Could you briefly introduce yourself and your artistic practice?
I’m Kat Austen. I create new media artworks and performances oriented around sound. Sound is the point of departure for all of my work, which is transdisciplinary and research-based, drawing on knowledge from fields beyond art to explore specific questions and contexts.

All of my projects engage with environmental and social justice issues, particularly the ways technology mediates our relationship with the natural world. Much of my work is site-based: I begin with a global concern, identify a place where it becomes tangible, and conduct embodied, listening-based research on site using recording technologies. These experiences are then developed into artworks that connect local realities with broader global questions.

When you identify global issues or topics for your work, how does that process unfold? Is there a specific research method, or do the topics emerge more intuitively?
There is a clear progression in my practice over time. I have always been deeply concerned with the climate crisis, and as public discourse around it has evolved, related questions have gradually entered my work. Initially, I focused on the cognitive dissonance between the scale of the catastrophe we are facing and the fact that daily life continues largely unchanged. From there, my practice expanded to include extractive and post-extractive landscapes, microplastic pollution, and the impact of technological infrastructures on the planet. Often, when I begin researching one topic, other interconnected issues emerge, allowing projects to deepen and branch out organically.

I often work on several related projects simultaneously, and the process is partly intuitive. I tend to let inspiration find me, and timing often aligns uncannily with ideas I am already developing. At the same time, there is a strong research-driven dimension to my work. My method is always a dialogue between the initial question and the material or site I am engaging with, and that relationship often shifts as the project unfolds.

A good example is an Arctic residency I undertook in 2017. I had originally proposed creating a haptic artwork that responded to environmental data, but after conducting sound recordings and experiencing the landscape directly, it became clear that the work needed to become a symphony instead. The final piece, which included video and sculptural elements, was entirely different from my original plan and was shaped directly by the research process.

There are also projects where the form is clear from the outset. This Land Is Not Mine, my project on Lusatia, had to be a large-scale, multi-channel installation. It became a 20-channel video work with layered narratives, reflecting the impossibility of grasping the region’s identity as a single, coherent whole. In both cases, intuition and research work together, allowing each project to grow into the form it requires.

Your work moves between AI, science, sound, performance, and visual art. Many of your projects explore the relationships between our bodies, the planet, and the technologies surrounding us. Could you share some project highlights that shaped your path and influenced the way you combine these disciplines?
One key project that shaped my practice is THIRST / For Knowledge, which explores AI data centers as bodies of water. Through spatialized sound, film, and a publication bringing together voices from artists, scholars, and local residents, the work examines the hidden watery infrastructures that sustain artificial intelligence and how rising water consumption reshapes landscapes, ecosystems, and human communities. The project is rooted in field research at Solaseado, south of Mokpo, where Korea’s National AI Data Centre is currently under construction. Through repeated site visits and underwater field recordings alongside video and drone footage, it documents how water flows are redirected, drained, and rerouted as the landscape is transformed. What was once a continuously flowing body of water has been interrupted through excavation, soil redistribution, and the installation of boreholes and pipes.

Solaseado itself is a landscape shaped by successive waves of development. Formerly mountainous and partially reclaimed from the sea, it has already undergone major transformations, including the construction of a solar park in 2019. While the data center is publicly framed as operating on renewable energy and abundant groundwater, local residents report – and environmnetal data shows - increasing drought and the need to dig deeper wells. Rather than attributing these changes to a single cause, the project examines how climate change and infrastructure development compound one another, raising urgent questions about environmental justice and the long-term impact of AI infrastructures on planetary systems. Another project that is particularly close to me is Echoes of the Palaeoplasticene, part of a trilogy exploring carbon and human intervention in environmental cycles. Combining a soundscape with 3D-printed PLA mushroom forms, the work imagines a speculative prehistoric ecosystem in which plastic-based fungi evolved. Drawing on the scientific method of taphonomy, the project reflects on the longevity of plastic and its enduring impact on human and non-human life.

