical performances.
I started looking at books and various YouTube tutorials. To be clear, it wasn't all traditional Korean ― mostly Chinese, some Korean and some Japanese. Just like with many other cultural manifestations, and even in traditional medicine, I found that in a very rough sense, Japanese art was the most minimal and subtle, Chinese was the most direct and detailed, and Korean was somewhere in the middle. Since I enjoyed both ends of the spectrum, I naturally enjoyed the middle ground, exploring the Korean artists in museums and books during my visits here.
I also wanted to incorporate unconventional and improvisatory aspects to the traditional technique ― the jazz musician in me, I guess ― so I also drew a lot of inspiration from just staring at trees and mountains and making my own algorithms and techniques. Going to school in Portland, I was going out into nature a lot, and that influenced me too.
Your work possesses a sort of Jungian, mythical quality. Have you had any meaningful experience in your life that caused your painting to manifest in this way?
I'm not too familiar with Jung, but I would say that maybe it's the fact that I played music all my life, plus martial arts and meditation. I was always predisposed to going into deep, trance-like states, and thinking about the connection between conscious and subconscious. I believe that the subconscious is infinitely more powerful than the conscious mind, and when I'm painting, I try to get the conscious mind out the way so I can let the subconscious do its thing.
Your subjects are almost exclusively things from the natural world. Do you think Korea's environment is in existential danger, given the spike in air pollution?
For sure. It's pretty horrifying, to be honest. When I first started coming here, I was so taken with the mountains and the simplest pine trees on the sidewalk. They were mesmerizing. And now the air is toxic. So a lot of those paintings are out of protest, almost. I had no immediate plans of moving back to the USA, but because of the fine dust, my family is now forced to consider it earlier than expected.
You've recently moved into digital painting. What has that process been like? Do you prefer it to Hanji paper?
In Portland, I had a dedicated studio space and a flexible work schedule. Here in Korea, I don't. A lot of times it's been impossible, logistically, to keep up a regular painting practice, especially with a young son and a full-time job. I went from painting almost daily to painting weekly, then monthly … I sometimes went six months or so without touching my paint brushes. Although, I must admit, part of the reason was focusing more on musical performances during this time.
After getting an iPad, though, continuing my visual art was much less of a logistical hurdle. I began "painting" regularly again. Obviously, there are huge limitations to digital art; I miss the feel of the paintbrush and the texture, sound, and even smell of rice paper. But there are also huge benefits that I've been able to enjoy. For example, the ability to work in layers, zooming in to add details, and being able to translate the digital image directly into a printable file are all helpful changes.
That last part is significant because I've always believed that art should be accessible to everyone regardless of their finances. I always priced my paintings within a low range, starting at $35 per piece at my first bamboo exhibition. Even now, around eight years later, my largest size painting would be around $300. A lot of people just don't have it in their mind to spend more than $50 on a piece of art, and I can totally understand that. In fact, I don't think I've personally ever bought an original painting of someone else for more than that, either.
That considered, digital art allows me to express my art in these more affordable mediums, such as T-shirts, art prints, mugs, tote bags … through international sites like Teepublic. That model doesn't exactly pay the artist a lot, but if it helps to spread my artwork to people who otherwise wouldn't be able to afford it, then why not? Also, the idea of people wearing the art and having it be in everyday life just feels more appropriate than art being sequestered in museums and galleries.
What is your hope for your paintings?
Well, there's a philosophy I try to live out ... sometimes successfully, sometimes unsuccessfully. It's summed up by the fermata, which is a musical symbol that allows the musician to pause on a rest or note as long as they want before continuing. In modern life, we're always doing something. Our minds are cluttered. Any time when we can take a moment and pause, whether it's the smoker smoking a cigarette, or someone looking at a piece of art ― any form of sitting and taking a moment is therapeutic in this day and age. That's my goal for the paintings as well as music, to elicit that inner experience. Although, of course, a good portion of the art is just pure spontaneous expression!
I also think Western audiences aren't generally exposed to East Asian art, but they like the East Asian aesthetic. People appreciate the minimalist aspects. When they realize that I'm actually trying to accent the space, rather than the content, it surprises them, just like it surprised me when I first saw this style of art. Hopefully it takes people into that space of contemplation, rather than into a superficial fetishization of Asia that we see sometimes.
I always believe that the true role of an artist is to basically take whatever emotions they have inside and use them to create. Then, people who receive the art can have a heightened emotional experience when they take in the piece. I try my best to make things relevant to myself and the larger society. That's in everything ― my music and my artwork.
