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Working Group 1, 24 January, 2025, MMCA Seoul. Photo: MMCA, Seoul.
Date/Location: Friday, January 24, 2025, 2:00–5:00 p.m. (KST), Conference Room 1, National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art (MMCA), Seoul
Participants: Lee Chu Young, 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
Tiffany Yeon Chae: The editorial fellowship project began when the Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam contacted our museum in May last year. The editorial fellowship is a special project of Stedelijk Studies, the museum’s annual research journal. During the process of setting up the fellowship, they realized that there was a gap between nurturing editors and incorporating new voices. These two goals could be achieved through a common project, one that nurtures editors from contexts outside of the Stedelijk’s typical purview while granting these editors the authority and autonomy to incorporate new voices in Stedelijk Studies publications by publishing a special issue within the framework of the Stedelijk Studies website.
This project follows a model similar to an artist residency, where an editor contributes to and accompanies content development. The previous fellow, Wanini Kimemiah, was from Nigeria and explored themes of ecology; their publication was recently released. While Kimemiah’s approach was based on their perspective as an editor and artist, Sooyoung Leam is a research-based fellow, and I expect the content to be more theoretical this time.
At our museum, we have been publishing research journals since 1989. However, it has been about five or six years since we restructured our journal into one engaged in global discourse, involving external contributors. Inviting an external editor is something we are attempting for the first time, thanks to the Stedelijk Museum’s suggestion.
Through this, our goal is not only to present the museum’s perspectives but also to incorporate insights from art professionals and collaborators outside the museum. We hope that by experimenting with different formats—such as these working group meetings—this process will serve as a valuable experience for our institution.
Sooyoung Leam (SL): I’d like to begin by thanking the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, Korea (MMCA), and the Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam for the opportunity to collaborate on the forthcoming research journal as their editorial fellow. The issue, themed “Generating Production,” aims to interrogate the (in)visible infrastructures that shape knowledge, labor, and value systems—within and beyond the art world—at a time increasingly defined by AI-driven generative technologies. Shaped by layered histories of industrialization, Cold War–era extractivism, and the ongoing legacies of colonialism that continue to inform how we understand production and epistemology, Asia provides a compelling backdrop for this inquiry. While brainstorming the theme, I created a mind map to see how different concepts connected. That process led me to rethink the traditional editorial structure. The journal issue that is coming out of this editorial fellowship is both a product and a process of knowledge making, so instead of simply commissioning contributions I wanted to build something more collaborative. That’s how the idea of a working group emerged: It was intended to be a generative space for exchanging expertise, perspectives, and questions.
Today’s conversation is part of that process. I’m not entirely sure yet how it might appear in the final publication. Some of it might be embedded within the text, or the ideas raised here could form an invisible conceptual backbone. It could evolve into a conversation piece. Let’s see where the next four months of gathering take us. What’s clear is that I want this project to grow through shared inquiry. Shin Jinyoung’s deep experience working with artists and her exploration of sustainable, flexible modes of production through her collective apparat/us; Eugene Hannah Park’s collaborative research and curatorial work around regional and diasporic Asian communities with AFSAR (Asian Feminist Studio for Art and Research); Yi Moon-seok’s ongoing field research in East Asia; and Jeon Youjin’s educational and community-based projects through the WOMAN OPEN TECH LAB—I believe all offer diverse ways to explore the theme, both personally and collectively. Each of you has worked with public institutions and platforms such as the MMCA in various capacities, and I think that shared experience will also help us reflect on the role of institutions themselves. Thank you again for agreeing to be part of this gathering. I truly appreciate your presence and your openness to the process.
What Conditions Enable the Production of Contemporary Art in Asia?
Yi Moon-seok: When I first heard about this project, I understood that it centers around productivity and generation.
However, when considering what I could contribute, I found myself questioning my own relationship with AI and advanced technologies. These topics, often discussed in contemporary discourse, don’t immediately resonate with me on a personal level. I’m a humanities major. [laughs] Still, I was drawn to this project because of its focus on Asia. It reminded me of a question I had while visiting Hanoi, Vietnam, last year.
In Vietnam, due to its socialist governance, issues like wealth disparity and religious conflicts are relatively mitigated compared to other Southeast Asian nations. However, Vietnam’s overall industrial scale remains limited, which prevents the development of a large-scale contemporary art infrastructure.
