Being a Guest Between Heaven & Earth: An Interview with Kim Minsoo

2020_hand.jpg, default, The hands of artist Kim Minsoo at work (2020) / Photo courtesy of the artist Kim Minsoo, Being a Guest Between Heaven & Earth: An Interview with Kim Minsoo

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Kim Minsoo’s installation ‘Path for a Visitor to the Space Between Heaven and Earth’, created for The Clothed Home exhibition at the Seoul Museum of Craft Art, invites viewers to explore the delicate interplay between humans, architecture and nature. In this Culture.pl interview, the artist explains how this evocative work uncovers the ancient rhythm of Korea’s 24 seasons, what traditional materials were used to ‘clothe’ Korean homes, and talks about their unique approach to capturing the elusive atmosphere of Poland.

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Kim Minsoo, 'Door' (2021) / Photo courtesy of the artist Kim Minsoo

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Culture.pl: Why did you name your installation ‘Path for a Visitor to the Space Between Heaven and Earth’?

Kim Minsoo: In Korea, the lunar calendar date and the start of each of the 24 solar terms (jeolgi) are often printed in small type beneath the date on the solar calendar. The lunar calendar shifts from year to year, while the solar terms remain nearly constant. Weather forecasts announce the start of each term, and websites decorate their logos with motifs reflecting the season.

Until recently, the division into 24 solar terms was a vague idea to me, something that mostly evoked rural life rather than city living. But when I looked more closely, I realised it resembled a diary of our ancestors – evidence of their meticulous observations of nature, which is both our environment and part of ourselves. From the winter solstice, when the night is longest, the Sun, as seen from Earth, shifts by 15 degrees, marking the beginning of the next solar term. Each fifteen-day period was then divided into three five-day intervals, allowing for highly detailed observations of natural changes. This system, called mulhu in Korean, documents even the smallest organisms and their responses to shifts in climate. Gye, jeol, gi and hu are the units into which the year is divided, based on these cycles of change. Together, they form four gye (seasons), eight jeol (nodes), 24 gi (solar terms) and 72 hu (micro-seasons).

Many customs tied to these terms have now disappeared, but in the past, each solar period was accompanied by specific traditions. Cheongmyeong (around 4 April) was Tree-Planting Day. Damp clothes and books were dried out after the summer rainy season during cheoseo (around 23 August). This illustrates how our ancestors sought to live in harmony with the changing environment. Seen from this perspective, today’s desire for immediate and complete control over one’s surroundings seems naive and short-sighted.

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Kim Minsoo, 'Scraps' (2024) / Photo: Kim Minsoo

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While preparing this installation, I kept thinking: ‘What questions can we ask ourselves in the face of climate change, when the weather no longer corresponds to the ancient descriptions of solar periods?’ I wondered whether the idea of dividing the year into 24 terms might help modern people renew their sense of connection with nature, cultivate careful observation, and awaken forgotten senses. I read scientific studies on the solar terms, went for walks, reminisced about past seasons, watched films, and returned to books that were dear to me.

In Byung-Chul Han’s text Vita Contemplativa: In Praise of Inactivity, I came across the phrase ‘a guest visiting the space between heaven and earth’ [trans. MP] and borrowed it for the title of my work. The phrase reminds us of a forgotten truth: we are not the owners of this planet, but merely its guests. The word ‘guest’ calls for humility and mindfulness, qualities I believe resonate with the wisdom embedded in the 24 solar terms. I wanted to reaffirm this attitude in the context of the changing seasons under the climate crisis.

We interact with the weather at every stage of our lives. In Korean, the word nalssi (weather) can be broken down into nal (‘sun’ or ‘day’) and the suffix -ssi (‘attitude’ or ‘form’) or ssi (‘seed’). Because we ourselves are part of nature, I wanted to present the concept of the 24 solar terms as a ‘sensory path’, an invitation to engage mindfully with our shared environment.

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Room at Dosan Seodang in Andong, photo courtesy of the artist Kim Minsoo

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C: The exhibition explores the concept of ‘clothing the home’. Is that something familiar in Korea?

KM: In Korea, the temperature differences between summer and winter are extreme. As a result, textiles were often used in homes, both indoors and outdoors. Perhaps the best example of ‘home clothing’ is the use of wallpaper, which was adhered directly to the building’s structure. In traditional houses, the floors, walls, windows, doors and ceilings were finished with hanji paper made from paper mulberry tree fibres. The method of wallpapering, as well as the properties of the hanji, varied according to its location. Multiple layers of paper were applied to the walls, and one particular technique was known as ‘spaced application’. This created a layer of air between the individual sheets – serving as an insulating material much like those used in modern buildings.

