Moon Seop Seo

Your work explores themes of nature and its calming effect on our mental state, whilst creating a connection between natural environments with the urban space. Was there a particular moment or experience in your life when you realized these ideas would become central to your art?

We are part of nature, even as we build cities and create our own systems. Yet, we often perceive urban life and nature as separate, seeking the latter for restoration, inspiration, and healing. What fascinates me are the intangible, almost magical moments in nature—drifting clouds, rippling water, crackling fire. These elements are not alive, yet they hold an undeniable presence that draws us in. My work explores these fleeting moments, bringing them into urban spaces to create shared experiences that invite reflection and wonder.

This fascination for  is likely shaped by my upbringing in Seoul, where towering buildings and light pollution obscured the sky, making encounters with nature rare and intentional. Visiting a lake or the ocean required planning—a deliberate effort to experience something that, for some, is always within reach. Perhaps this sense of absence is why my work often attempts to bring natural moments closer, transforming them into installations that act as windows to nature within the city.

In the end, I believe nature is not just something we visit, but something we carry within us. My work seeks to remind people of that connection, offering moments of stillness and curiosity in an otherwise fast-paced and overstimulated world.

Soothing natural elements, like water and clouds, play a central role in your work, such as in “Passage to the Lake,” and “Shape of Water,” and “Drifting Clouds” which you co-created with Katharina Sook Wilting. I’ve read about how nature’s rhythm helps us to self-regulate. What is the value of nature, and nature’s rhythm in particular, to your work?

Nature has a quiet way of reminding us that our daily struggles, no matter how consuming they feel, are small in the grand scheme of things. It moves at its own rhythm—constantly shifting, breaking down, and restoring itself. This rhythm exists on every scale, from the vast and overwhelming to the microscopic and imperceptible. As humans, we are just one of many elements within this ever-evolving system, neither at its center nor in control of it.

Rather than trying to replicate nature, my work focuses on creating a space where its essence can be experienced. I don’t aim to engineer the precise mechanics of water’s movement or the drifting of clouds, but instead, I design structures that allow these natural qualities to unfold in new contexts. It’s not about controlling nature but giving it a stage—letting it exist within a framework where it can be observed differently.

People often find themselves mesmerized by fire, water, or shifting clouds—not because these things are alive, but because they exhibit a rhythm that feels organic and ever-changing.
They follow patterns yet remain unpredictable, creating a sense of quiet presence. This is what fascinates me. Through my work, I hope to capture that fleeting sense of aliveness, offering moments where viewers can pause, observe, and reconnect
with the quiet but undeniable rhythm of nature.

Your installations create a sense of serenity in spaces far removed from nature. What inspires you to bring these natural moments into urban settings? Is it a way to create a bridge between nature and people? Or perhaps a way to bring a moment of tranquility into someone’s life?

I started this project with the realization that our daily lives often exist in direct contrast to nature—detached from it, confined within structured environments, and rarely allowing for true immersion. Rather than simply recreating nature in an urban setting, I wanted to extract a fragment of it and place it in an unfamiliar context, where its presence feels heightened and more profound. Sometimes, a small piece of nature, when isolated from its original surroundings, holds even more weight, creating a moment of stillness and presence that stands out against the rhythm of the city.

I don’t see my installations as a means of escaping urban overstimulation but rather as quiet interruptions—subtle pauses in the flow of daily life. To spark new thoughts or imagination, there needs to be space for interpretation. Just as poetry provides a framework for the reader to project their own thoughts and emotions, I want my work to act as visual poetry—a neutral space where viewers can bring their own stories to life. It’s not about dictating an experience but about creating an open moment, where meaning is shaped by those who engage with it.

One of the most rewarding aspects of my work is witnessing how people respond to it. Even adults—who have long grown accustomed to routine and familiarity—often react with a childlike sense of wonder, as if rediscovering something they had forgotten. In that fleeting instant, I see a spark in their eyes. While bringing nature into the city is important, what drives me more is the creation of these spark moments. Life is not just a collection of days but of small, vivid experiences that punctuate the everyday. If my work can create even a single exclamation mark in someone’s routine—a brief but meaningful moment of wonder—then I feel I’ve achieved what I set out to do.

In addition to the philosophical depth of your work, it also incorporates a strong technical aspect, blending architectural structures with a fusion of organic elements and more geometric, streamlined designs. For example as in your work “Bit-Scape”, where these contrasting elements come together seamlessly. Could you share the inspiration behind this unique blend of opposites in your work?

As I almost pursued engineering, my approach to making is naturally technical and architectural. When I design, I tend to think structurally, considering how elements come together in a logical and precise way. However, there was a time when I struggled with the idea of creating something beyond human capability—things like the movement of water, wave patterns, or the refraction of light. These natural phenomena follow physical laws that no designer or artist can truly surpass. During my studies, I realized that rather than trying to challenge or replicate these forces, I wanted to embrace them and integrate their essence into my work.

This mindset shaped my approach to Bit-Scape. While the structure itself is architecturally designed, I wanted its surfaces to evoke the raw, fractured textures of stone and the earth. Instead of artificially recreating that effect, I physically broke plaster blocks by hand, ensuring that no two pieces shared the same pattern. The result is a blend of precise construction and organic unpredictability—where controlled design meets natural imperfection.

As a designer and artist, I don’t see my role as surpassing nature or inventing something greater. Instead, I aim to extract fragments of natural phenomena and reposition them in a new context. Understanding what I excel at, what I struggle with, and where my limitations lie has led me to this balance—where technical precision and organic chaos coexist within my work.

As a Korean artist living in the Netherlands, how do the cultural dualities you experience shaped your personal path and your work? Do specific philosophies or aesthetics from both cultures influence your art, and how do you navigate the duality between them?