When a state decides to produce a certain industry, it operates solely based on a macrostrategy driven by the need to produce something for the nation or the party. For example, the state-sponsored Vietnam National Fine Arts Museum in Hanoi predominantly showcases Buddhist sculptures from the fourteenth century and artworks from the early twentieth century. It largely excludes contemporary art from its official collections and exhibitions.
Despite this, small independent art organizations continue to emerge, fostering an underground contemporary art scene. This made me reflect on the economic and industrial conditions necessary for contemporary art production. My work with the Seoul Mediacity Biennale has given me insight into the global biennale phenomenon. Biennales can only thrive in regions where there is sufficient industrial and economic infrastructure to support large-scale cultural events. Thus, I realized that biennales—large-scale cultural events—can only take place when an industrial structure expands beyond mere profit-driven industries. Hanoi has yet to fully develop such an industrial production structure, which is why large-scale contemporary art spaces have not been established there.
Recently, I traveled to Shenyang and Changchun, two major cities in Northeast China, also known as the Dongbei region. This region consists of the Liaoning, Jilin, and Heilongjiang provinces, and it is one of China’s most heavily industrialized zones, particularly in manufacturing and coal mining. This region has been a major industrial hub since the early twentieth century. The Manchukuo government (a puppet state, established by Japan in Northeast China, that lasted from 1932 to 1945) played a key role in industrializing this area. Initially, I thought “puppet state” meant something loosely organized—just some government offices with minimal infrastructure. However, I was shocked to learn that Manchukuo had an entire governmental structure, with multiple massive administrative buildings. Despite being under Japanese military control, this state boasted immense industrial productivity.
Given this history, I found myself asking: If Hanoi’s lack of industrial production explains why contemporary art struggles to gain traction there, why doesn’t a highly industrialized region like Shenyang have a thriving contemporary art scene? While the Chinese government actively promotes the historical significance of these cities, there is no continuous contemporary art scene.
This raises a bigger question: What are the true conditions necessary for contemporary art to flourish in Asia? And if industrial capacity alone isn’t enough, what other factors contribute to the emergence of contemporary art movements?
The Emergence of Asian Art Museums and Labor in the Age of Hyperefficiency
Eugene Hannah Park (EHP): Before I begin, I’d like to briefly introduce myself. I work across various roles—as a curator, producer, and editor—often moving between collaborative research and project making. For me, working collectively and learning together are not just means to an end but essential parts of my practice. These days, I am particularly interested in the history of museums in Asia and the conditions created by the infrastructure.
I was born and raised in the US, until I was six years old, where my mother enrolled me in free museum programs daily because preschool was too expensive. One of my earliest memories is visiting the American Museum of Natural History in New York. In the Asia section, I saw a life-size diorama labeled “Korea,” showing a Joseon-era (1392–1897) aristocrat yangban and his wife. My mother pointed at the woman and said, “That’s your aunt.” I was shocked. In the mid-1980s, my aunt had been randomly scouted from the street casting, and her face was used to model this historical figure. As a child, I couldn’t separate fiction from reality; the image behind the glass and my real aunt became indistinguishable. That confusion lingered for years. Last year, I returned to the museum to confront that memory.
Now, my aunt has aged—she has wrinkles and has become an elderly woman. But in the museum display, her face remains unchanged, frozen in time and labeled only as “Wife.” Later, as I had become a curator myself, I realized I could reflect more deeply on how museums create history and narratives. Through research and travel, I learned how Japan’s imperial expansion shaped the foundation of many Asian museum institutions, including Korea’s Chōsen Art Exhibition, an annual art competition hosted between 1922 and 1944, during the Japanese colonial period.. Today, colonial-era power dynamics still influence how museums in Asia operate. This raises a difficult but necessary question: Can Asian museums ever truly disentangle themselves from Western and colonial legacies?