You can view more of Lee Sun-jae's paintings at Fermata Wellness.
 |
| Golden Ginkgo, ink on Hanji |
This year has seen the paintings of Lee Sun-jae gaining more traction on social media. Often depicting understated landscapes, Lee's watercolors imitate the style of dongyanghwa, or traditional ink and brush paintings. I sat down with Lee to discuss his childhood growing up in northeastern USA, his first encounters with Joseon era art, and why his work seems to resonate with so many people online.
You grew up in Massachusetts in the United States. Was your Korean heritage a big part of your identity as a child?
My parents always tried to highlight that part of my background, but I had zero interest. I was always totally resistant to any kind of Korean culture or language education because it didn't seem to have much relevance to my everyday life. That part came way later.
In terms of my identity, it was always a bit complicated as a Korean American. Growing up in an almost exclusively white suburb, I had barely any Korean friends. I realized sometime in college that internally, I had been looking at myself as a funny-looking white person the whole time. Later, as I became interested in traditional Korean culture and moved to Korea, I felt a better understanding of my own identity. Although, like many Korean Americans, I still feel fundamentally split between two cultures.
 |
| Cherry Blossoms, watercolor on Hanji |
After working as a chemical engineer for three years, I suddenly decided to go into natural medicine after realizing that I could combine all of my interests ― music, meditation, martial arts, wellness ― into one path. I moved to Portland, Oregon, and enrolled in a program to receive my master's in oriental medicine and doctorate in naturopathic medicine. That schooling was the big reason I took calligraphy classes in the first place; it was an elective. I took it and fell in love. It was literally the first time I picked up a paintbrush, and one of the catalysts for beginning my search for learning about Korean culture. My teacher was great at calligraphy, and she was a doctor in oriental medicine, specializing in acupuncture and herbs.
Can you describe how artistic expression went from a hobby to a fundamental part of your life?
So around this same time, I suddenly started getting this feeling that I should be connecting to my Korean heritage rather than trying to avoid it. I started visiting Korea by myself, and took calligraphy lessons with a Korean master. He was a man that my mother, who is also an artist and my biggest artistic role model, introduced me to. He has a private studio and I would take lessons when I was visiting Seoul.
After the calligraphy class, I realized that I also loved painting, which is a very different task. I started by studying the Four Gentlemen. (Author's note: In Chinese painting, "The Four Gentlemen" refers collectively to plum blossoms, orchids, bamboo and chrysanthemums. Together, they represent the four seasons of the year and are ubiquitous in Northeast Asian art.) I got some books, watched some videos, and for almost an entire year, I just painted bamboo. I did entire exhibitions just about that plant. Later, I moved onto the rest of the Four Gentleman.
The only one I never finished was the chrysanthemum, which I found to be the hardest. By the time I reached it, though, I found that I had already started to enjoy painting other things. I branched out into fish, mountains and trees mostly, although I did some abstract work as well. Bamboo and trees were always at the root of it. Since a young age, I've been visually inspired by trees. Their fractal quality is fascinating, and when I started developing an artistic style, they helped to guide me toward one principle that I strive toward in my pieces.
 |
| Winter Zen #1, watercolor on Hanji |
When you look at a tree, you're seeing the shape of the trunk, main branches and twigs all at once. Visually, you are taking in layers of hierarchical detail simultaneously, which creates what I like to think of as an "undeniable texture" ― a texture that is aesthetically pleasing almost unavoidably. I realized that this is the reason why any tree, whether it's an ancient redwood or a sapling on a sidewalk, could look like a work of art. As long as the trunk was detailed with branches, and the branches are detailed with twigs, then the net effect is, visually, undeniable.
And as I began painting trees, I realized that no matter how "ugly" a main trunk was, after I added the next hierarchical layers of branches and twigs, it would almost always look aesthetically pleasing. So I always strive to create this same effect in my other paintings, regardless of the content.
In any case, I got into the rhythm of painting these various themes on a nightly basis while in school. It became my stress relief at the end of the day … pull out the small table and paintbrushes, grind some ink, and make a quick painting or two before going to bed. I have a bit of an addictive personality, so once I got going, it was pretty much daily routine for a good three or four years. It became all the more addicting the more techniques I discovered. Besides drawing comic book-style cartoons as a child, it was my first real effort in visual art, and it was exciting when I first got started.
 |
| Cypress, watercolor on Hanji |
What caused you to adopt the style of Joseon era folk art? It seems a bit at odds with your own style, which is characterized by atmospheric distance. That's typically absent in most Joseon era works.
I think I've always been attracted to the kind of minimalism that is present in traditional Asian art in general. I remember being shocked at first when looking at some paintings and realizing that the main highlight of the painting was the empty space rather than the subject in the foreground, which mirrored an aesthetic that I always strove for in my musical performances.
