I came to Philadelphia in 2019 for grad school, visiting the city early in the year for my interview. Despite the heavy snow and the interview that did not seem to have gone very well, I thought the city was beautiful and wished I could come back. I was thrilled when I was accepted into the program, and I was excited to explore more.

I saw the roughest parts of Philadelphia before anything else, yet they fascinated me. The first time I got on the bus here, it took a detour and I got lost somewhere in one of the rougher neighborhoods, which led me to the best cheesesteak I have ever had and this farmers market where I got the largest eggplant I have ever seen in my life for a dollar. Everything about Philadelphia felt brutally honest. While it did not hide its grime, chaos, and despair, its resilience and pride shone through.

Philadelphia, in my opinion, is one of the best places to be as an emerging artist. I feel incredibly fortunate to have started and fostered my artistic career here, as the city is a true advocate for young creatives. There is plenty of room for experimentation and failure, so you see the crude, unpolished side of the art world quite often, which I think is crucial in understanding what art is truly about. There is curiosity and openness towards difficult discussions in the Philly art scene, which had a huge influence on my practice and how I view the art world.

In the summer of 2024, with my collaborator Guava Jiyoon Rhee, I co-curated an exhibition including students from six institutions in Philadelphia: the University of Pennsylvania, Moore College of Art & Design, Temple University, Drexel University, the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, and the University of the Arts. With the support of Penn’s fine arts department and the Sachs Program for Arts Innovation, we were able to host 33 student artists’ work at Penn’s Charles Addams Fine Arts Gallery. It was a magical experience for me, as it reminded me of the power of art and how it can bring communities together.

Philadelphia has this ‘I do what I want, deal with it’ energy that seeped into my practice over the years. The city taught me to be loud, confident, and unapologetic; how to be tough but in a kind, loving way. It taught me fear, but it also taught me how to be brave. Growing up in Korea can be tricky for people with their own voices. Being weird or different is considered wrong, not simply a matter of quirks, and I have been both for most of my life, which is probably why I felt strangely at home when I came here. My practice started to embrace all the chaos and confusion around me, and the strangeness and imperfections I possess, just the way this city does.

The night the Eagles won the Super Bowl earlier this year. The entire city just exploded. I was on a call with my partner, and I jokingly (but not really) told him how the city would get destroyed and said my farewells. While I did not join the pole-climbing outside, I could feel the city violently vibrating with excitement and joy. I think it’s nostalgia as that night reminded me so much of the 2002 World Cup and the entirety of Korea losing it over soccer. I felt like I was 8 again.

My work often gets described as Boschian, but my biggest source of inspiration has always been 18th-century Pungsokhwa (Korean folk custom paintings). What I love about the genre is the affection towards the powerless and insignificant, and I believe that sentiment is quite present in Korean culture. The world is not complete without those weak and flawed beings, and there is significance in making work about them. Living abroad as someone from a tiny country that constantly fights for its survival comes with moments that make you feel small. At some point you get enough green card jokes thrown at you, and you want to be mad, but you are still so small. But that smallness made me pay closer attention to beings and moments that get overlooked. That sensibility comes from home. Even in Philadelphia, in the midst of chaos and noise, I find myself gravitating toward the fragile and the absurd, things that are easy to dismiss. That is where my Koreanness lives in my work: in the instinct to hold space for what’s vulnerable, and to insist that it matters.

Though I am not actively searching for or engaging with a Korean community in Philadelphia, I feel its presence all the time. I remember the opening night of The Shape of Time: Korean Art after 1989 at the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the overwhelming sense of relief and comfort I felt, surrounded by the Philadelphia Korean community. It was wonderful to see the whole community show up to celebrate and embrace our culture.

I went to that PMA Korean Art exhibit (that I just mentioned) quite a few times, and it was incredible to see how people were reacting to the show. I also remember my art openings in Philadelphia very fondly and the respect and curiosity they received. You can see Korean art, or the influence of Korean art, in at least a few corners of Philadelphia at all times. It is not limited to just art either, and Korean influence can be seen all across the city. We have three HMarts here!

There is a term “Samramansang,” meaning “all things in the universe.” Philadelphia feels like that. It feels like everything. When I was little, my neighborhood held an art contest for kids where we had to make what alien food would look like. I just threw a bunch of random crap inside a ball of clay and mashed it up altogether. I remember all the moms complimenting other kids’ works, then falling silent in front of mine. Their reaction was not malicious. My work simply looked like a goblin had made it. Philadelphia feels that way sometimes. It feels like an art school cabinet where the world has hoarded all its unexpectedness and craziness, and I am free to use everything and anything in it.

Several places, but I love going to Old City for a break. It’s full of great galleries, food, and silly stores selling silly things. There is a cafe that I go to to buy coffee beans for people I love, an art supply store that I adore, and, of course, historic, touristy spots that are great for people-watching. I go to the Barnes Foundation without buying a ticket and sit outside the cafe if I want to zone out and not think about the terrible things that are happening in the world. If you are lucky, you can see possums. My favorite place to go to recharge, though, would be HMart (the big one in Elkins Park).

There is a whole list of things I think people should experience when they are visiting Philadelphia (most of them have to do with eating), but to pick a few: 1) Barnes Foundation, walking down to Rittenhouse and getting brunch at Parc, then Reading Terminal Market. 2) Opening night at Vox Populi, then walking to Chinatown and getting dinner at Nan Zhou Noodle House / Sang Kee Peking Duck / Dimsum Garden, and lastly dessert at A La Mousse. 3) Old City adventure, including lunch at Fork or Vista Peru, a little shopping at Omoi Life Good, then going to see exhibitions at Paradigm Gallery, Pentimenti Gallery, Museum for Art in Wood (they never disappoint), and lastly Elfreth’s Alley.

I am currently juggling about 15 paintings at the same time for upcoming art fairs and exhibitions. I have been participating in art fairs a lot lately, which naturally made me think a lot about the politics and power dynamics within the art world and curated spaces. This one painting that I am really excited about depicts a college art critique. It brings back memories of people crying out of frustration after a devastating critique session, and all the silly, artsy critique outfits. It’s just a funny piece to work on.

I have spent almost a quarter of my life in Philadelphia, which is certainly something I did not anticipate when I first came here. Over the years, the city has become more than a place to live; it has shaped my practice, my perspective, and my sense of belonging. I have learned to embrace both its unpredictability and its community. Philadelphia challenges me, nurtures me, and constantly reminds me why I love being here.