While staying in Amsterdam for a curatorial program at De Appel, I was struck by how differently people approach work and time. The program not only allowed me to live and work in the Netherlands but also offered me opportunities to travel to non-Western regions such as Ash Shariqah and Cuba. Through these experiences, I gained an in-depth understanding of how cultural institutions operate in different contexts and how rhythms of time vary across geographies. I often gathered with Asian artists at a Thai restaurant in Amsterdam called Phu Thai Thai Take Away. Our conversations turned to the local pace of work in Amsterdam, which felt slow and inefficient compared to the hyperproductive environments many of us came from in Asia. At first, we shared our frustrations, but eventually a quiet sadness set in. We began questioning whether our own drive for efficiency in Asia—often fueled by self-exploitation—was truly sustainable.
This reflection deepened as I thought about generative AI and the long-standing promise of technology to “save time.” A conversation with Sooyoung pushed me to reconsider what it means to waste time and whether we can rethink productivity altogether. I often return to that dinner in Amsterdam, to the Asian bodies on display at the Natural History Museum—including my aunt—and to my own life as a curator, producer, and editor. I take on multiple roles not by choice, but out of necessity, navigating a system that rarely provides secure income. As I submitted an idea that I wanted to share for this conversation, I found myself wondering how we might build more meaningful practices of time. In Korea, spending time together is sometimes even considered a luxury. We often say, “Being together is a luxury.” As a working group, we must ask how we can create more space for being together—even as we are scattered, traveling, or remote.
The Role of Museums as Producers of Mediations and the Redefinition of Education
Jeon Youjin (JY): I’m a media artist and the founder of WOMAN OPEN TECH LAB, a community that has been active for the past eight years. My main focus since founding the community has always been on education. I feel that the term “education” is often misunderstood and even contaminated by preconceived notions. If I were to suggest an alternative, I would choose the word “mediation.” When we ask what museums should be producing today, I believe the answer lies in acts of mediation. In fact, even this conversation was made possible through an act of mediation: Without the initiative taken by the two museums, we might never have met. This gathering is, in itself, a meaningful beginning for the ideas we’re exploring.
Museums, of course, are not exempt from hierarchical systems. From an artist’s point of view, they often feel like vertical institutions—places to ascend, to be selected by, and to gain validation through. I believe a museum’s role in mediation begins by asking what forms of alienation are produced by its structural hierarchy. I don’t think museums should merely function as spaces for displaying completed artworks. Museums should strengthen networks and promote exchange among individuals, independent spaces, and communities. These activities might be called “[acts of] mediation”—or perhaps we need new terms that better reflect their essence.
And when discussing education, we must also talk about the structural inequalities that shape access to knowledge. With the rapid development of AI technologies, we face a critical question: Will these tools help bridge existing divides, or will they deepen them? Lately, this question has been weighing on my mind in a very real and pressing way.
Future Production: The (Non)Utilization of Technology
Shin Jinyoung (SJ): I work as a producer and am involved in a collective called apparat/us. Since my role doesn’t usually require a lot of speaking, I tend to experience some buffering when I first start talking. [laughs] In most cases, I receive production requests or form long-term relationships with artists, helping them with the actual execution of their projects. My role involves facilitating production, initiating creative processes, and sometimes even connecting other producers to artists. Through this experience, I have always felt the need to find new methodologies. That’s why I decided to create a dedicated space for research, which led to the formation of apparat/us.
apparat/us focuses on questions surrounding creative environments and systems. Since 2019, we’ve been developing our practice in close collaboration with those who take charge of production. The name “apparat/us” itself is derived from the word “apparatus,” meaning a device or mechanism. Over the past two years, we’ve centered our inquiry around one key question: How can artists remain active during their “offseasons”? With this in mind, we’ve organized a series of workshops and performances designed to create a space of transition or rehabilitation—not only for artists but also for audiences who engage with the work. This remains an ongoing experiment. I’m particularly interested in how these practice-based projects—when situated between past and future works—might offer meaningful support for the artist’s everyday life, while also extending the life cycle of both the artist’s career and their work.
In this gathering, I expect to speak a lot about what I’ve experienced over the past decade in the process of making work. I might be the person here who has been most closely involved with technology and technical devices. My philosophy is that I engage with technology, but I strive not to rely on it. Even if something feels unproductive, inefficient, or economically unsustainable, I believe in craftsmanship. I value the sense of touch—the physicality of creating with one’s hands. As others have mentioned, there are things that can only be done by spending time together. Even if nothing tangible comes out of it, I believe that simply sharing time can shape our sense of direction.
