Chak

The artist who surprises his own limits

Mar 22. 2025

*Translator & English Editor. Jiseon Park

I met again, the extraordinary and peculiar 'Chak'. As a tattooist and performer, Chak has always been someone who leaves a striking impression. With his sharp, unstoppable demeanor, he has a remarkable talent to energize those around him during performances. People fell into his boundless energy.

Now, Chak channels his energy differently; He establishes rules to discipline himself, and uses precise lines in his art. His journey of endless self-relfection and transforming them into works of art starts now.

Table of Contents

The Story of Chak

Artwork

Artist’s Space

Looking at Tomorrow

Chak, 2023 © studio visit Chae-Ryeong Jeong

The Story of “Chak”

Please introduce yourself.

I am Chak and my studio is in Euljiro. I am a tattoo artist, and I started performing as I came to Euljiro around 2018 - 2019. This year, I've been focusing heavily on drawing. In fact, I've done drawing for the longest time.

It sounds like painting has been central to your journey. Did you major in painting?

No, I didn’t. I got into an art high school, but left in the middle of the first semester,and I decided to proceed to college. At 18, I entered Dongseo University; yet dropping out again during my second year. I was in the multimedia and video department, majoring in video, but I kept gravitating toward drawing. It felt like I had made a hasty decision by going to college, so I chose to drop out and continue drawing on my own. It wasn't about being part of a specific scene—I was just curious about how far I could go on my own.

Your story is certainly unique. So you went to an art high school, but instead of graduating, you applied for college early. What was that experience like?

I couldn’t wait to get away from college admission preparation. The high school environment was wonderful—my friends were great. But I was sure that I wanted to paint, and spending two more years solely on admission preparation felt like a waste of time. So I talked to my mom and my art teacher about it.

Considering how much Korean society values academic background, wasn’t there opposition to your decision? Your parents would have had certain expectations when you got into art high school and hoped you graduated from there.

I knew academic background was important, but I doubted how crucial it really was. Since I was young, my mom had always supported me to whenever I desired to pursue something. And she didn’t have a rigid mindset that I had to follow a traditional path. So, fortunately, she didn’t oppose my decision to leave school.

I can see that your mother prioritized her son's life over societal expectations.

She wanted to live her life doing what she loved, and in that sense, we connected well. It might sound funny, but I couldn't help thinking, 'Is college really that important?'

How was your experience in college? You were younger than your classmates and clearly passionate about drawing regardless of your major.

It was challenging at times, especially when it came to social situations like going to bars or participating in parties which often involved drinking. But I enjoyed college life and went along with my classmates well. However, my lack of passion for my major ultimately stopped me finishing the course.

I chose the video department because of my art teacher's advice. He/She insisted that video majors have good prospect in the professional world. But even after enrolling, I sticked to drawing and by my second year, I realized that video wasn’t the right medium for me. I felt I needed more time to figure things out. You know, highschool gives you three years to consider your field of studying. I entered college without enough time to reflect on what I truly wanted. Only to save time, I dropped out of high school early and let my art teacher to decide my future; but in the end, I realized I needed a break to rethink my path.

Then my mother asked, "how about tattoo art?" Leaving college, something that had been part of my daily life since elementary school was gone. I thought I could fill that hole by doing something I truly wanted. I felt stuck but could bear the feeling because I held onto drawing.

Since I was constant with drawing, I wondered, should I prepare for Korea National University of Arts?. I wasn’t enthusiastic with preparation, so after two years of setbacks, my mother suggested that I try eyebrow tattooing. She thought I had a good eye for it.

Your mother really paved an important path for you. Who would have thought that eyebrow tattooing was the beginning of your journey as a tattooist!

Artwork

Speaking of tattoos, let's dive into your art journey. You mentioned that your mother encouraged you to learn eyebrow tattooing, which eventually led you to become a tattooist. I'd love to hear more about how that process unfolded.

Looking back, It seems that I hardly started something by my own choice. Most of the time, I found myself placed in decisive moments, unintentionally and unexpectedly. In those situations, I've constantly thought about what to do next and how to navigate myself.