For the 2024 Youth Winter Olympics in Gangwon-do, I realized an outdoor installation in which pink PLA mushroom sculptures were placed along the beach and accompanied by a site-specific soundscape. Designed to evolve through exposure to wind, water, and weather, environmental change became an integral part of the work. For the soundscape, I conducted sound recordings across Gangwon-do, including recordings made deep inside a closed mine shaft at the Samtan Art Mine in Taebaek. Capturing the sound of this collapsing site of carbon reserve extraction in the mountain was central to the composition. Performance is also a significant part of my practice. One important work, Death and Resurrection, was developed over the course of a year for Inscape’s NONSCENDENCE series and explores tensions between science, art, and religion. Inspired by a 1982 book by Rogan Taylor, the performance traces the lineage of performance from shamanic healing rituals in nomadic societies to today’s large-scale, technologically driven spectacles. You collaborate with artists, scholars, and activists around the world, while also working closely with local communities. How does your collaborative process usually work?
My collaborative approach is broadly consistent across contexts, though it always adapts to local conditions. In Korea, the process is more challenging because I don’t speak the language, so I rely closely on interpreters and local collaborators. Despite this, I’ve worked with several rural communities who have been remarkably open and generous, even when I arrive with unfamiliar methods and questions.

For THIRST / For Knowledge, I worked with Dongjoo Seo on interviews and interpretation. We spent time in long-form, ethnographic conversations with individuals, focusing on their personal relationships to water and their perspectives on nearby construction and development. This kind of slow, attentive exchange is central to how I work.

Beyond interviews, my participatory artistic research practice includes co-creation and collective research with diverse communities. For Not Breaking. This Wave Drowns Hate, I worked with coastal communities to create an intentional and ethical database of visions of sustainability which I then used to train a small AI model, implemented inside an, alongside university masterclasses, and collective performance.

I am part of re#sister, a network of female and non-binary sound artists with whom I perform. Across all of these contexts, collaboration is about building trust, creating space for different forms of knowledge, and developing work that emerges through dialogue rather than imposition.

Could you tell us what originally brought you to Korea, how living and working here has influenced your artistic practice, and how that experience compares to Berlin and Europe?
I still maintain my studio in Berlin, where I lived for eight years before moving to Korea. Because my work focuses on environmental relationships, I felt it was important to step outside the comfort of Berlin and the familiar European funding structures. I wanted to place myself in a context shaped by different cultural assumptions and ways of living, while still being able to actively produce work.

I was drawn to Korea because of its strong new media art scene. Through international sound collaborations, I had already encountered Korean artists and curatorial practices emerging from Seoul, which made the city feel like the right balance of challenge and possibility, even though I had never lived here before.

What struck me most after arriving was the pace. The expectation of immediacy and rapid decision‑making was initially surprising, especially during my first funded project. Over time, I’ve absorbed that rhythm, and it has fundamentally changed my sense of responsiveness and presence in my work. Compared to Berlin and other parts of Europe, things here feel more mobile and immediate, in many ways the energy feels open and dynamic.

When working with local communities in Korea, I’ve also found people to be curious and willing to engage, though, as always, this depends on context and location. Your time in Korea sounds very enriching. At the same time, you’re planning to return to Germany. Was your stay here always meant to be temporary?
I’ve built strong networks here and learned a great deal, particularly in terms of developing my aesthetic and learning new techniques. Living within a society shaped by very different assumptions about daily life was exactly the experience I was hoping for.

At the same time, it is difficult for me to remain permanently based here. Given the current global political situation, I feel the need to live somewhere where I have greater political agency. As a foreigner in Korea, participation in activism or political discourse is extremely limited, which can be a challenging position to inhabit.

At this point, returning feels like the right decision.

Yes, the current global situation can be difficult for many of us to process. You’ve previously spoken about the feeling of “ecological grief.” How do you think we can live with, or respond to, those emotions?
I think it’s essential to accept the reality of the situation. Acceptance doesn’t mean resignation; it creates the possibility to respond, even if only on a small scale.