There is power in handcrafted work and the meticulous care for every stitch and detail. There are still technicians and artists deeply committed to these ways of working. Interestingly, some of them use cutting-edge, high-tech tools, yet their methods remain rooted in traditional, manual processes. For example, in Okada Toshiki’s projects, the technicians take an intensely hands-on, labor-intensive approach. I worked as the local technical director for New Illusion, a video theater piece that projected prerecorded footage onto acrylic surfaces. At first glance, the project appeared to be high-tech art . In fact, it received major funding under that category. But in practice nearly everything was done by hand. We cut the acrylic sheets manually and sanded them ourselves to adjust the transparency. Normally, this process would be automated or done with adhesive films—but we chose to do it all manually.
And honestly? It was fun. We’d joke with each other:
“Wow, you sanded that one beautifully.”
“No way! Mine’s better!”
There was genuine joy in the process. Then, after quite some time working inside the theater, we looked at each other and laughed:
“Wait… Didn’t we get art and tech funding for this?”
“Shouldn’t we at least be using a robot?”
“Isn’t this supposed to be done by a machine?”
SL: Do you have any upcoming workshops or projects that you’re currently planning?
SJ: Over the next three years, apparat/us will develop the idea of “Moving Alone and Being in Togetherness.” And somewhere along the way, we are also incorporating the concept of “to the Deepest and Farthest.” I find great joy in listening to stories and passing them along. For me, this act of transmission is what embodies the original essence of theater.
I believe stories are incredibly important. A story grows into a narrative, which becomes a script and, ultimately, a theatrical piece. That’s why I’m currently exploring the idea of building theaters in natural environments—this is where the concept of “to the Deepest and Farthest” comes in.
I’ve imagined a theater in front of a cliff, a spiral shell–shaped house on the shoreline, and an ultrathin shipping container that suddenly appears as a base camp in the forest—inside which audiences experience an elongated theater space. I’m also looking for ways to avoid using technological devices. Rather than relying on artificial theatrical equipment, I want to construct performance environments using natural elements: the sky as the theater’s ceiling; the wind that stirs the unseen—fragrance, warmth, and the haunting trace of memory; and the sun’s movement to create natural stage lighting through shadows and blackout. I envision outdoor theaters that incorporate the intrinsic mechanics of nature itself. Once these ideas have taken fuller shape, I’d love to share them with you again.
SL: We’ve been discussing technology, but I feel like everyone defines it differently. Each of us likely has a unique scope for how we apply it.
Sharing References on “Generating Production”
SL: Since we’ve gathered all these references and thoughts, how about we take some time to go through them together? Perhaps Eugene could start us off this time?
EHP: Expanding my reflection on the relationship between technology, time, and labor, the first reference I’d like to introduce is the concept of “crip time.” This term has recently generated much discussion. Loosely translated, it refers to “crippled” or “disabled” time. Crip time challenges normative understandings of temporality by proposing that, when viewed through the lens of disability, our experience and structure of time can be radically reimagined. I was drawn to this perspective and wanted to explore what it might have to offer.
An artist whose work embodies this idea is Jerome Ellis. Ellis is a performer, writer, poet, musician, and educator. On his website he describes himself as “a stutterer” and writes, “I have an ongoing practice of spelling my name JJJJJerome Ellis. I do this because the word I stutter on most frequently is my name.” His practice investigates how stuttering produces time: How do interruptions and delays reshape our temporal experience? What does the temporality of stuttering make possible?
I had the chance to witness one of his performances in the US, and it left a lasting impression. He sings with deliberate stutters, composes music slowly, and adapts to the cadence of his surroundings and collaborators. Since we’re also speaking about publishing today, I brought his recent book, The Clearing[1]—a remarkable work that includes musical scores visually transcribing his stutter, complete with timed hesitations and silences. As the book progresses, the text begins to fragment across the page, eventually resembling a disrupted musical composition.
The second reference I brought concerns writing in in-between spaces, with a focus on Asia. Last year, I traveled to Indonesia and met many Indonesian artists, including many based in the Netherlands, where conversations often turned to migrant labor. In places like Hong Kong, large numbers of Filipino and Indonesian workers live in their employers’ homes as domestic workers. On weekends, they gather in public spaces—parks, bridges, and stations—laying down cardboard to claim temporary commons.
