Kwangho Lee during his exhibition at NUOVO, Hong Kong

We’re more than halfway through a massive year for you - spanning from major milestones in Hong Kong, Milan, Tokyo, and Korea. Looking back at these intense few months, what has been dominating your thoughts lately during your quiet moments in the studio?

Looking back, it’s honestly surprising how fast time has flown.

To be completely frank, I rarely spend days alone in the studio - I’m almost always there with my team. Sharing that time with them is a genuine source of happiness and a way for me to recharge.

Returning to my center, to where it all begins - that might be my favorite moment of all. Being back in my native space, letting new ideas take shape, and imagining how to bring them into reality - that process has remained unchanged throughout my practice.

The questions on my mind have always been the same: How do I exist? Why do I make art? And what kind of form will I take moving forward?

Fragment of the Served Serpent’s Neck - Part 4 (2026)

With the installation pieces ‘Initial End’ and ‘Fragment of the Served Serpent’s Neck Part 4’, you’ve scaled up your modules significantly. What drew you to this monumental, structural scale for your current show?

Ultimately, as I repeatedly attempt to project my own existence onto the materials, expanding the scale was one of the most definitive ways to express myself within a space. Even when I am not physically present there, I believe the materials and their forms must speak and convey a message on my behalf.

The exhibition strongly evokes the ‘Paradox of the Ouroboros’. How do you translate a fluid, infinite loop into a fixed, physical structure? What initially inspired you to explore this concept?

The same applies to the 'Paradox of the Ouroboros.' If we consider my repetitive physical practice as a form of devotion or meditation, there really is no fixed beginning or end. However, if a disconnection or severance occurs within that continuous process, I believe it can become a new beginning once again—much like a moment of initial origin.

When working with these structural loops, how much of the final form is meticulously planned beforehand, and how much of it emerges organically through the physical manipulation of the material?

So, rather than simply exploring physical forms, I place far greater meaning on the act itself. My practice becomes an act of cultivation, that cultivation continuously reshapes my existence, and that reshaped existence becomes yet another beginning. For me, it is a story about repeated beginnings rather than an ending.

If the beginning and the end are ultimately one, does this body of work feel like a return to your material roots, or is it a launchpad for an entirely new direction?

When working with structural knotting, it is virtually impossible to plan everything meticulously beforehand—and that is precisely where the allure lies. It is like a living organism encountering a new space, organically giving rise to an entirely new shape. The material expresses who I am fully within that environment, and the contingency and flexibility that emerge through this process are the core elements of my work.

I wanted to convey that the beginning and the end are not necessarily 'one,' but rather indistinguishable from each other. As I mentioned earlier, the most important message here is that of a continuously recurring beginning.

With your work becoming increasingly architectural, do you still view yourself primarily as a maker working with your hands, or more as a director of space?

To be honest, I don't like to define myself with specific labels. I always believe that my existence should remain fluid—much like a serpent.

Artist, Creative Director, father—how do you manage the mental and creative shift between these roles?

I try to approach my work with the mindset that I can become anything, and anything can become a part of me. Sometimes I feel like an orchestral conductor, and other times, perhaps a film director. Haha.

EP11. Kwangho Lee

EP10. Jean-Patrick