Tattoos are like that too. Actually, I didn't like tattoos at all in the beginning. I couldn't understand why people would even get them. But when my mother got an eyebrow tattoo, she encouraged me, saying, "I think you'll do well at this." At the time, I was unemployed, without anything special to keep me occupied. I couldn’t say no when I had nothing better to do, so I decided, "Why not give it a try?"

That’s how I met a eyebro tattoo technician, who introduced me to Irezumi - the traditional Japanese tattoo style often associated with Yakuza art. Through her, I met a mentor who was skilled in Irezumi and began learning the technique seriously.

Irezumi stands out for its emphasis on flatness, a characteristic that traces back to ukiyo-e, a classical Japanese art form. In ukiyo-e, planarity is not just a stylistic choice but an inevitable feature of the genre. Before encountering this style, I used to focus on drawing three-dimensional images because flat compositions seemed to be simpler to handle. But I soon realized they demanded a completely different perspective to accentuate the visual impact of flatness. As I delved into the flat aesthetic of ukiyo-e and Irezumi, my entire approach shifted. To embrace the natural beauty of two-dimention, I had to let go of the three-dimensionality I had been so accustomed to.

I remember starting Irezumi art. It was new to draw designs on human skin, not paper. At one point, I was so intrigued by tattoos that drawing on paper began to feel dull. There was something undeniably stimulating about the tactile sensation of engraving on skin, or as I like to call it, "the taste of engraving." No matter what design I created, that sensation remained endlessly fascinating.

My journey into performance art began unexpectedly. In mid-2019, I was invited to participate in an performance exhibition in Xiamen, China, planned by my friend Johan and his acquaintances. My role was to exhibit the tattoo designs I created, but things took an unexpected turn. The day before the exhibition, I finished arranging my art I went to the performance venue to help performing team prepare. The team members were my friends, including Cheol-soon and KxxHz, the artists I met at Youkillbong. Cheol-soon started playing music at the large, bustling square, but no one in the crowd joined in. I watched anxiously, thinking, "This is going to flop." Hoping to draw attention, I grabbed my skateboard and tried to liven things up. Jumping on the skateboard, I encouraged people to clap, but it didn’t work.

Desperate, I thought, "What if I start dancing?". Though I was wearing a mask, latex gloves, and an apron for the planned tattoo performance, I just started dancing alone. Slowly, people gathered, drawn in by the energy. To my surprise, the performance turned into a huge success, forming a lively crowd.

By the time I returned to Korea, Cheol-soon suggested, "Why don’t we keep this going back home? I’ll play music and you can dance." That marked the beginning of a new chapter. After returning, I danced at ‘Gamgook’ and performed frequently with Ahndo and Cheol-soon, whom later formed ‘Ahn Cheol-soon’. That connection led me to perform at "Yook Il-bong" and work alongside other artists, sparking countless opportunities.That's how I started performing—without really intending to.

I had a moment to reflect on the lines I drew and question why I drew them the way I did. Previously, I would start with a clear object I wanted to paint, and from there, I would discover what interested me. But when I didn't have a specific subject in mind, I found myself unable to draw. Then came a major turning point, through my brushwork in Australia.

Brush work in Australia © Chak

At that time, I hadn't been able to paint for a while. Out of frustration, I thought, "Let's just draw something." I happened to have a brush and some black paint, so I made a single stroke. That simple act led me to think about drawing the other way around: why did I drew the stroke like that? From that moment, I began observing myself more precisely. Even though I would make the same brushstroke—moving from left to right a hundred times—no two strokes were ever identical. Each one was unique and distinct. This unexpected and unintentional outcome made me step back and observe my own creations. The shapes that emerged were ones I could never have predicted, and that element of surprise made the process stimulating and fresh. It was a discovery born from observation rather than control. This realization marked a turning point. It was no longer about achieving the exact result I had envisioned but about uncovering something unexpected and meaningful through the act itself.

As you began observing yourself from the outside, you could discover what's happening inside you or your reactions to the world, right?

