Date/Location: Friday, March 21, 2025, 3:00–6:30 p.m. (KST), Studio SALT, Seoul
Participants: Tiffany Yeon Chae, Gu Juhyeon (MMCA); Sooyoung Leam (fellow); Eugene Hannah Park, Shin Jinyoung, Yi Moon-seok, Jeon Youjin (working group)
Transcript edited by: Gu Juhyeon and Danielle N. Carter
Sooyoung Leam (SL): This past week, I had the chance to speak with artists Ho Rui An and Nagata Kosuke, who are each contributing their artistic research to this issue. I was particularly drawn to their historical approaches to examining the formation of intelligence networks in Cold War Asia, as well as Japan’s complex entanglement with agricultural and military production during and after the colonial period. It’s this kind of historical inquiry and methodology that I find especially valuable for thinking through the contemporary conditions shaping our conflicted understanding of productivity.
On a related note, I found writer Koh Achim’s review of The Eye of the Master: A Social History of Artificial Intelligence by Matteo Pasquinelli—published in the latest issue of Fem Tech Talk by Youjin’s WOMAN OPEN TECH LAB—especially resonant. Koh emphasizes the urgency of Pasquinelli’s framing of AI not as a simulation of biological human intelligence, but as a system modeled on the intelligence of labor and social relations. This sociohistorical reading of AI and its mechanisms for monitoring labor in the name of optimization directly connects to themes we’ve touched on in our previous conversations.
TC: Before coming here today, I saw Ho’s work Figures of History and the Grounds of Intelligence,[1] and the ending was really powerful. He was talking about history, and when Ho painted, his internal drive seemed to be a sense of duty, like, “I have to do this or else.” Even if it was a failure, he felt the urgency to represent the historical context. What AI shows, though, is the best possible result within the trained data—it cannot replace our judgment. History can be interpreted by AI, but its meaning will never be as rich as the meaning humans can create.
In technology-driven discussions, there are other perspectives—especially from those inclined toward transhumanism, who believe that AI-based activities could outperform human work. But I appreciated how Ho refocused on humanity while contemplating history. Working with you, Sooyoung, I felt that your interest in Asian history would really resonate in this context, and I think it would be great if this direction could be reflected in the work.
SL: In that regard, I’m curious to hear more from you, Moon-seok, about your ongoing research on Manchukuo (a puppet state, established by Japan in Northeast China, that lasted from 1932 to 1945).
Yi Moon-seok (YM): Manchukuo was a country that lasted less than thirty years, but to understand it you have to look at what led up to its creation, how it was run, and how it was later connected to East Asian society. The ideology behind its founding was to create an American-style nation—not just for Japanese or Chinese people, but a five-race nation that would unite Asian cultures to resist the West through industrial development.
It wasn’t just some rosy vision of the future; it counted on traditional East Asian ideas too. The Japanese founders of Manchukuo envisioned using virtue, morality, and Confucian ideals to resist the West’s use of imperialism and force. And the way to resist was by uniting five East Asian peoples to increase their industrial power and by depending on the traditional ethics of monarchy, under the banner of the Confucian ideal of the “kingly way,” or benevolent governance. The thing is, Manchuria where Manchukuo was established was a key region. It had land, resources, and industrial potential. Japan figured they needed it to gain dominance in Asia. They couldn’t stand up to the US or Soviet Union on their own, so they took over Manchuria, built factories, and planned cities to make it a puppet state that could support a huge anti-Western market.
That’s why Manchukuo was so weird—it was built on two ideas: the establishment of industrial power for Asian independence and the modernization of Asian societies. That makes it hard to talk about. It wasn’t just nationalism, but it wasn’t free from nationalism either—not purely traditional or purely modern either. It’s hard to articulate.
Eugene Hannah Park (EHP): To me, Manchukuo seems like a historical instance to show why the idea that technology is universal is really a kind of illusion, and I think it’s a dangerous notion. When I travel through cities like Shenyang or Bangkok, it becomes clear that the way technology is connected to daily life really differs from region to region in Asia. Moon-seok, when we met at the museum two months ago, you didn’t have your wallet. But the reason was that in China a wallet isn’t necessary. Everything is digitized. But the question then is: How much of this is truly related to the technology we’re discussing?
