“Dissident Chorus”:
Hyunsung Park at Busan Biennale 2026

Could you briefly introduce yourself?
My name is Hyunsung Park, I am a visual artist who, through various materials such as fabric, metal, hoses, light, and water, is exploring how the human body relates to the external world. I spent ten years studying and working in Munich, Germany, and am now based in Busan, and am active in various cities. Linking materials of a different nature, I create assemblies that hang, stretch, compress, and that show subtle movement, exploring moments where dependence and autonomy, protection and exposure, coexist.

On Instagram your feed recently featured impressive images resembling the work of a fashion designer. My understanding is that you majored in painting and graphic arts; I am curious about the journey leading to your current body of work. Also introduce us to the projects and interests you are currently focusing on.
I first enrolled at the Academy of Fine Arts, Munich in the Sculpture program, but transferred to Painting and Graphic Arts about two years later. At the time, the school emphasized teaching in a strong master and apprentice model and did not prescribe the medium you worked with; so with sculpture as my central focus, I was able to freely move across various mediums, such as drawing, performance, and technology. Now also, rather than deciding on the medium first, I choose materials and shapes depending on what is necessary to express what I am trying to say. My recent use of technology, such as in the form of water pumps and Arduino circuit boards, came about naturally. I adopted them as I worked on trying to realize effects such as the flow of water or a pulsing light mimicking the rhythm of breathing.

Early on, I was deeply interested in the "roles" objects play. My first project at university, Invisible Role and Visible Role (2014), stemmed from the fact that shoes both tread upon dirty floors and also bear the weight of the human body. Then, I became interested in chairs: objects that support the human body and have structures analogous to the body. I used them to explore the roles humans and objects assume and the relationships they form.

However, after working with chairs for a long time, I began to feel confined to a single subject. Then, one day, I watched a cookie soften and turn black as it soaked in coffee, and I began to experiment by dipping various types of paper into water infused with ink. Each material absorbed liquid and warped or tore in its own distinct way; this sparked a shift in my interest from objects with clearly defined names and functions to the inherent properties of materials and the transformations caused by external forces. Looking back, I realize that the longer I held an attachment to something, the greater my anxiety about losing it became. That is why my focus shifted from the specific form of a chair to the broader concept of material properties. I experienced something similar when leaving Germany. As I had to leave what I had long considered a safe place, I began to wonder: "If even an external place is something that can be lost, where should one’s heart remain attached to?" After returning home, I found that ultimate sense of safety within my own skin.

That was when my work began to engage seriously with the body and the skin. I see safety and anxiety as not opposing concepts but as being deeply interconnected. Hard striving for safety stems from the anxiety that what is safe can in fact be lost; furthermore, the clearer my desire to protect something becomes, the more vivid the possibility of its loss appears.

While my early works used fabric to create quite direct representations of the human form, my recent pieces have evolved into hybrid shapes that blend elements taken from animals, plants, and machinery, but retain only visceral sensations associated with skin or internal organs. At the same time, I have become enthralled by works that defy clear categorization, blurring the lines between sculpture, fashion objects, and jewelry. Where I used to avoid creating pieces that resembled clothing, I now embrace the ambiguity that arises when multiple genres overlap.

In my recent pendant series, I create a sense of condensation, density, and tension by tightly gathering fabric folds, repeatedly braiding hoses, and connecting metal components. I am now expanding these pieces into spatial installations that integrate light, water, and sound, allowing various objects to interact and connect with each another. Currently, rather than just replicating the human body, I am exploring how far a hybrid entity that hints at human physicality, yet cannot be clearly classified as animal, plant, or machine, can transform.

While all of your work is undoubtedly precious, could you select and describe three representative pieces for readers who may not yet be familiar with your work? Please also share what makes these pieces significant to your artistic practice.
The first work I would like to introduce is Swinging (2018). For this piece of performance art, I installed a handmade swing in a shop window of a gallery in Munich and, while swinging, repeatedly let my knees strike against the transparent glass. During the repeated movement of flying forward again and again only to be pushed back by a boundary called glass, at some point the distinction blurred and it became unclear whether I was attacking the glass, or it was actually my own body being damaged in the process. For me, this was a pivotal early work marking the beginning of my direct engagement with the body and boundaries. I physically experienced the forces and resistance that arise when the body encounters objects or spaces; so in later works where a physical body would not be present, the sensation of the body confronting external elements, the feeling of pressure and undergoing transformation, would remain a constant theme.

In fact, the performance had an effect on my knees for quite a while, so it is a piece I could only perform once. For a time, I found it difficult to even watch the video of it; a piece I had chosen to create seemingly had become a source of new anxiety. Yet, as time passed, I realized it was a performance I absolutely had to undertake. Years later, as I returned to working with the body as a subject, this piece felt like a bridge connecting to my current practice. Even now, watching that video makes my knees ache.

