Heejo Kim’s work emerges from lived questions of identity, belonging, and connection. Rooted in experiences of cultural displacement, discrimination, and Buddhist philosophy, the practice seeks to reveal how lives intersect and transform through empathy and coexistence. Figures, moments, and fragments of daily life become vessels for tenderness, ambiguity, and reflection, inviting viewers to see themselves within a larger web of interdependence.

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How has your upbringing or cultural heritage shaped the themes and techniques you explore in your art today?

I believe that I started my artistic subject matter from some fundamental questions: “Who am I, and how can I live in this world?”—questions that emerged from witnessing and experiencing unexpected situations, often rooted in hate. I am currently based in Baltimore, Maryland, but originally from Korea. Interestingly, whenever I introduce myself in this way, there is almost always someone who immediately asks, “North or South?”—a question that may seem casual, but often reminds me of how easily identity can be framed or reduced by others’ assumptions, and how variable it can be depending on context.

Back in Korea, especially during my undergraduate years, I experienced a period when many MeToo movements took place, and most conversations I engaged in were related to this issue. After moving to Baltimore to continue my studies, I had to confront my ethnic identity as Asian and the reality of being one of the minorities. With all the gender and racial discrimination I encountered, and as someone who supports queer culture, I felt the need to re-study and re-establish my own identity, and to ask how people of all kinds might live together on this earth while also recognizing how variable identity itself can be.

My family—my parents especially—are Buddhists, so I grew up close to the religion. Although I don’t practice Buddhism seriously, I am deeply fascinated by its philosophy. It emphasizes that everything, everyone, and every moment is interconnected, constantly evolving as they interact with one another. This concept of Dependent Arising made me realize that life itself is based on conditions, and that every being and phenomenon arises and transforms through relationships. In this ever-changing network of connections, I came to believe that showing kindness first is an important way of living. And although this is not necessarily the ultimate answer to the questions and experiences I have gone through, I have come to feel that sometimes the largest problems can be approached by the most fundamental and modest answers.

Because of this perspective, I want my paintings to express that even within our incomplete and fragmented emotions, our existence is not isolated. Rather, we are continuously shaped by one another, leaving traces of empathy and sensibility in the world. With this background, my current work has developed into depicting ambiguous figures, capturing tender moments in their everyday lives, as a way to explore identity, interconnectedness, and empathy.

Through my work, I hope to invite viewers to reflect on their own experiences of connection, vulnerability, and how we coexist with others—recognizing that even small gestures of understanding can resonate profoundly within our shared world.

How important is it for viewers to understand the intended message of your work? Does ambiguity add value, or do you seek clarity in your expression? 

I enjoy the different interpretations that viewers bring to each painting, as their perspectives help me expand my own understanding and boundaries. For example, in a painting titled Such a Good Egg, two figures’ faces are staring at an egg on an egg stand. I was inspired by the expression “such a good egg,” which I first heard while watching a movie on my small laptop screen with friends from my program. My international friends and I laughed a lot because it was new to us, while the native speakers were puzzled, as it is a common expression for them.

This experience inspired the painting, capturing both a moment of cultural difference and a tender interaction in how the figures treat the egg cautiously. Later, a collector shared his own interpretation: as a medical student unsure about urology, the painting reminded him of his first day in the operating room. It evoked the same feeling of uncertainty and attention, and he said he wanted to keep that memory as a marker of his decision-making and early experience.

Even though his interpretation was not perfectly synced with my original intent, I loved hearing it. It made me realize that a painting can take on a life of its own, growing beyond the artist’s initial idea and becoming part of someone else’s story. For me, ambiguity adds value precisely because it allows the work to resonate in unexpected ways and to engage viewers in forming their own narratives.

Do you have any rituals or habits that help you enter a creative state of flow?

Even though I have personal beliefs that guide my life, I am human, and small stresses from daily life often accumulate before I even enter the studio. I believe in keeping empathy and tenderness toward others, small objects, and even toward myself, but sometimes my mind does not cooperate. In such moments, it is difficult to start painting immediately.

To enter a creative state, I usually begin by reading notes I have written in my artist book, reviewing concepts I have studied, or writing new reflections. These new writings can be personal reflections or transcriptions of phrases and passages I have read.

For example, one passage I recently transcribed is:
"Recognition comes from a heart of compassion (측인지심), the basis of learning comes from a discerning heart (시비지심), the clue to righteousness lies in a heart of self-correction (수오지심), and tolerance toward others arises from a generous heart (사양지심)."

I do not always follow these principles perfectly in daily life, but revisiting them in my notes helps me center my mind and begin painting with a clear, focused intention.

How do you approach criticism, whether from peers, critics, or audiences?

I was not very familiar with criticism at first, as I did not have many opportunities to experience it. Even now, I know that I might not be able to handle harsh comments perfectly, but I make a conscious effort not to take them personally. Criticism can be very helpful in identifying areas for growth and guiding the direction of my work.