During a recent visit to Bangkok for a screening of the work of our collective AFSAR [Asian Feminist Studio for Art and Research] at Bangkok Kunsthalle, I encountered a story that stayed with me. Despite the limited public funding for art in Bangkok, the city has become a hub for digital workers, including many from abroad, drawn by its low cost of living, good food, and warm climate. I met someone who had received substantial funding for a blockchain-related project. Rather than focusing solely on technological development, they hoped to do something more locally rooted—transforming Chiang Mai into a kind of cryptocurrency hub. The idea involved establishing a seed-storage facility that would archive and digitize the knowledge of local healers and shamans, making it accessible through decentralized tools for collective stewardship.
While the vision was compelling, questions remained about its feasibility in regions where even access to electricity is inconsistent. Depending on where and how capital flows, discussions around technology and its potential can vary widely. This reminded me that regional conditions deeply shape how technological infrastructures are imagined, implemented, and received.
SL: We’ve been meeting once a month since January 2025, against the backdrop of major political shifts following the declaration of martial law [in South Korea] on December 3, 2024. We’re now waiting on the Constitutional Court’s decision regarding Yoon Suk-yeol’s impeachment.[2] Meanwhile, opposition leaders like Lee Jae-myung[3] from the progressive Democratic Party have begun outlining their policy agendas—AI, as we all know, being a major focus. I recently watched a YouTube video featuring Lee in conversation with AI experts. They discussed how the lack of governmental vision and support for technology and R&D has made it even harder for South Korea to compete with China and the US. There was broad agreement that, given limited resources, Korea can’t rival these countries in cutting-edge AI development. But what stood out, though somewhat problematically, was the idea that South Korea could still lead in AI within Asia by leveraging its unique historical and cultural context. They noted that most AI systems are trained on Western, English-language data, while Asia holds vast, untapped, and undocumented content. By “harvesting” this, they argued, South Korea could position itself as a regional leader. What do you think of that idea?
Jeon Youjin (JY): I believe we in Korea have a unique perspective to offer in discussions about AI. For example, our history gives us a deep understanding of what it feels like to be dominated or to suffer under colonialism. But that doesn’t mean that we must lead or that we should lead.
So far, most AI services have been designed as tools for capitalism and have already been commercialized that way. We need to recognize that as this technology becomes more widespread, gaps and alienation can actually deepen. AI is designed to optimize, increase efficiency, and eliminate unnecessary things. Optimization implies inevitable omissions within its algorithms. Historical contexts and Asian identities are at great risk of being selectively omitted or erased.
YM: Even if it’s a blue ocean,[4] there is Chinese hegemony, American hegemony, and Southeast Asian data in the mix, which is a fact, but, even so, we can’t claim, “This is ours.”
EHP: I’ve often heard the phrase “Asia is the blue ocean.” While I understand the intent, I’m cautious of how this framing still positions Asia from the axis of the West—or now, increasingly, China. There is a tendency to view Asia as a resource to be discovered or optimized, rather than as a space already rich with its own unresolved histories, conflicts, and knowledge systems.
In practice, the dynamics within Asia are complex and often overlooked. From racial discrimination experienced by Southeast Asians in Korea to intra-Asian hegemonies revealed in casual observations—like golf tourism in Thailand—there’s a clear need to shift our gaze inward. Issues such as the marginalization of ethnic Koreans by the Tumen River[5] or the geopolitical entanglements of Central Asian communities illustrate how fragmented and layered the region truly is.
Institutions also reflect this complexity—for example, the exhibition Reframing Modernism: Painting from Southeast Asia, Europe and Beyond (2016) at the National Gallery Singapore. Singapore’s government-supported cultural infrastructure positions it as a regional authority, shaping the discourse on Southeast Asian art.
Whenever I travel, I always meet local managers or researchers who help me access the knowledge and data they have, and that’s why translations were possible. Rather than seeing Asia as a “blue ocean” of untapped potential, perhaps we should be asking how knowledge is translated across asymmetries and how deeper, more reciprocal forms of engagement can occur.