The second piece I would like to introduce is Digesting Boundaries (2024–2025). It is an installation featuring pieces of fabric, evocative of parts of the human body, hanging suspended from the ceiling and connected by transparent tubing through which water and air bubbles continuously circulate. While each sculpture looks like an independent body, they form a unified structure connected by the flow of water. In this work, I explored the limits of how to distinguish between the inside and outside of the body. The skin serves as a protective boundary, but it also senses temperature, pressure, and touch, while constantly absorbing external elements such as air, water, and food. So, I view the skin not as a closed membrane but as a boundary where the interior and exterior continuously meet, and I envisioned the hoses as conduits connecting the two.

This was also my first project incorporating a water pump. As water and air bubbles began to circulate, a sense of internal time and vitality emerged within the static sculptures, just as if bodily fluids were flowing or digestion was taking place. This marked a crucial moment leading to the introduction of dynamic elements such as light, air, and movement into my work.

The fabric sculptures cannot stand up on their own and rely on wire suspension; paradoxically, however, it is this very reliance that allows them to maintain their form in mid-air. The medical devices incorporated into the sculpture reveal the body's vulnerability while simultaneously playing a role in sustaining and restoring it through external aid. This made me realize how vulnerability, dependency, and the act of living through external forces are not separate states.

Digesting Boundaries is the work in which I began to fully articulate my thoughts on the body, covering concepts such as skin and interiority, circulation and dependency through sculpture and installation. It also marked the discovery that a sculpture need not remain a static form, but can instead harbor actual flow and movement within itself.

The third work I would like to introduce is As Long as We Look at the Night Sky (2026). With this piece, I began to gradually move away from forms that directly resemble the human body. While earlier works featured clear cues, such as hands, torsos, skin, or organs, immediately evoking the human body, this piece presents a hybrid form where these elements blend and transform, making it difficult to conclusively classify the subject as human, animal, plant, or machine.

I found that ambiguity fascinating. I discovered the possibility that a form could expand into something entirely different while still retaining the physical sensations and tensions derived from skin or organs. Thus, rather than a departure from the body, this work represents an expansion of the concept of the body with it moving beyond the confines of the human physique to embrace other forms of existence. While your early work explored the relationship between space and the body, centering on chairs and performance art, recently your focus seems to have shifted toward installation art evoking the human body. The Breathing Bones series, in particular, marks a significant transformation in both theme and form. Themes such as the body, skin, and boundaries consistently appear in your recent works, including Breathing Bones and Digesting Boundaries. Could you explain the core of the themes you are investigating?
Breathing Bones was the piece with which I began to seriously translate my thoughts on the body into sculpture. I placed a metal structure inside delicate mesh fabric and allowed it to push outward, gradually shaping the form as if a body were growing. The fabric relies on the metal to maintain its shape, yet if the metal expands even slightly too much, the fabric could tear. I viewed this state of tension as completion of the work: poised on the verge of tearing, where elements exist by depending on one another yet risk collapse if force becomes excessive.

This fragility extends beyond the creation process to transportation and installation. Because the mesh can be damaged by even minor friction, I must constantly anticipate and prepare for potential risks. When exhibiting far away, I sometimes bring spare mesh pieces. For me, the entire process, the anxiety, imagining various scenarios, devising contingency plans, and finally finding reassurance, is part of the artwork itself.

I later brought these works together for my 2024 solo exhibition, I Don’t Know How to Fill. By arranging the sculptures to radiate outward from an IV stand in the center of the gallery, I reflected on the "dependency" of the body. An IV drip reveals the body's vulnerability while at the same time serving as a device sustaining and restoring the body by supplying it with something external. Ultimately, the question I keep asking is: to what extent can the body exist as an independent entity? We live by drawing in air and water from the outside and relying on other beings and objects. Yet, the very things that sustain us can also place us in jeopardy, much like the metal framework supporting a piece of mesh might eventually tear it. Consequently, in my work, concepts such as dependence and autonomy, protection and exposure, and safety and anxiety do not stand in opposition but rather constantly intertwine.

Recently, I have moved beyond merely altering the human body to creating new hybrid beings; while possessing physical sensations such as skin, organs, respiration, and circulation, these ‘physicalities’ also blend characteristics of animals, plants, marine life, and machines. The forms may vary, but the core question I continue to explore remains: upon what does a being rely to sustain itself, and what are moments where it becomes vulnerable?