That's exactly it.

I had been in a slump for two to three years, skeptical with creating visual images. I quitted drawing because of that, but the desire to express myself never went away. So I just made a single stroke; which shifted my perspective on painting.

It sounds that moment became a turning point - pushing you to approach art from a performer's perspective.

Yeah, a whole new approach.

As I mentioned earlier, at the beginning of my creative journey, I felt lost, unsure of what to do next. But I started making unexpected discoveries, encountering new ideas, and taking a closer look at them. That process brought about new creations, and the cycle continues until today.

It's not a sudden, dramatic change for an artist, but rather a progress where elements that have piled up over time react to unexpected events; Everything falls into place, blooms and adds up. And at some point, change takes place miraculously.

My journey is filled with one progress after another.

I've been working on <From Whom> for about three years, which also started by chance. I was experimenting with different tattoo styles, searching for a design that I could satisfy with. I reached a point where there was no particular image I wanted to draw.

But I couldn't quit tattooing because my living depended on it. One day, I was sitting in a café with my girlfriend, staring at a blank sheet of paper with just a pen on the table, aimly spacing out. And that’s when it all started.

I had been trying countless ways to establish my art style, but after numerous attempts, I was so exhausted. I had lost interest in everything and felt stuck. Desperate to do something, I drew a simple, straight line on the paper. Just a straight line.

This wasn't random act. The most immersive practice I had ever done while learning to tattoo was mastering straight lines—as it’s one of the hardest techniques in tattooing. The memory of that challenge came back to me, and I decided to return to the basics.

"I don’t know," I thought. "But this is all I can do right now, so let’s see where it takes me."

I kept drawing straight lines for months. I didn’t have any creative inspiration, just this repetitive act. And then something began to shift. I found the direction for my work <From Whom>. The driving force behind it was doubt—a lingering question about whether even that first line had been influenced by a desire to create a "pretty picture."

Avoiding the very intention of planning beauty, I wondered whether a more generative, spontaneous image could emerge. That led me to doubt even the first line I had already drawn.

That’s when I handed the pen to my girlfriend and said, “You draw the first line. I'll take it from there.” That moment marked the beginning.

Before this, I had never committed to a style for more than three months. I would always get bored and move on. I assumed I'd quit drawing straight lines soon enough—it seemed monotonous and directionless. But nearly three years later, I’m still at it, which is quite mindblowing.

I had no expectations for development, change, or diversity in this work. Yet this has become the longest creative pursuit I've ever maintained. It feels like I’ve been hit in the back of my head, stunned by the discoveries I've made.

It was emotionally complex—there’s frustration in how nothing ever goes the way I want, but there’s also something irresistible to see and learn here. And that keeps me going.

It seems that you've come across your limits but tried to push past them. There must have been some concerns while doing so. Could you share more about that?

Do I have to call it “jjo”(refers to a person's unique habit; especially in the field of acting, singing, and dancing)? Of course, you eventually pick up habits on your way. But that's what I'm cautious about. Right now, I just want to go with the flow.

At this point, I feel ready to step away from dance for a while—I’m catching “jjo”, and I need a stop. If I continue, I fear my movements will get unnatural.

Once, I sensed something artificial while watching a dance performance, and it disrupted the whole experience. A director friend explained this phenomenon to me—it's about recognizing when someone is trying to embody a specific 'state' rather than expressing naturally. For example, an actor with a quiet personality may feel obligated to speak more due to his role; and him in a talkative mode feels unnatural.

My friend said he is wary about falling into that trap, which I deeply resonated with. When I detected that forced state in a performance, I couldn’t ignore it and appreciate the work.

That's why I want to step away from performing for now—to stop before I fall into that 'state.' Everyone will interpret my performances differently, but I believe I've managed to avoid that trap in my work so far. That's a relief. But I’m not confident about the future, so it's time to pause.

Though performing has played an important role in your art, you felt continuing it out of habit is dishonest and unnatural.