Bangjang fabrics were also hung in homes to block winter winds and provide thermal insulation. To regulate temperature and light, multi-layered hanji windows could be opened and closed. One pair of windows, instead of being covered with hanji, was fitted with a more porous silk, which allowed for ventilation and protected against insects during the summer. Bamboo juknyeom blinds, similar to contemporary blinds, were used to shield interiors from the intense summer sun. In addition, clay houses were topped with straw, which protected the exterior walls from heavy rainfall.

Today, reinforced concrete dominates contemporary Korean construction. Reliance on heating and air conditioning is common, making traditional techniques increasingly rare. However, the drive for energy conservation has prompted a renewed interest in these methods. Various approaches are now employed to protect against the cold and save on heating – such as using tents to create a ‘home within a home’ and help retain warmth, or fitting bubble wrap to windows to enhance insulation. We also adjust the thickness of bedding and curtains according to the season, and in summer, mosquito nets are placed over entrance doors to provide ventilation and insect protection.

C: Looking at traditional Korean and Polish houses, what similarities or differences can you see in terms of their relationship with nature?

KM: As demonstrated in the exhibition, these textiles share a common characteristic – they were used differently depending on the season. Home textiles functioned as a flexible barrier, protecting against cold or heat. They were easy to fold and unfold, making storage convenient.

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왕골 표면(2018) / 우란문화재단 / 사진: 김민수 작가 제공

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Elements of traditional Korean hanok houses, whose architectural features developed in climates with marked differences between summer and winter, included the ondol underfloor heating system and an open space with a wooden floor called maru. Despite regional variations in house size, construction and roofing materials, ondol and maru could be found in almost every home – both those of the elite and the common folk. Underfloor heating remains present in contemporary construction, even in apartment buildings. However, in densely built-up cities where space is increasingly scarce, fully implementing this concept is challenging. In hanoks, the relationship between the house and the surrounding nature was considered carefully from the earliest planning stages, including the site location, layout and orientation.

I’m not very familiar with traditional Polish architecture, but I have tried to understand the differences between housing styles through Alicja Bielawska’s works from the exhibition The Clothed Home: Tuning in to the Seasonal Imagination. Polish and Korean houses differed in heating methods, as well as in window and door sizes and ceiling heights – with Polish homes generally having larger windows and doors and higher ceilings than hanoks. I believe these differences arise from variations in annual temperature ranges, the average height of people, and distinct seating cultures – on the floor in Korea, on chairs in Poland. This explains why the methods of ‘dressing’ or ‘clothing’ ceilings and floors also differed.

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Maru of Dosan Seodang in Andong, photo courtesy of the artist Kim Minsoo

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In Polish homes, special quilts called podpinki were hung from ceilings in winter to reduce the volume of space to be heated and increase insulation. Rugs were laid along frequently walked paths to provide warmth and safety for when walking barefoot around the house, regardless of the season. In hanoks, the low ceilings were not insulated during winter. This caused the warm air rising from the heated floor to meet cool air below, creating airflow within the room even with the doors tightly closed. In the hot summer months, people would leave the clay- and paper-lined hanji room to rest on the wooden maru floor, or use jari – cool, summer mats woven from plant stems. Today, Korean apartments tend to have higher ceilings than traditional hanoks, and sitting on chairs has become commonplace. I believe it would be worthwhile to adapt and apply some of the methods of ‘dressing’ traditional Polish homes to contemporary Korean interiors.

C: So the Polish and Korean ways of decorating homes differ because their seasons also differ.

KM: When preparing the exhibition, I wanted to feel a little closer to the Polish team, so I added Warsaw to my weather app. Sometimes it was very humid in Seoul while Warsaw remained dry. At other times, the temperature in Seoul exceeded 30 degrees Celsius (86 degrees Fahrenheit) and was hot even after sunset, whereas Warsaw was cloudy and rainy. As I give this interview, rain is forecast for both locations throughout the week.

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Spring and Summer at Dosan Seodang in Andong (2013), photo courtesy of the artist Kim Minsoo

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However, from an impressionistic perspective, I find it difficult to pinpoint the differences between the Polish and Korean seasons, as I have never experienced them in Poland. I also believe that the weather I experience in Seoul cannot fully represent the Korean seasons. At the same time, within the same season and country, people living in the mountains, lowlands, on the coast or on islands will experience the seasons slightly differently. This applies not only to people but also to all organisms, and even to objects. The very same piece of solid wood furniture will be exposed to different environmental conditions depending on its region.

This diversity in experiencing the seasons raises the question: can we even distinguish seasonal characteristics within national borders from a sensory perspective? Perhaps summer in the Korean mountains is more similar to summer in a particular region of Poland than to summer in Seoul. After all, administrative or national borders were created for reasons other than climate.