Two projects stood out to me. Riar Rizaldi’s radio drama The Right to Do Nothing is based on stories of migrant workers in Hong Kong, blending ghost stories with reflections on labor and time. The result was a sonic installation that offered a nonvisual, collective mode of storytelling. KUNCI Study Forum & Collective in Yogyakarta formed the Afterwork Reading Club with migrant workers in Hong Kong. What began with notes taken on phones during time off became a writing group and published an anthology—turning writing into both expression and archive.
Looking at these two examples, I kept thinking about the reality of migrant workers—people who often work under relentless twenty-four-hour conditions. Even within those small gaps in their time, they find ways to creatively transform their experience. This also made me reflect: What is the role of the artist in these situations? How can we cocreate spaces for these narratives? What methods, tools, and environments can support this kind of collective generation?
SL: I found the discussion on care incredibly thought-provoking. It made me think about migrant laborers who are often employed in care work but at the same time are deprived of care themselves. Now that we’ve also touched on the topic of AI, I wonder: How does the concept of care intersect with technology? How can care be framed as a central theme in these discussions?
JY: Like Eugene’s discussion on care labor, I kept returning to the idea of care work. As a mother raising a child, [I was especially struck by] the concept of “dead time.” As you mentioned, it’s closely tied to issues like migrant labor, geographic displacement, and transnational experiences—but it’s also a critical concern for women who experience career interruptions.
Time inequality is one of the most defining dimensions of inequality today. Poverty isn’t just about lacking financial resources; it’s also about lacking time. That made me reflect on the invisibility of microlabor—small, repetitive, and often unnoticed tasks that are disproportionately assigned to specific groups, whether women or workers in Asia. There’s a deep intersectionality at work here, layering different forms of inequality on top of one another.
We’ve already discussed how critiquing efficiency shouldn’t lead to further self-exploitation. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about AI and literacy in education. In the art field, AI is often seen simply as a tool for quick creative production or personal use, rather than something to engage with critically. When ChatGPT and other large language models first came out in 2023, people were quick to jump on board. There wasn’t much space for deeper conversations. I’d ask, “Should we say AI creates or generates something?” And most of the time, people would just say, “Why does that matter?” This response shows a broader societal tendency to prioritize output over mediation—adopting the latest technologies without considering the language or frameworks to understand them. The critical engagement often becomes secondary.
Even the word “technology” itself reveals this imbalance. It’s often assumed to refer only to high-tech innovation, which is why I constantly find myself clarifying that “technology,” in the name of our lab, doesn’t refer exclusively to high tech, because everything humans do involves technology. Why do we uphold hierarchies between high tech and low tech? Why are certain technologies privileged over others?
Language and definitions matter deeply here. Some even distinguish between “generation” and “becoming”—a difference I find meaningful. The words we choose reflect not only individual perspectives but also shared cultural assumptions. AI can also prompt us to reexamine meanings we once took for granted. Noam Chomsky called AI a “tool of plagiarism.”[2] I thought the key issue wasn’t whether AI is plagiarism. What’s more interesting [is] that AI has raised the question of how exactly we should define plagiarism—leading us to realize that our language and knowledge systems lack a societal consensus on this single term and notion.
Similarly, terms like “general” in AGI [artificial general intelligence] may seem neutral but are actually vague. When you start discussing the category this word implies, you realize the distinction is unclear. Rather, the term carries an embedded assumption that there’s a clear line between what is “general” and what is “nongeneral.” It’s a term that sounds appealing but lacks a clear or commonly accepted definition.
That’s why reflecting on the language we use is crucial—not only for education and literacy but also as part of mediation. For artists and creators especially, this means continually asking which words shape our understanding and how we might challenge or redefine them.
[1] JJJJJerome Ellis, The Clearing (New York: Wendy’s Subway, 2023).
[2] Noam Chomsky called AI—specifically ChatGPT—“basically high-tech plagiarism” during an interview on the YouTube channel EduKitchen, 21 January 2023.
MMCA Studies x Stedelijk Studies Fellowship
Fellow Sooyoung Leam
