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"For me, Paris represented artists, freedom, and romance." — Lee Hyun Joung, artist
- Léa Baron
- 4 days ago
- 7 min read
Updated: 2 days ago
Born in Seoul in 1972, Lee Hyun Joung has chosen Paris as the place to live and create for over thirty years. Through her ink paintings on traditional Korean *hanji* paper, she reveals an intimate world that is at once contemplative and tormented. Recently garnering attention at Asia Now and Printemps Asiatique, her works—presented by the Louis & Sack gallery—are now finding an international audience. We meet artist Lee Hyun Joung in her Paris studio.
Interview written by Léa Baron 07/05/2026
HANSORI: When you place your seal—your signature—on a piece, you say you are letting it go. Why?
Lee Hyun Joung: There is a sense of mourning when I affix my seal. A work is born, first and foremost, for myself. I try to preserve the joy of creation—that urge to bring something deeply personal to light. That time is a gift to me; it is a moment that belongs solely to me. It feels like a gift from heaven. It might be selfish—I admit that—but it also brings me great joy.
At the same time, I know the work is meant to be shared, so I let it go when I sign it. A piece that evokes no emotion or never circulates holds no meaning for me. It is true that it’s a bit of a contradiction: the moment of creation belongs to me, yet the work is destined for others.
How important is sharing in your work?
It is essential—in art just as in life. Without it, life becomes a wasteland. I used to travel alone, but now I prefer to share my experiences. It is through this sharing that emotions are extended and renewed.
How did you come to art and the creative process?
I studied fine arts at Sejong University in Korea. Then, I arrived in France in 1995, where I trained in jewelry making. I earned a vocational qualification (CAP) and worked for a company for five years before setting up on my own.
I continued to create jewelry while keeping a paintbrush in hand; I could never give up painting. At that time, I had a large studio that I shared with a friend—it belonged to her father, who was a painter. He had left us plenty of supplies, which allowed me to paint freely.
Why did you choose France at the age of 22?
At that time, the gender inequality in Korea outraged me. Rather than fighting it, I chose to leave. It was perhaps a bit naive, but for me, Paris represented artists, freedom, and romance.
I also loved the French language—I found it musical, even though it was difficult to learn. I still listen to the radio a lot to keep improving.
When did you start working with *hanji* paper, the foundation of your artwork?
In 2011. That was when my mother fell seriously ill. It came as a shock. I couldn't work anymore, nor could I regain the precision required for jewelry making. It was an incredibly trying time, both emotionally and physically. That’s when my father advised me to take some time off and do something else.
Hanji: An exceptional Korean paper
Hanji is a traditional Korean paper made from mulberry (*dak*) fibers. Known for its great strength and longevity, it can last for centuries without deteriorating. Breathable, flexible, and naturally antibacterial, hanji is used in art (calligraphy, painting), interior design, and craftsmanship.
And is that when hanji came back into your life?
Yes. Korean paper has always been part of my daily life. In Korea, it’s used for everything—not just writing, but also covering floors, walls, and windows... It would then be varnished. At school, we used it to craft objects, particularly papier-mâché masks.
I also always made my own notebooks. The feel of the paper connected me to my home country. Living in France, far from my native culture, I find it represents a precious link.
I loved rediscovering that comforting softness by tearing it up and soaking it in water to create a new material. It is a highly absorbent paper that spreads water, unlike glossy paper.
Why do you make your own paper?
For me, the paper itself is already a work of art. While the creative process usually focuses on the final result, I work the other way around: form emerges from chance, and that is what interests me. I remain deeply intrigued by this material, through which I still have so much to express—just as I do with the ink (muk) and pigments I use.
What is your creative process?
I make a few quick sketches, but I don’t like to set everything in stone. I also work intuitively, directly on the paper. It’s a challenge, because ink doesn’t allow for corrections. In fact, I have many pieces I consider “failures,” yet I always see them through to completion.
What do you do with these “failures”?
I keep them, because they are part of my life. At the end of the year, I cut them up and assemble them to create a new work titled *Mémoire vivante* (Living Memory). Ultimately, it serves as a record of my emotions, moments from my life, and the year that has passed.