JY: But, when the blue-ocean idea is reinterpreted, the idea of making data across the Asian continent also sounds like just following that system as it is, reinforcing the idea that the Asian market is one unit.
SL: I agree with your assessment, Eugene. I think one reason we, as Asia-based cultural producers and researchers, struggle to critically address the incongruities and contradictions within Asia, and to think through them generatively, is the constant sense of threat looming over us. This is amplified in everyday life by state rhetoric, which frames the rapid rise of AI technologies led by the US and China as a threat we must urgently “survive.” That narrative quickly turns into a push to harvest resources and optimize infrastructures.
Once again, we hear the familiar competitive logic: South Korea must “take the lead” in technological innovation. But the deeper questions like how and for what purpose are rarely asked. That brings me back to Ho’s work, which references recent films about time loops. The idea of repeating life as a form of troubleshooting—going back to the past to fix mistakes and relive the future—feels especially relevant. AI systems, like deep learning, also move forward by troubleshooting, solving immediate problems. But they often operate only on the surface, never really addressing deeper structural causes. I feel that this shared sense of threat (or perhaps its overemphasis) keeps us stuck on the surface too.
EHP: When I traveled to Bangkok and Manchuria, I was struck by the lack of institutional and linguistic infrastructure. In places like these, it’s nearly impossible to access knowledge without long-term conversations with local people. It often feels like hitting the ground with your head—trial and error is inevitable before meaningful dialogue can begin. So, I’ve occasionally talked with Moon-seok, and I think the reason why Asian museums can’t start from the same point as Western museums is exactly this atmosphere.
Over the past two years, most of my freelance work has been linked to museums—coordination, production, writing, publication. These experiences made me realize how deeply embedded I am in the museum ecosystem, even without formally working in one. Artists across Asia express strong desires to show work in Korea, yet there are few spaces that can accommodate them linguistically, logistically, or curatorially. South-South exchanges also face structural barriers—limited flights, high costs, and inadequate funding. While museums remain central nodes of cultural infrastructure, the real question is how they or adjacent spaces can act as catalysts for sustainable and accessible inter-Asian dialogue beyond dominant circuits.
YM: Korea is one of the few countries where the nation, ethnicity, and language are so deeply intertwined. For Koreans, the country, ethnicity, and language are one and the same, so it’s hard to imagine a country with multiple ethnicities, and it’s hard to imagine a country where different languages mix. If someone has more than one nationality, they might be attacked with questions like, “Why didn’t you choose Korea?” So, if we don’t change the [ways] our nation, ethnicity, and language are defined, it feels like there’s no room for expansion.
Even Japan has the Ainu people in Hokkaido and Okinawans who speak the Okinawan language. There’s a sense that something is different. Even within Japan, there are Koreans who identify as Zainichi Koreans [Koreans living in Japan], but not as South Koreans or North Koreans because some came from the North and some from the South. Some are even classified as people from the collapsed Joseon dynasty, neither North Koreans nor South Koreans. This kind of dynamic exists in Japan. But in Korea there’s really only a very limited imagination of diversity.
JY: But Korea has become a multicultural society now. Even in my son’s school, there’s always at least one foreign-born student, and in the provinces, it’s almost half. Although the situation remains isolated, the numbers are steadily increasing, so it’s important to see how things will change.
EHP: According to OECD [Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development] standards, Korea officially became a multicultural society in 2024. Yet it also ranks among the top five countries in the world for racial discrimination.[6] Immigrants are often viewed as parasites, feeding off our taxes, and this resentment is modeled after that in places like the US. So I’m not sure how this will all play out.
SL: I think that’s part of it. We have such a strong victim mentality that we don’t want to acknowledge that we might be perpetrators or that we can be discriminatory ourselves.
YM: It’s going to be similar to what I mentioned earlier. The subject of my essay will be Manchukuo. When writing about Manchukuo, I don’t want to create an image of the region itself, but rather focus on how contemporary nations project their ideas onto this space. For example, Japan imagined the region as an important base within the , while China has always considered Manchuria crucial for its economic strength, given the industrial bases left by Japan. When discussing regional histories, even when we try to highlight a region’s unique characteristics—which in itself may be a kind of fantasy—we often fail to understand the region through the lens of equal exchange. Instead, we imagine the region as subordinate to the center: If the capital is first tier, then we’re second or third tier at best. That kind of hierarchical narrative shapes our imagination of place. I think this is also something that certain contemporary artists sharply expose—the violence of such imaginations—or they reveal how those imaginations take form in different ways.
