Jeong Hur (b. 1991, Seoul) is a New York–based artist whose practice moves between sculpture, installation, and photography. Working with pinewood and hanji paper, he builds window-like structures that rest at the threshold between interior and exterior, presence and absence. His work explores how light and material shape perception—how a surface can both reveal and withhold. Rooted in the physical act of building and the slowness of handcraft, Hur’s installations evoke quiet states of transition, asking what it means to inhabit the space between seeing and being seen. He has exhibited across the U.S. and Asia.
To get started, could you tell us a little about yourself and your journey so far?
I was born in Seoul and moved to New York in 2017 to pursue my MFA at the School of Visual Arts. Moving between neighborhoods and cities, I realized that space has always been part of how I define myself. It entered my life naturally—as a boundary, a mirror, and sometimes a shelter.
In New York, I rediscovered something I had forgotten—the ability to play with a serious heart, like a child completely absorbed in making something. That sense of curiosity became a quiet foundation for my work. My practice now moves between photography, sculpture, and installation, exploring how memory blurs, overlaps, and reappears through material. The city’s shifting light, sounds, and pace continue to shape the way I build spaces that hold both distance and intimacy.
Your work often involves materials tied to daily life and memory—now including hanji paper and slender wooden frames that suggest windows. What guides your choice of materials, and what do you hope they communicate?
I tend to reach for materials that feel culturally close and familiar. In Korea, hanji has always been part of daily life—a surface for writing, wrapping, and dividing space. When I brush oil on it, the paper turns translucent, allowing what’s behind to appear faintly. That transformation feels like memory surfacing, quietly and incompletely.
Pinewood connects to another kind of familiarity. Walking through New York, I often notice wooden structures—temporary walls, scaffolds, and exposed beams. The material feels humble but full of human traces. By carving and sanding it slowly, I translate that everyday rhythm into something reflective.
Together, these materials carry the sense of home and distance at once. They invite viewers to see how what’s ordinary can hold something fragile and intimate.
The ideas of ‘home’ and ‘place’ appear often in your work. How have these concepts shaped your practice?
When I was young in Korea, my family moved a couple of times because of my father’s work. Each place had its own rhythm—the color of light, the smell of dust, the sound between walls. Later, during my military service in a remote countryside, I learned another kind of space—quiet, wide, stripped of distraction. Those experiences taught me that place changes how you breathe and remember.
In New York, that awareness deepened. Every neighborhood carries its own light, trees, and even its own dust. The sound of ambulances, the pace of traffic, the texture of air—all slightly different, shaping how I perceive the city. Building my wooden frames became a way to reclaim stillness within that constant change. Covering them with hanji is like building a temporary home with my hands—one that lets light and memory pass through.
Your exhibitions are often described as quiet and contemplative. How do you think about the atmosphere of your installations and your relationship with viewers?
Silence has always felt more truthful to me than noise. I try to create spaces that breathe slowly, where viewers can notice how light and time move together. The hanji surfaces shift with each change of light; depending on one’s height or distance, the angle of reflection and the shadow on the paper also change.
I like that the work never belongs to a single viewpoint. The space adjusts to whoever enters—it becomes a shared composition. I hope people stand quietly, letting their eyes adjust until something begins to appear beneath the surface. For me, that’s where the work truly exists—in the brief moment of attention that connects two presences.
What does “community” mean to you, and how do you see yourself engaging with it?
Community, for me, isn’t always visible or physical. I’m not very social; I rarely attend gatherings or openings. Most of my conversations with other artists happen online—through images, messages, and quiet feedback exchanged over time. Those small, steady interactions build trust and a sense of continuity.
At the same time, my identity automatically places me within certain circles—as an immigrant, an Asian artist, someone living between languages and systems. I didn’t choose those frames, but I exist within them, and they shape how my work is read and how I connect with others.
In New York, local networks have given me another kind of support—a reminder that community can form quietly, through care and persistence, even when our paths rarely meet in person.
text & photo courtesy of Jeong Hur
- Website: https://jeonghur.com/
- Instagram: @jeong.h.something