Yes, that's right. I think we can talk about《From Whom》in that context as well. Earlier, I mentioned having doubts about the first line I drew. It seemed that the line carried an unconscious intention to create a particular state. That realization led me to let others draw lines for me.《From Whom》was created in a drawing system where I followed the lines drawn by others, while《Track》involves following a blueprint with neat structure. Both methods are to prevent me from being conscious of the aesthetics of sculpture during the process.

I'd love to hear more about the process behind《Track》— particularly how you explored the ideas of square forms and balance.

I've always found myself drawn to expressing something within a square. To me, the square feels like the most accommodating shape, capable of encompassing countless forms. I've already regarded the square as inherently balanced.《Track》begins with creating a blueprint on graph paper, structured around a vertical rectangular shape. It’s like stimulating both action and conflict; or, to say, causing friction in a well balanced square.

Through《From Whom》, I explored the idea of harmony — finding my own balance as I responded to the discord of other’s lines. I realized that conflict, in fact, is an essential component of harmony. In《Track》, I break the inherent balance of the square and seek to reestablish harmony in a new form. It turns out that everything I find compelling seems to carry both action and conflict, whether internal or external.

The process of《Track》involves placing a transparent film over a straight design and building movements along its line. Even with a predetermined path, the incomplete brushstrokes result unintended traces. Using water-based dyes on the film also allows for variability. As the film doesn’t immediately absorb the paint, different expressions are made each time I rebrush the same spot.

In essence,《Track》 is about finding a pattern that resonates with me among the brushstrokes following a pre-designed path. Whether it begins with conflict or balance, the outcome reflects a process of harmony, where these opposing forces coexist and evolve together.

I can understand why your work gravitates toward abstraction—your perspective on the square as the most stable form and your process of self-discovery beyond form naturally lead the work in that direction. However, abstraction isn't the only way to explore harmony; focusing solely on harmony can also reveal it within defined shapes and forms. What are your thoughts on this?

As you can see, my abstract work often involves attempting to draw a straight line that isn't entirely perfect, composing a harmonious shape. What mattered most to me wasn't the result of harmony but the way I achieved it. In my life, I've always navigated through unintended opportunities, choosing the best options available to find balance within. Just like both sides have to compromise in relationships, harmony calls for a passive attitude. Individual perceptions, too, are experienced passively rather than actively controlled. In my current work of 《From Whom》and《Track》, the lines are always drawn within established rules and formats. I feel like I am in search for a form that harmonizes with my movements and attitudes.

In the case of cups, for example, they come with predetermined functions and symbolic meanings. At their core, they are objects created for practical use. Writers often reinterpret the cup, substituting its functional purpose with new meanings or symbols. Then they twist its identity to convey a message or expand existing perceptions. I've seen works that challenge conventional awareness this way. However, I felt this approach was simply layering one symbol on top of another, reminding me of a chick hatching from an egg only to lay another egg. The attempt to break existing symbols ended up with replacing it with another one, and I couldn’t truely look into myself. As my approach with symbols failed to fullfill my intentions, I felt there was something missing

Personally, symbolic meanings don’t resonate with me. That's likely why I've been drawn to profound abstractions. I also find them difficult when viewing other people's work, but I keep experimenting with them because they hold a unique appeal. Objects with established symbols and meanings already possess a strong balance of form and function, more compelling than purely formal compositions. Of course, it's fascinating to see how artists generate unique ideas or reinterpret objects with new perspectives. There's fun in that.

However, in my opinion, they feel hollow and end without leaving any lasting impression. That lingering feeling—something I can continue to explore and reflect upon—is what I strive for in my work.

If there's something you consciously avoid, what would it be, and what remains essential to you?

It's about living in an active state. Determining whether something is active or passive may seem irrelevant, but I can’t deceive myself, nor do I always know exactly what I want. I choose to trust what happens naturally rather than forcing myself to create something simply because I feel I should.

Take Samgongi (the dog of the interviewer) as an example—animals might not tell the truth, but they can’t hide their behavior. Their true nature always comes through. There are plenty of people who are articulate and persuasive, but with time, their essence reveals.