JY: So you’re writing about Manchukuo as a region for serving the center, right?
YM: Yes, that’s one of the approaches. There’s a Hong Konger Australian artist named Royce Ng who is working on this. I haven’t seen the work yet, so I reached out to the artist to ask for some materials, like texts or videos, to look at. The work is called Kishi the Vampire, and it’s a lecture-performance with video elements. Kishi Nobusuke was a Japanese politician who played a crucial role in the administration of Manchukuo, and his ideas about governance were exported to Japan, Taiwan, and South Korea. This work reveals those ideas, portraying Kishi as a vampire feeding off Manchukuo. In the performance, characters wear kimonos with motifs of fighter jets and tanks.
EHP: I saw one of those kimonos in the Japanese section of the Metropolitan Museum of Art! I was shocked when I saw it in New York. So, there’s actually a style to it.
YM: Yes, there’s a specific kimono style. I saw it in Japan, I think. The kimono has fighter jets and tanks depicted on it, which is a powerful way to show Japan’s cultural essence through a single individual’s costume.
According to research by Kim Gina about art in Manchukuo, there was even an art exhibition in Manchukuo, like the Chōsen Art Exhibition in Korea during Japanese colonialism. In the section on traditional Chinese painting, there were works featuring tractors and workers in the fields to increase agricultural production. Japanese artists participated, contributing to the local art scene, which evolved into a labor-realism school within East Asian modern art. I want to discuss this further.
JY: Manchukuo was often seen as a symbol of unlimited productivity, so we could explore its symbolic meaning. At the same time, we could also discuss how it functioned as a utopia, the consequences of which have led to the present day. I think it’s fascinating. My grandfather came from Manchuria, but he never had the chance to go back, and, as I get older, I really want to visit.
EHP: I feel like the history of Manchukuo has been largely ignored except for its entertainment aspects. Manchurian modernism and utopia, which is an ongoing relationship, continued to influence even the Park Chung-hee regime (1963–79).
YM: The system of the Park regime’s five-year economic development plan actually came from Manchukuo.
SL: Jinyoung, what you shared earlier was more about the craft-based aspects of production, right?
Shin Jinyoung (SJ): Yes, that’s right. In production, I often witness how elements that seem trivial or even useless when viewed on their own eventually build up, connect, and create real impact. Through this, I’ve come to notice how each contemporary art project interprets and applies concepts like efficiency, productivity, and effect in different ways. These decisions naturally influence how time, people, and equipment come together and operate. Recently, there has been growing interest in production as a subject of research and proposal. This suggests that the focus is no longer only on the final artwork. The criteria and scope of what we call “creation” or “a work” are expanding and becoming more layered. Lately, I’ve been thinking more about craftsmanship and compatibility. Until last year, I was mainly concerned with how to create an efficient production environment that would best support the final piece. But this year my focus has shifted. I’ve started to think more about how we make things, who we make them with, and how others are invited into that time and space. I also wonder how these processes might stay with the people involved—not just in the moment, but in their futures and in other contexts.
These days, the phrase “behind the scenes,” or BTS, has come to represent a lot. It feels like we’re in a moment when the desire to witness the production process overlaps with the desire to present it. When I look back, many of my strongest memories are tied to productions where human involvement was deeply present. Some people are drawn to the grandeur of high-tech creation. Others, like me, find themselves overwhelmed in the presence of a vast landscape and choose to believe in the truth of that moment. I connect more with that latter way of working. For some artists, using the protocols, media, or materials of their time is a conscious decision. For others, it’s out of genuine necessity. And sometimes these elements are absorbed naturally in the process without being planned. When you witness this, you stop asking whether something is a good work or not. Instead, you begin to ask how we want to live going forward. Something in your orientation starts to shift. Every project contains something significant, something difficult to fully articulate. That’s why I believe every creator should experience a production process outside of their own work at least once. It truly changes your perspective. In my case, I genuinely enjoy the setup phase. Even if I’m not directly involved, I often go to help with installation because I want to feel the space and be present. That has been one of the ways I’ve come to learn what it means to be a producer.