I started looking at books and various YouTube tutorials. To be clear, it wasn't all traditional Korean ― mostly Chinese, some Korean and some Japanese. Just like with many other cultural manifestations, and even in traditional medicine, I found that in a very rough sense, Japanese art was the most minimal and subtle, Chinese was the most direct and detailed, and Korean was somewhere in the middle. Since I enjoyed both ends of the spectrum, I naturally enjoyed the middle ground, exploring the Korean artists in museums and books during my visits here.
I also wanted to incorporate unconventional and improvisatory aspects to the traditional technique ― the jazz musician in me, I guess ― so I also drew a lot of inspiration from just staring at trees and mountains and making my own algorithms and techniques. Going to school in Portland, I was going out into nature a lot, and that influenced me too.
 |
| Vipassana, watercolor on Hanji |
Your work possesses a sort of Jungian, mythical quality. Have you had any meaningful experience in your life that caused your painting to manifest in this way?
I'm not too familiar with Jung, but I would say that maybe it's the fact that I played music all my life, plus martial arts and meditation. I was always predisposed to going into deep, trance-like states, and thinking about the connection between conscious and subconscious. I believe that the subconscious is infinitely more powerful than the conscious mind, and when I'm painting, I try to get the conscious mind out the way so I can let the subconscious do its thing.
Your subjects are almost exclusively things from the natural world. Do you think Korea's environment is in existential danger, given the spike in air pollution?
For sure. It's pretty horrifying, to be honest. When I first started coming here, I was so taken with the mountains and the simplest pine trees on the sidewalk. They were mesmerizing. And now the air is toxic. So a lot of those paintings are out of protest, almost. I had no immediate plans of moving back to the USA, but because of the fine dust, my family is now forced to consider it earlier than expected.
You've recently moved into digital painting. What has that process been like? Do you prefer it to Hanji paper?
In Portland, I had a dedicated studio space and a flexible work schedule. Here in Korea, I don't. A lot of times it's been impossible, logistically, to keep up a regular painting practice, especially with a young son and a full-time job. I went from painting almost daily to painting weekly, then monthly … I sometimes went six months or so without touching my paint brushes. Although, I must admit, part of the reason was focusing more on musical performances during this time.
 |
| Yellow Dust, watercolor on Hanji |
After getting an iPad, though, continuing my visual art was much less of a logistical hurdle. I began "painting" regularly again. Obviously, there are huge limitations to digital art; I miss the feel of the paintbrush and the texture, sound, and even smell of rice paper. But there are also huge benefits that I've been able to enjoy. For example, the ability to work in layers, zooming in to add details, and being able to translate the digital image directly into a printable file are all helpful changes.
That last part is significant because I've always believed that art should be accessible to everyone regardless of their finances. I always priced my paintings within a low range, starting at $35 per piece at my first bamboo exhibition. Even now, around eight years later, my largest size painting would be around $300. A lot of people just don't have it in their mind to spend more than $50 on a piece of art, and I can totally understand that. In fact, I don't think I've personally ever bought an original painting of someone else for more than that, either.
That considered, digital art allows me to express my art in these more affordable mediums, such as T-shirts, art prints, mugs, tote bags … through international sites like Teepublic. That model doesn't exactly pay the artist a lot, but if it helps to spread my artwork to people who otherwise wouldn't be able to afford it, then why not? Also, the idea of people wearing the art and having it be in everyday life just feels more appropriate than art being sequestered in museums and galleries.
What is your hope for your paintings?
Well, there's a philosophy I try to live out ... sometimes successfully, sometimes unsuccessfully. It's summed up by the fermata, which is a musical symbol that allows the musician to pause on a rest or note as long as they want before continuing. In modern life, we're always doing something. Our minds are cluttered. Any time when we can take a moment and pause, whether it's the smoker smoking a cigarette, or someone looking at a piece of art ― any form of sitting and taking a moment is therapeutic in this day and age. That's my goal for the paintings as well as music, to elicit that inner experience. Although, of course, a good portion of the art is just pure spontaneous expression!
 |
| Lucid Dreaming #17, iPad with Procreate software |
I also think Western audiences aren't generally exposed to East Asian art, but they like the East Asian aesthetic. People appreciate the minimalist aspects. When they realize that I'm actually trying to accent the space, rather than the content, it surprises them, just like it surprised me when I first saw this style of art. Hopefully it takes people into that space of contemplation, rather than into a superficial fetishization of Asia that we see sometimes.
I always believe that the true role of an artist is to basically take whatever emotions they have inside and use them to create. Then, people who receive the art can have a heightened emotional experience when they take in the piece. I try my best to make things relevant to myself and the larger society. That's in everything ― my music and my artwork.
You can view more of Lee Sun-jae's paintings at Fermata Wellness.
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