Is that what’s known as bojagi?
Originally, *bojagi* is a Korean textile made from assembled fragments, passed down from generation to generation. It was used to wrap and convey precious objects. Each piece holds a story. My work follows this same principle: passing on a memory.
In fact, I exhibited my *bojagi* at the 9th edition of Printemps Asiatique Paris in June 2026.
Bojagi: The Korean art of textile wrapping
Bojagi is a traditional Korean cloth—typically square—used to wrap, protect, and carry objects. The oldest surviving examples, dating back to the early Joseon Dynasty (1392–1910), were associated with Buddhism, serving notably as cloths or covers for sutras.
Beyond its practical function, the *bojagi* carries deep symbolic significance: gifting or using a new piece of fabric for a wedding or engagement expressed care for both the object and the recipient.
Having fallen out of use, it is now being reinterpreted by artists and designers, remaining a symbol of craftsmanship and enduring aesthetics.
What inspires you?
Sometimes, I don’t know exactly what I’m depicting. I simply place an emotion onto the paper through lines and curves. People can see whatever they wish in them: mountains, crevices, waves…
It also involves a great deal of precision and repetition—work that demands intense concentration. That said, I sometimes play K-dramas in the background to create an ambient atmosphere.
Do you aim to convey a message?
Not necessarily. My work isn’t driven by a political or social agenda. It is an intimate form of expression, an emotional release—a kind of meditation that helps me express what I cannot put into words. Living in a foreign language isn’t easy; my art has become a form of therapy and a language of its own.
How did you actually experience settling in France?
Looking back, I realize that living between two cultures was difficult, even though I didn’t fully grasp it at the time. There was the culture shock—since I am married to a Frenchman—and the challenge of learning the language. For a long time, I also placed others—my children, my family—at the center of my life before refocusing on myself. That likely comes through in my paintings today.
I feel deeply Korean.
What is your relationship with your native country like today?
I feel deeply Korean. Yet, when I am in Korea, I can sometimes feel like a stranger because I no longer fully grasp all the social nuances. Even though I watch K-dramas, that isn’t reality.
However, when it comes to certain values—such as education or the relationship with family—I remain deeply shaped by my native culture.
Did you pass this culture on to your children?
At one point, I wanted to distance myself from my culture. But I taught them Korean anyway and enrolled them in Korean school for seven years. It was a chore for everyone.
One day, my son asked me not to speak Korean to him in front of the school. That hurt me deeply; I took it as a rejection. But I persevered, because passing on that heritage was essential to me. Today, they are grateful for it.
Did you reconnect with your home country last year thanks to Louis Vuitton?
Since 2019, I have participated in an annual exhibition in Hong Kong with the association *Enfants du Mékong* to support educational projects. That is how a collector discovered my work.
He was accompanied by an executive from LVMH Asia-Pacific who was looking to decorate a new Louis Vuitton boutique at the Shinsegae department store in Seoul. After a competitive bidding process, I was selected and created a monumental piece measuring 11 by 7 meters.
It was a first for me—working on that scale and in that context, outside a gallery setting, and above all, in Korea. The fact that I was a Korean artist living in France, invited to create work for a French group in Korea, held great symbolic significance. I felt as though my journey was finally coming together.
What is the Sonamou artists' association?
In 2024, Lee Hyun Joung joined this association, which was established in Paris on August 22, 1991, by four founding artists: Kwun Sun Cheol, Lee Bae, Chong Jae Kyoo, and Kwak Soo Young. Today, the association comprises 64 members across various disciplines, including painting, sculpture, photography, installation art, video, and ceramics.
Over the decades, the association established itself as a key hub for collaboration and creativity among Korean artists in France, notably through a shared studio and exhibition space in Issy-les-Moulineaux (which closed in 2001). It continues to support contemporary Korean artists today by organizing exhibitions and through the "SONAMOU Prize," launched in 2008.
Would you like to move back to Korea?
I don’t know. Right now, my life in France suits me. My children are grown, and I feel freer. I take the time to contemplate the light and the garden. I am at peace—happy in my work and in my life.