One of the challenges is that so much responsibility is placed on individuals, while real power often lies elsewhere. This is why political agency and systemic change are so important. Personal choices matter, but they are not enough on their own. Meaningful change needs to happen at community, institutional, and global levels.

We also can’t afford to move passively into large infrastructural developments, such as data centres, without critically examining their costs, benefits, and who carries the burden. Avoiding these questions because they are uncomfortable won’t help. Facing fear directly is the only way forward.

It’s very clear how strongly your time in Korea has shaped your work. How has living in Yongsan‑gu, and near Namsan in particular, influenced your artistic practice?
Very deeply. I chose this area intentionally, and having a close community of friends within walking distance is incredibly valuable in a city. Being surrounded by galleries and museums also feeds naturally into my practice. What I didn’t anticipate was how profoundly the redevelopment of Bogwang‑dong and the surrounding areas would affect me. At first, I was drawn to the neighborhood’s complexity and diversity: the irregular architecture, the way things were repaired rather than replaced, and the sense of human‑scale improvisation embedded in everyday life.

As redevelopment accelerated, spaces closed, people were displaced, and warning tape and barriers began to dominate the landscape. I started field recording in Bogwang‑dong and along the Han River partly as a way of grounding myself in the city. Listening is how I orient myself when things feel overwhelming. Over time, I built an archive of weekly recordings that trace the area’s transformation, until access was no longer possible. Through conversations with Korean friends, I began to better understand what these changes meant for local communities, cultural spaces, and ways of living that were quietly disappearing.

I also developed a listening workshop in Korea that emerged from my early experiences around Namsan. Shortly after arriving in Seoul, I spent a lot of time listening and making field recordings, particularly of the cicadas that dominate the city during the summer.

One day, while crossing the road, I heard the pedestrian crossing signal for the first time and noticed how its movement between speakers overlapped rhythmically with the cicadas. That unexpected encounter between human‑made and more‑than‑human sound became the starting point for my first work made in Korea, Seoul Rhythms, which was later presented at the V&A Museum in London. Besides your surroundings, are there any Korean artists who have influenced your work and continue to inspire you?
There are artists whose work I deeply admire. One is Yunchul Kim, whose sculptures are extraordinary. He represented Korea at the Venice Biennale in 2022 and creates intricate kinetic works that respond to sensors and environmental inputs.

I visited his studio while developing How to Touch a Dragonfly, and I think that experience subtly influenced how I later approached the dome installation for the project. His sensitivity to material, movement, and technological precision has stayed with me. What themes or questions are you currently exploring, and could you give us a glimpse of your upcoming projects?
I’m very happy to say that for my final five months in Korea, I’ve been awarded an ARKO residency to develop a new installation based on the Bogwang‑dong archive.

During the residency, I’ll be returning to Hanji as material and exploring how sound behaves as it moves through differently formed paper surfaces. I first became aware of hanji’s profound acoustic impact while working on How to Touch a Dragonfly, a sustainably designed, dome installation that uses back-lit hanji modules to create an ultra‑low‑resolution immersive screen portraying 360 videos of Korean dragonfly habitats and incorporates spatialised sound.

For this new work, I want to experiment with folding, casting, and shaping Hanji to create a modular sculptural environment that subtly alters how people hear and feel within the space. There will be an open studio in July, and I’d love to invite people to experience the work as it develops.
I also collaborate with the Soundcamp network on Reveil, an annual sunrise broadcast of live environmental sound. On the first weekend in May, I carried out a site‑specific performance along the Han River, as a celebration of the sound of birdsong at sunrise for Dawn Chorus Day.

I’m continuing my research at the site of development for Korea’s National AI Data Centre to develop a series of short-films, exploring AI as an influential entity within technological infrastructural bodies which consume water and create heat. Departing from the Korea-based field research, the THIRST series of films poetically juxtapose these technological bodies with those of humans and the planet.


Project Planning: Sohee Shin
Interview: Leslie Klatte
Artist: Kat Austen
Images: Leslie Klatte, Yoonjung Daw
SNS-Shorts: Yoonjung Daw
Korean translation: Sohee Shin
German translation: Leslie Klatte