Yunchul Kim: Consider how a single artistic concept might engage multiple fields simultaneously: optics, nanomaterials, chemistry, engineering, and software all interconnect in the creation process. While artistic intuition and emotion guide the work, engaging with the microcosmic world — an imperceptible dimension — requires the integration of science and technology.

This integration is reflected in processes that might seem far removed from traditional art: weighing substances to 0.0001-gram precision, mixing materials in planetary mixers at 20,000 rpm, and stabilising compounds over several days. Yet even conventional art relies on scientific advances: consider how acrylic paints emerge from precise pH adjustments and polymer science.

What distinguishes my approach is that I begin not with finished materials, but with the process of creating them. Rather than starting with prepared paint, I engage with the paint-making process itself. This deeper involvement with science and technology in the creation of artworks fosters philosophical insights on materiality through hands-on practice.

This relationship between art and technology isn’t new: consider, for instance, ancient bronze sculpture and welding techniques. Artists have long explored bronze’s material properties, using emerging technologies to realise their artistic visions. Today, we see similar convergences, such as video art merging with generative algorithms, photography intersecting with AI, and numerous other instances where science and technology expand artistic possibilities.

Adopting a non-human perspective as an artist begins with liberating materials from their conventional uses and meanings. In this process, I generate what I term MatteReal—a new material reality where substances engage not only with other materials but also with forces and dynamics that extend beyond human perception. Within this realm, materials become active agents, disrupting our pre-established understanding of the world around us.

For example, cellulose extracted from an oak in a Japanese forest serves as the primary element that generates colour throughout the exhibition space, while vermiculite sourced from Brazil undergoes a series of transformations to become a nanomaterial that visualises energy flow as a spectrum. These processes are not merely technical but manifest a concept I call extelligence—an external form of intelligence that embodies my ideas and practices.

When materials are freed from their traditional contexts, they begin to question their own nature. These transformed properties open new sensory experiences for the viewer. In this sense, the work acts as a diagnostic tool: it invites the viewer to reconsider not just the artwork itself, but also the ways in which we interpret and engage with art.

Once the artwork assumes its physical form, it requires choreography to control or animate it. This control is achieved through a series of computer algorithms that generate time-based events—a process akin to musical composition. After all, music itself is the craft of organising events within both space and time. My background in composition likely explains my deep interest in controlling these machines.

More specifically, the aim is to transform the machine into a cybernetic system that observes itself and recognises its own changing states. This process involves various algorithms, such as self-organising maps and neural networks. The result is not characterised by repetitive mechanical motion, but by the emergence of new patterns of movement that unfold in real time.

Yes, that’s correct. Technology is indeed evolving at an extraordinary pace, with breakthroughs that continually redefine what is possible. My approach aligns with the philosophy of Gilbert Simondon: what matters is not technology itself, but our relationship with it. This perspective allows us to move beyond merely being users of technology, enabling a deeper, more ethical engagement with it.

I do not view technology as inherently antagonistic to nature or humanity, nor as a source of alienation. Rather, I believe in actively and transparently engaging with technology to explore how it co-creates new cultural possibilities. This view is grounded in historical precedent—just as bronze-working technology evolved alongside human artistic expression, bringing both opportunities and challenges.

Consider the parallel with written language: its invention sparked concerns about the erosion of human memory, yet it ultimately evolved into an independent form of expression that greatly expanded human capabilities. Today’s artificial intelligence presents a similar duality, offering both concerns and vast possibilities.

As Friedrich Hölderlin expressed in Prometheus, the gift of fire carried both creative and destructive potential. The crucial factor is not the fire itself, but how we choose to relate to it.

I have a deep affinity with Bruno Latour’s concept of ‘matters of concern.’ Rather than viewing objects as independent entities—‘matters of fact’—this approach focuses on their meaning in relation to the world around them. This is not merely a new philosophy; in our environment and ecosystem, there are no truly independent ‘matters of fact.’ We exist within a vast network of interdependent relationships—just as every material is in constant relation to gravity.

This concept is fundamental to my work. As Tim Ingold argues in his notion of ‘Thinging in a Worlding World,’ we inhabit an infinitely changing world. This encompasses everything, both material and immaterial, including our dreams.

In practice, my work directly engages with materials primarily sourced from nature, taking into account their agency, safety, and environmental impact throughout the entire process—from production to exhibition. The materials I use transcend conventional language and categorisation, engaging directly with what I term the ‘transmatter’ of this ever-changing world.

Yes, this awareness is absolutely crucial. Since my work involves mechanical elements and a variety of materials, I make a conscious effort to consider the environmental impact of my practice. This includes designing mechanisms that prioritise energy efficiency and planning material usage carefully to minimise waste.

While I don’t explicitly address social issues in my work, many of my contemporaries create pieces and conduct research that raise such awareness. I recognise that these contemporary concerns have an influence on my own practice, and I anticipate that these concerns will be more actively integrated into my work in the future.

My influences are diverse, spanning a wide range of artists, writers, and philosophers—extending beyond academia to include popular figures such as Jimi Hendrix. Given my background in music, composers like Bach, Morton Feldman, and Iannis Xenakis have been particularly significant.

Literature has profoundly shaped my work, with writers such as Novalis, Rilke, Edgar Allan Poe, Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, Sangryung Park, and Raymond Roussel—whose Locus Solus also became the name of my studio. In the theoretical and philosophical realms, I have been deeply influenced by my teacher, the media archaeologist Siegfried Zielinski, as well as the French philosopher Gaston Bachelard, with his concepts of material dreaming, and Nam June Paik, whose philosophical approach transcends conventional boundaries.

Among the many influential artists, I must mention William Blake—his poems and paintings have always moved me deeply. And, of course, Duchamp’s influence is inescapable. In terms of artistic movements, the Mannerist period has had a significant impact on my work. For those interested in this era, I highly recommend René Hocke’s The World as Labyrinth.