Over time, my paintings have evolved significantly, and I believe this growth is largely due to the positive side of criticism. I try not to get trapped in my own thoughts, instead selecting comments that can help me refine my ideas and communicate them more effectively to others. Criticism comes from many perspectives: peers offer insight as fellow artists, critics provide perspectives on different media and philosophical approaches, and viewers reveal which aspects of my work resonate with them, while also indirectly reflecting the art market’s response.

Currently, I am in an experimental phase, combining different materials with oil painting. I spend most of my studio time developing ideas and trying out new approaches. Once this project progresses further, I look forward to receiving more feedback from peers, critics, and audiences, as their perspectives will help me continue to grow as an artist.

Identify five habits or concerns you are actively trying to let go of in your practice.

One of the habits I try to let go of is the tendency to over-control in my process, including down to each brushstroke. I also remind myself to avoid painting out of habit or inertia, as if I were just repeating the act of painting without deeper intention. Another concern is my tendency to hold overly pessimistic views of my own work. A larger concern lies in the tension between experimenting with new materials and formats of canvas while still being drawn to the traditional use of oil on canvas. Finally, I am aware of the danger of becoming trapped within the limits of my own imagination or isolated within only my own thoughts. Recognizing these patterns helps me remain open to change, yet it is something I am still learning to let go of as I move forward.

Can you take us through the evolution of an artwork, from that first spark of inspiration to the finished piece? 

Usually, my inspirations begin with random sentences or images that suddenly appear in my mind. Most of them are connected to daily life experiences. For example, the painting Unintended Landing started when a wasp suddenly invaded my living room, even though all the windows and doors were closed. I ended up living with it for a while because I was too afraid to catch it and release it outside. It buzzed everywhere, until one day it began resting on the ceiling. Once I saw it no longer flying around wildly, I was able almost to pretend it wasn’t there. For a few days, it felt like a dangerous cohabitation, and then, without a trace, it simply disappeared. I never found its body, so I assume it somehow discovered the secret way it had entered and slipped back out.

From this experience, I began to think about a sentence like, “Inside a rectangular space, I fought an intense search battle with it, lived alongside it for a while, and then, without warning, it disappeared without a sound.” I wanted to capture the strange tension between us and relate this to my own experience of feeling like an outsider, navigating life in a foreign country. 

After making several sketches or doodles to test the composition, I eventually moved the idea onto canvas. Most of the color palettes I choose are intuitive, though I often try to explore how complementary colors can find harmony within a painting. I usually do not use photo references, as I prefer to paint objects and figures from memory or imagination, but in this case, I had to research what a wasp looks like, then transfer the image into a drawing that I could use as a reference while painting.

Along the way, many things often change from my initial vision—whether by adding textures or experimenting with different materials—but I try to embrace these unexpected turns as part of the process of learning and discovery. As for finishing a painting, I often do not know exactly when it is truly complete. Yet when I step back and look at the work from a distance, there are moments when the painting itself seems to tell me it is ready to stand on its own.

What are your long-term aspirations as an artist, both personally and professionally?

My long-term aspiration as an artist is to remain committed to a consistent and evolving practice. Personally, I want to cultivate the discipline to work steadily over time, even when it feels challenging. For instance, I recently set a goal of spending at least five hours in the studio five days a week, though I sometimes struggle to keep this rhythm. I hope to grow into an artist who can work with persistence and patience, sustaining my practice not just in moments of inspiration but as part of a steady life. At the same time, I want to hold onto flexibility—to approach my work with openness, and not rigidity, so that consistency does not come at the cost of curiosity or renewal.

In the shorter term, I am interested in experimenting more with materials and expanding painting into extended spatiality and narrative. I see this as part of the larger path toward sustaining a lifelong practice, finding new ways to renew my work so that it can remain alive and evolving. Up until now, much of my work has focused on the intensity of fleeting moments, but I want to push this further by weaving in structural elements and more layered stories. I often look to artists such as Celeste Rapone, Jordan Kasey, and Alvin Ong, whose approaches to space and figure encourage me to consider how I might also push my own work in new directions. 

 

Professionally, my goal is to build a body of work that reflects both resilience and openness—one that resonates with others while allowing me to remain grounded and connected to my community. To do so, I believe I must continue to grow as a stronger and more flexible person—someone who can navigate emotional shifts with balance while staying true to a creative path that embraces both steadiness and change.

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The path of Heejo Kim affirms art as both discipline and dialogue, a practice that grows through criticism, ritual, and openness to change. Each canvas carries the tension between vulnerability and resilience, structure and imagination, private memory and shared meaning. What remains constant is a commitment to exploring identity and interconnectedness, offering work that does not close with answers but expands through empathy, reflection, and the possibility of connection.