EHP: You mentioned the moment when you sanded the glasses, and I keep thinking about it. It wasn’t just meaningful because it was done by hand. It felt different. There’s a kind of significance in seemingly useless gestures when they happen on-site. At first, it might seem unnecessary, something a machine could do more efficiently. But the belief that the act itself, repeated over time like a ritual, creates something meaningful—a sense of aura—is something those involved in the work understand. As creators, we often joke that what we do is useless. But without that belief in the act of doing, we couldn’t sustain this work. Even what seems unnecessary can lead to new forms of attention or productivity. That’s why I find the range of Jinyoung’s experiences working with artists and productions is so meaningful. Those are things you can’t buy.
JY: As I was listening to Jinyoung’s talk, I was reminded of something Paul Graham once posted. He’s a software developer who often shares his thoughts on Twitter (now X). He shared a conversation record with ChatGPT, showing that ChatGPT predicts that AI would eventually eliminate the struggles people experience. But we all know that those struggles—our lived experiences—are deeply valuable, and they often lead to creativity and production. In a way, AI is designed to erase that. That’s kind of the whole point of automation.
I also want to mention a book called The Eye of the Master: A Social History of Artificial Intelligence,[7] as Sooyong already mentioned. The author criticizes how we tend to frame AI in scientific terms—making it harder for people to understand—and how that framing allows AI to operate as a tool of domination. The book argues that AI isn’t modeled after the human brain, but after the unequal labor and industrial system of our society.
Along similar lines, I think we need to talk about digital colonialism. I’ve really appreciated the work of Ho Rui An. In the past couple years, I’ve noticed a growing sense of crisis in Europe about digital colonialism, especially the kind led by the US. I’ve even heard this concern from some of my European friends. When we met Charl, he was surprised to learn that in Korea we mostly import and rely on Western technologies. The truth is, we’re just consumers. We don’t really produce or shape the technology. We’re very good at using it, but not at questioning it. The digital colonialism led by the US has become so globalized that its imperialist dynamics are often hard to notice.
In Lee Jae-myung’s video that Sooyoung mentioned, none of these critical perspectives were addressed. Politicians are just eager to use the existing technologies and lead as a “fast mover.” No one dares to say, “Hey, maybe we shouldn’t use AI.” Korea is often the first to adopt new technologies and is also the first to face their downsides—getting caught up in capitalism and its failures. That’s exactly why I think we should be radical critics. Since we’ve been early and heavy users, we’re actually in a good position to say, “This technology isn’t good enough,” almost like filing a complaint with customer service.
We’ve been through this cycle before with earlier technologies like the internet. We became dependent on it to the point that we can’t imagine life without it. So now, when it comes to AI and new technologies, our role should be to recognize what they produce—both good and bad—and make sure we don’t let the same mistakes be repeated.
SL: There’s a famous scholar in international relations—though I can’t remember his name—who wrote about how, historically, the way nations and states have allied with one another was driven by the power of hegemonic nations. But the most significant driving force for alliances between nations has actually been threats. In a way, the situation we’re facing with accepting new technologies and AI feels like a kind of threat, and it seems that we are unable to think clearly because we’re exposed to this threat. The reason we keep repeating the same cycle, constantly caught in this time loop, might be because, when exposed to a threat, we immediately think we need to ally with whoever is nearby to protect ourselves. This mechanism creates repetitive cycles. The way we view threats is closely connected to this issue.
JY: That kind of sense really works well in Korea. We’ve been through so many threats over time, so we’ve come to recognize them quickly.
EHP: In Korea people are so focused on survival, and that’s why we are so vulnerable to materialism. It feels like it’s all about survival, doesn’t it?
JY: Exactly. If we’re not careful, we might end up sounding too much like victims—which isn’t the point. But as you said, Korean society is extremely sensitive to these issues. When we perceive a threat, there’s an instinctive urgency to respond right away. There’s no time to look around or consider others.