Beyond the shift in subject matter, your recent works feature materials with contrasting properties such as fabric, mesh, PVC hoses, and stainless steel structures functioning together as a single body while maintaining a state of taut tension. What criteria do you use to select these materials, and what role does the specific nature of each material play in your work?
When selecting materials, I first take a look at how they react to force. I touch and manipulate them to see if they stretch, fold, or wrinkle when pulled on, how they bear weight, and whether they transmit or reflect light. At the same time, I place great importance on the emerging relationships when materials with contrasting qualities, such as the robust and the fragile, or the flexible and the rigid, interact.

To me, mesh fabric is a material very closely resembling skin. Although thin and delicate, it is highly stretchable. Depending on how it is pulled or twisted, it can generate a high level of tension and density. Because it is translucent, it divides the inside and the outside without creating a total barrier. These characteristics mirror my own conception of skin as a boundary.

Stainless steel functions much like a skeletal framework that supports the form. While extremely hard, the material requires individual sanding because its sharp edges could tear the mesh fabric. It is essentially a process of a rigid material adjusting its own nature to coexist with a delicate one. Although the sanding process is tedious and often goes unnoticed, I handle it with the utmost care, as overlooking even a tiny detail could compromise the entire artwork.

PVC hoses serve as conduits connecting different points through the flow of water and air. Recently, I have been interested in methods that condense force into a confined space, such as repeatedly braiding multiple hose strands like hair, or pleating and compressing fabric. While the finished form may appear serene, it retains an underlying tension, a pent up energy striving to unravel and expand outward. I am interested in this state where movement and energy lie latent within a static form.

Light, water, and sound introduce movement and rhythm to the static sculptures. As light slowly brightens and dims, or as water and air bubbles circulate through the hoses, the structure begins to feel as though it is breathing or signaling. Since these elements are typically incorporated during the final stages of production, the process to me feels as if I am breathing life into the work.

However, I do not assign a one-to-one correspondence between specific materials and specific body parts. Rather than equating metal to bone or hoses to blood vessels, I am interested in the moment the entire piece feels like a single body through the ways how the materials lean on, push against, and support one another. It is fascinating to see how familiar materials, through their interactions, suddenly take on an unfamiliar, life-like quality.

You completed the masterclass program under Professor Peter Kogler at the Academy of Fine Arts Munich in Germany. How did your experience of studying abroad in Germany influence your current body of work? Could you share any particular attitudes or working methods you acquired from German art education that persist to this day?
What struck me most about the art education I experienced in Germany was the high degree of autonomy given. During my time there, there were rarely any set assignments or schedules to manage the pace of my work. No one raised any issue with me if I did nothing, and I was free to spend my time not doing anything if I wanted to. At first, that environment felt quite daunting; with no one there to tell me what to do, I had to decide for myself every day whether I truly wanted to create art. First and foremost I learned the importance not of a specific technique or form, but rather the attitude of voluntarily choosing to create. I learned that the life of an artist is in a sense based on the choice to work, even when not required to, and by going to the studio on one's own initiative, without anyone checking up on you. This freedom from interference also meant I had the freedom to do nothing, and I had to bear the consequences of those choices myself. Even now, when my work is not going well or I feel like I’ve lost the motivation to create, I remind myself that it is I who must ultimately choose to go back to my work again.

Whenever I faced a problem in my work, Professor Peter Kogler would show me the work of other artists relating to my struggles. When I was focusing on chairs he introduced me to Bruce Nauman, and later, when I began working with fabric, to Franz Erhard Walther. Both remain among my favorite artists to this day. Rather than dictating a direction for me, the professor seemed to open various doors, allowing me to discover for myself how my actions connected to broader contexts within the art world.

In the end, the most significant lesson I learned in Germany was the attitude I take when approaching my work. I learned to continuously choose my tasks in an environment where no one can make those choices for me and how to ask questions, and find my own way, rather than waiting for the "right answer."

You participated in various scholarship and residency programs in Germany. Apart from just adding to your resume, these experiences probably helped point you in a certain direction thus transforming your way of working or your mindset as an artist. Could you elaborate on how the people you met, the new environments, and the creative processes involved in these residencies influenced your work?
While I was in Germany, I participated in various scholarship, grant, and residency programs. The scholarships and grants provided me with the time and practical means to sustain my practice, whereas the residencies left a more lasting impression through the experience of meeting people in unfamiliar surroundings and immersing myself in local life. Of these, the time I spent in Zöbing, Austria, and Kalbe, Germany, stands out.

I came to Zöbing in 2019 at the invitation of Franz and Eva, who had first encountered my work at my graduation exhibition. Through their Sommergalerie Zöbing, they provided young artists with a place to live, work, and exhibit.

The residency was marked by a particular sense of quiet. Walking through the vineyards and adapting to the slow rhythm of village life, I found myself paying closer attention to everyday materials and details that I might otherwise have overlooked. In many ways, that slowing down became an important part of the experience itself.