While personal perceptions of the seasons may differ even within a single country, a sense of cyclicality is common to both nations.

C: What was your reference point for the installation? What inspired you? Not just in terms of the materials used, but also the ideas and concepts.

KM: I’ve always been fascinated by the perforated structures of traditional furniture and hanoks, not only for their aesthetics but, above all, for their interaction with the climate. The holes in wooden furniture were designed to prevent warping – in summer due to humidity, and in winter from the heat of underfloor heating. The openings in hanoks served a practical purpose as well: they promoted air circulation and allowed light to enter. Microscopic holes in the hanji paper enabled airflow even when the windows were closed. Of particular interest to me are the gwangchang light windows found in traditional kitchens, designed to provide sunlight and ventilation. Their shapes varied from house to house, and when viewed together, one could almost sense the rhythm of light and air.

As a child, I visited Hongyeonam Hermitage, which is perched on a cliff along Korea’s east coast. I was deeply impressed. A palm-sized square opening in the floor of the hermitage allows a view of natural rocks and sea waves below. Legend has it this feature was created for mythological reasons.

The key theme of my work is ‘porous space that restores the senses’. It combines the motif of openings with the concept of the 24 solar periods. For the installation, I used native natural plant fibres. I incorporated recycled cotton from my neighbours’ quilt, which had been in their family for three generations. I also included moshi fabrics made from ramie stalks, sambo from hemp stalks, and hanji paper in various thicknesses and textures to evoke the sensations of the seasons. Direct contact with materials often opens new possibilities beyond the original concept. In the case of hanji, my sensory experience also includes the sounds it creates when rubbed or tapped.

While researching the exhibition The Clothed Home, I encountered the open form theory of the architects Zofia and Oskar Hansen and texts about their house in Szumin. I was fascinated by how, similar to a hanok, the space there was used for multiple purposes. This aligns with the Hansens’ concept emphasising the mutability of space and its interaction with the daily lives of its users.

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Kim Minsoo, 'Density of Light' (2017) / Wooran Cultural Foundation, 'Sense of Rhythm' exhibition, photo courtesy of the artist Kim Minsoo

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Further inspiration came from books by the Polish collective Centrala, which I received in February from Polish visitors to my studio (CENTRALA Exercise Books: Water, Light, Wind, Gravity); a book by Ryu Nishizawa, which I discovered while researching the open form theory; The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses by Juhani Pallasmaa; Timothy Ingold’s reflections on the interactions of people and weather through air, light, moisture, sounds and colours; the poems The Sky and View with a Grain of Sand by Wisława Szymborska; the film Le Quattro Volte, directed by Michelangelo Frammartino; the texts The Disappearance of Rituals: A Topology of the Present and In Praise of the Earth by Byung-Chul Han; and the prayers recited in Buddhist temples before meals. I have strung all these varied beads onto a single thread. I also feel that my latest work references earlier pieces that addressed gravity, clouds, sky, the earth, people, light, caves, and traditional windows and doors.

C: How did you manage to depict the relationship between the human body, architecture and the constantly changing world in such a confined space?

KM: The installation invites us to observe and feel a variety of materials, as well as large and small colourful openings that evoke the changing experiences associated with the 24 solar seasons. It encourages observation not only through sight but through the whole body, including touch. Visitors who ‘visit the space between heaven and earth’ may rest on seats or follow the installation’s pathway, but rather than simply passing through indifferently, they are invited to gently touch the materials that make up the work.

Using various fabrics, I’ve presented the 24 solar seasons as an open 24-page book, in which the narrative continues. I believe that experiencing the seasons can be as subjective as reading a book; it varies from person to person. I encourage intuitive and mindful observation by looking, touching, listening to the sounds, and sensing the moisture of particular materials, in order to connect these sensations with our own impressions of the seasons.

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Kim Minsoo, 'Black Square' (2020) / 'Storage Almost Full' exhibition, photo: Hong Cheolki

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Kim Minsoo’s installation ‘Path for the Visitor to the Space Between Heaven and Earth’ was created specifically for the Clothed Home exhibition, which showcases textile art and fabrics from Poland and South Korea, symbolically connecting the two countries. The exhibition, themed ‘Tuning in to the Seasonal Imagination’ and ‘Breathing Seasonal Light’, is on display at the Seoul Museum of Craft Art from Tuesday 26th August 2025 to Sunday 19th October 2025.

Interview originally conducted in Korean and translated into Polish, later translated into English by Michał Pelczar, August 2025

Hansen House in Szumin [Image Gallery]

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