SL: It feels like we skip over all of that. In contrast, Europe and Japan, while also exposed to similar threats, seem to be slower in their responses. They don’t change as quickly as Korea does. There’s a sense that, even though they’re exposed to the same threatening situation, they still try to handle things more slowly and with more room to breathe.
JY: And part of that slowness comes from not sensing the situation as well. Meanwhile, we’re extremely skilled at sensing these things, but we can’t say we’re coping well.
EHP: It’s like a collective memory pushing everything forward, skipping over past traumas like those from war and colonization. That’s how we end up in the divided state we’re in today. For example, even within the candlelight movement [civil movement for democracy], there are huge differences. Sometimes, we feel surprised by moments even if we’re supposed to be united. It feels like we’re in a state of identity fragmentation.
JY: The question becomes how to position ourselves. For instance, last year, there was an issue about AI textbooks. They had to be created in just a few months, which was an incredibly short time for preparing well. In the end, they were not accepted as official textbooks, so they became a burden and resulted in a big loss for the publishers.
SL: As you mentioned, that positioning—whether it’s Korea’s positioning or the technological perspective—is going to be crucial. It seems like that’s what will ultimately guide the overarching discussions and proposals for this issue of MMCA Studies and Stedelijk Studies.
TC: The concept of positioning is important. I also need to bring up the Cultural Korea report.[8] The Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism released a policy report on March 6 for 2025 to 2035, which has already been covered in the media. The report argues that, given the transformation in the AI era, culture, tourism, sports, and the arts should actively adopt AI to generate industrial results. AI takes up about six pages of the thirty-page report. But the AI section feels like a policy created in response to a perceived threat. It doesn’t seem like it was discussed thoroughly with on-site practitioners, and there’s a sense of urgency in the ministry’s response.
I agree with your perspective, so I would like to mention a book that might be relevant. The book is called The Future of Writing by linguist Naomi Baron,[9] who, after years of studying the differences in how we process text on digital media versus paper, turned to research about AI. In this book, she argues that AI-driven writing is seductive, and while we use it a lot it’s actually causing our faculties to atrophy. She also warns that AI will eventually produce superior knowledge since it can process more information than humans. I don’t fully agree with this, but her conclusion in the book focuses on sovereignty.
AI was born out of human struggle, like when the US developed machine translation during the Cold War after the Soviet Union launched Sputnik. The book argues that we should not lose our sense of sovereignty over these technologies. I agree with this perspective. Those who are inclined toward transhumanism often hold completely opposing views. Therefore, I think that the consciousness of sovereignty, the idea that we created this, should be at the center.
Working Group 3, March 21, 2025, Studio Salt, Seoul. Photo: Maya West
[1] Ho Rui An, dir., Figures of History and the Grounds of Intelligence, 2024.
[2] On December 14, 2024, President Yoon was impeached by the National Assembly; his impeachment was upheld by the Constitutional Court on April 4, 2025. At the time of the discussion, this was still under deliberation. He is currently awaiting a trial to determine whether he is guilty of insurrection charges.
[3] In the snap election following Yoon’s impeachment, Lee Jae-myung was elected president.
[4] Referring to Asia as a “blue ocean” comes from marketing terminology, where Asia is seen as an untapped market ready to be exploited.
[5] The region around the Tumen River is the border between Korea and China. Koreans have lived in this area for centuries. During the period of Japanese colonialism, many people migrated to Manchuria, including the Tumen area, for economic or political reasons. Even today many ethnic Koreans live there as Chinese nationals, keeping the Korean language alive in the region and developing a hybrid Korean-Chinese culture.
[6] “Countries with Highest Rates of Racial Discrimination,” Asia Economy [in Korean], September 25, 2024.
[7] Matteo Pasquinelli, The Eye of the Master: A Social History of Artificial Intelligence (London: Verso, 2023).
[8] Cultural Korea: 2025–2035 [in Korean] (Seoul: Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism, 2024).
[9] Naomi Baron, Who Wrote This? How AI and the Lure of Efficiency Threaten Human Writing (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2023).
Fellow Sooyoung Leam