What stayed with me most, however, was Franz and Eva’s way of life. Despite their age, they continued to work every day, care for their garden, and actively support younger artists. Art, daily life, and care for others seemed inseparable for them. On the train ride home, I remember thinking that I would like to live in a similar way someday, with artistic work remaining a natural part of everyday life for as long as possible.

We still exchange letters and drawings today. When I told them I was leaving Germany, they simply asked for my new address so they could continue writing to me. That gesture stayed with me. It made me realize that relationships formed through art are often far less dependent on geographical distance than we might assume. My residency in artsists’ town Kalbe, Germany, in 2018 left a different impression on me. It was a small, remote village where everyday life moved at a slower pace and even simple experiences became memorable. Living there made me more attentive to my surroundings and to the subtle influence that a place can have on artistic work. That influence became tangible in one of my projects. I was experimenting with transferring the texture of an abandoned wooden chair onto fabric using graphite and a wet cloth. Because of the winter temperatures, however, the cloth froze solid onto the chair. When I removed it, the ice briefly retained the chair’s shape on its own. Although the outcome was entirely unexpected, I was fascinated by it and documented the process as the frozen form slowly thawed and collapsed. In a sense, the local climate had become a direct collaborator in the work.

For me, a residency is not simply an opportunity to make art in a different location. It is a chance to live within the rhythm of a place for a period of time. Stepping away from familiar routines allows me to notice things I might otherwise overlook and to embrace unexpected developments in my work.

Looking back, many of the accidental discoveries I made during residencies later became starting points for new projects. That is why I am especially drawn to residencies that take me far outside my everyday environment. As an artist, I consider it a privilege to immerse myself in places and ways of life that I would otherwise never have experienced.

The theme of the Busan Biennale this year is Dissident Chorus. How do you interpret this concept of a ‘chorus’ created by diverse beings and voices coming together? Please share in what way this theme connects to the work you are presenting, as well as any future directions you wish to explore based on this exhibition.
I take Dissident Chorus to mean a state where distinct entities form relationships and create a shared field of resonance all the while maintaining the differences that make them individuals. In this work, too, each sculptural element retains its unique form and tension, yet they connect with one another through the flow and rhythm generated by water, light, and sound.

For this Busan Biennale, I am presenting a site-specific installation titled We Were Trembling as If in Cold Water in the cafeteria of former Busan Nam High School. When I first visited the site, I was struck by the sight of old pipes and defunct equipment left in a space that had once been bustling with activity as a place where meals had been served to so many people. I perceived the cafeteria as the interior of a body frozen in time, like a massive metabolic organ that had ceased to function, and sought to transform it into a cold ‘blue darkroom’ evocative of the deep waters off the coast of Yeongdo Island.

At the same time, I focused on the fact that this was once a site of intense labor. I compacted force and time into materials by taking considerable period of time to repeatedly braid multiple strands of a hose and by pleating and compressing fabric. While not the same type of labor that once existed here, I viewed the process as layering the rhythm of my own body over the rhythm of that vanished labor.

Suspended within this space are tightened, compressed sculptural forms and pendants that resemble fragments of a body. Although the individual elements are separate, the water, circulating through the hoses, and the light, pulsing rhythmically between brightness and dimness, create a rhythm throughout the space, reminiscent of breathing or a heartbeat. Through water, light, sound, and subtle movement, new life is breathed into this abandoned cafeteria serving as a form of mourning for me. My aim was not to restore the past function of this space, but rather to allow the movement and energy that once filled it to be felt once more. The soundscape, created in collaboration with electronic music producer ABOPF, is another crucial element. Low, resonating sounds evoke the sensation of being submerged in deep water. Our collaboration was not a matter of simply combining already completed pieces; instead, it involved a process of layering elements while responding to each other’s work as it unfolded. My work would shift in response to ABOPF’s sounds, and new sounds would subsequently be added to the evolving piece. I believe this process itself echoes the concept of a ‘Dissident Chorus,’ as distinct voices influence one another to shape a unified work.

When working by myself, I sometimes find I am so deeply immersed in my own world that I feel cut off from the world outside. This collaboration introduced a new voice into the work, one I could not have created alone, effectively opening a new channel connecting my art to the outside world.

This project has sparked a deeper interest in me in installations where light, water, sound, movement, and the site itself interact, moving beyond the scope of individual sculptures. I was particularly intrigued by the nature of on-site work, where an artwork transforms, based on a location’s structure, lighting, atmosphere, and lingering traces of the past. I intend to continue developing these spatial installations, while maintaining the sound-based collaboration I explored in earnest here, as I go forward.


Interview & Concept: Sohee Shin
German Translation Leslie Klatte
English Translation: STAR Korea AG