Living between Korean and Dutch cultures has shaped both my perspective and my work in fundamental ways. One of the biggest contrasts I’ve noticed is how each culture defines the individual’s place within society. In the Netherlands, the individual is at the center—self-expression and personal vision take priority, and there is less concern about how others perceive you. In Korea, social awareness plays a much bigger role. There is a strong emphasis on considering others, which fosters a sense of community but also creates pressure to conform to social expectations. Both approaches have their strengths and challenges, and I find myself navigating between them, constantly learning from both. As a designer, I’ve come to value the Dutch emphasis on deep, independent exploration of ideas, while still carrying the Korean mindset of diligence and discipline.

When it comes to design philosophies, I see both clashes and complements. One of the biggest differences is in approach—Dutch design often embraces spontaneity and experimentation, prioritizing concept over perfection. In Korea, there is a strong work ethic and a drive for excellence that pushes ideas toward meticulous execution. I’ve noticed that my Korean background sometimes gives me an edge, as the ability to work persistently toward refinement is a valuable skill. At the same time, being immersed in Dutch culture has helped me loosen my self-doubt and take a more open, exploratory approach to my work. I appreciate how ideas here don’t have to be perfect before they are tested; the process itself is a form of learning.

As for traditional Korean aesthetics or philosophies, I don’t intentionally incorporate them into my work. Of course, being Korean, certain elements inevitably surface in my approach, but I don’t want my cultural background to be a concept in itself. My goal is to explore universal themes—ideas that anyone, regardless of background, can connect with. That said, I do see an interesting contrast between European and East Asian artistic traditions. European art often has a clear subject, something direct and explicit, while East Asian art tends to be more context-driven, focusing on atmosphere, subtlety, and the space around an object as much as the object itself. I think this duality naturally influences my practice, where I work with both presence and absence, structure and atmosphere, precision and openness.

Ultimately, living between these two cultures allows me to see things from multiple perspectives. I don’t feel the need to choose one over the other, but rather, I embrace the fluidity between them—taking what serves me from both worlds and continuously shaping my own path.

The tranquility and stillness found in nature and reflected in your work stem from your personal principles and fascinations. In what ways do these values manifest in your daily life?

The tranquility and stillness found in nature are central themes in my work, but in my personal life, I don’t actively seek stillness through practices like meditation or slow living. Instead, I am deeply interested in building routines and habits. In an unpredictable profession like mine, having structure in my daily life provides a sense of stability—something to hold onto amidst the uncertainties. I don’t want to chase after balance in a way that disrupts my life, but rather create a foundation where calmness is always within reach. This is the same idea behind my work. Passage to the Lake, for example, was born from the desire to make the experience of looking at a lake as effortless as turning one’s head. I want these moments of stillness to be accessible, not something that requires a grand effort to attain.

Choosing a creative career meant accepting a certain level of instability, and I never expected this path to be calm. The reality is that most jobs, even those that appear stable, come with their own uncertainties—whether it’s financial, time-related, or emotional. Rather than trying to control the external chaos, I’ve come to realize that finding inner peace is far more important. Worrying about the future doesn’t change anything; in fact, it often prevents me from doing my best in the present. It’s easy to spiral into anxiety over things that haven’t even happened yet, but I remind myself that the only thing I can control is today. As cliché as it sounds, I focus on taking one step forward, doing my best each day without dwelling on complaints or fears. If I keep moving forward like this, I trust that I’ll eventually find myself somewhere unexpected and exciting. In the end, I believe it’s all a mental game—one where I’m constantly training myself to stay focused, grounded, and in motion.

Considering your deep connection to nature and its calming influence on the mind, how do you view your responsibility as an artist in addressing these themes through your work? Especially in today’s society that’s highly digital, fast-paced and overstimulating. 

The themes and elements I work with are universal—something that anyone, regardless of background, can connect to. While each person will interpret my work differently, I find that openness to interpretation to be one of the most compelling aspects. My installations function as visual poetry, creating structures for experience while allowing the viewer to fill in the stories themselves. Just as a poet provides a framework for the reader to project their own thoughts and emotions, I design the structure of an experience, but where it takes each person is entirely up to them.

I don’t see my role as resisting or counteracting the digital, fast-paced, and overstimulating nature of modern life. These forces shape the world we live in, and trying to reverse them would be neither practical nor sustainable. Instead, I choose to accept them while searching for alternative, more thoughtful ways to engage with them. Rather than opposing the speed of the world, I focus on offering moments of pause—creating spaces where people can turn away, even briefly, and reconnect with a sense of stillness.

If my work has a role, I hope it is simply to be there when people need it. When someone feels overwhelmed and instinctively looks for a place of calm, I want my work to be that space—an open invitation to slow down, reflect, and embark on an inward journey, if only for a moment.

Finally, when people engage with your art, what emotions or insights are you hoping to inspire or evoke in them?

As I grow older, I feel that time is accelerating. I want to slow it down, even just a little. When I was a child, each day felt long and full—sometimes even boring. But now, I blink, and a day, a month, or even a year has passed. Back then, everything was new, every experience was a discovery, and each moment left a lasting impression. Time felt richer, slower.

As an adult, most things are familiar. There are fewer moments of surprise, fewer shocks of the new. Imagination takes a backseat to reality, and life becomes a series of predictable days. When I look back, time feels compressed into a single, indistinct mass.

Through my work, I hope to create small moments of wonder—pauses in the rush of daily life that invite curiosity and reflection. I want these moments to act as milestones, something that stands out when people look back. Just like the sense of curiosity I felt as a child, I hope my work can spark questions, evoke emotions, and create lasting memories. I believe that life becomes richer when it is filled with these moments of curiosity and discovery, each one a small but meaningful marker along the way.