By "the essence," are you referring to the underlying nature of people—the qualities that can't be fabricated or disguised? They defy verbal expression and can only be perceived on a sensory level. Yet, when these elements converge, they create something truly authentic.

That’s why I keep a repetitive style with my work, almost obsessively. It’s my way of exposing my genuine essence.

I see what you mean. As you mentioned earlier about the "state," even when someone intends to present something specific, repeated actions inevitably reveal their essence—something closer to their underlying energy. When that true nature is exposed, it can shift the surrounding environment and trigger unexpected moments that catch them off guard.

Exactly. That’s why the body matters.

Mental aspects are important, of course, but I believe the body is the most honest expression. It’s raw and unfiltered. I think small, unconscious acts—like biting my nails—can reveal genuine intentions without me even realizing it.

When it came to drawing, I often stopped midway because I was fixated on creating a specific image. But after questioning my process, I realized that through repetition, something true could emerge naturally, without any conscious intention. The same applies to dance. I didn’t approach it in a structured way—I just listened to the rhythm and improvised the moves.

Your artistic journey has evolved from tattoos to performances and now painting. While your form of expressions have changed, the underlying naturalness and pursuit of purity seem consistent. It feels like you're continually striving toward an ideal, guided by strong will and effort.while deliberately avoiding the pitfalls of “state”. Lately, it seems you're moving beyond repetitive lines, self-imposed rules, and the balance and harmony you've sought, toward a new exploration of conflict and its reconcilation into harmony.

This shift has been deeply enlightening and full of new possibilities. That's why I had to establish a system—a structure that helps me avoid slipping into a predefined "state." This system also allows me to preserve the lingering feelings that come after appreciating artwork. In my current work, each process of creating lines is distinct, yet still within this system. I'm grateful for it because it enables me to observe situations that remain unfettered and free.

It's impressive that you've developed a system to avoid slipping into a predefined "state." Maintaining that level of self-awareness is not easy for sure. Did City Heat Island (2022) prompt you to pause performing and step away from entering that "state"? I sensed a complex mix of freedom and accomplishment from the work. Did the experience of crossing that threshold mark a turning point—to end performing and seek a new form of expression?

Yes, that was truly the moment. I even thought, "I could die now without any regrets." It felt that complete.

Cooling Man, Urban Heat Island, 2022 © R3028

In the future, when your system is more firmly established and you reached a certain ideal, do you think you'll eventually work on breaking it down again?

Actually, what I’m thinking now is that at some point, I’d like to leave everything behind, and do nothing at all. You know, contemplating on my work and myself like monks do in a temple. If possible, I want to revisit the parts I still find uncertain, in that mind of stillness. I want to explore them further—those things I haven’t yet covered through my work.

It seems like you're building something solid, nurturing a process that’s full of meaning. I can imagine a future when a time for reflection or even a complete break blossoms into reconnection and recovery. Like how the ground freezes in winter but inevitably sprouts life again in spring. I can picture that.

Duchamp plays chess at the end of his Ready-Mades works; I found that so relatable. It can sound a bit cringy, but I thought, "If life becomes art, shouldn’t we choose to live as art?". And I realized I want my life not to get stuck in a predefined “state”. Not a life validated by outcomes, but one where simply living might spark something meaningful in someone else.

I hope when that future comes, the people around you are as genuine and supportive as those beside you now. Then it would be a healthy and meaningful step in your journey. To be sentimental is to view everything in the world from a place of appreciation. You don't have to project too much of yourself, nor do you need to hold back entirely—just be yourself. I believe there will always be someone nearby, observing you from a step away. Someone who sees you in moments of pain, in joy, and simply as you are, without judgment.

Listening to you, It feels like the unexpected shifts in your work take on different forms—absorbed, expressed, and shared with the environment and the elements I encounter, almost like being magnified through a lens.

How should I put this? I'm just doing ‘my best’.

When I'm faced with a situation, I have to find something enjoyable in it. Something to indulge, even if I have to dig them up. That’s how I live the situation. As I started to understand this algorithm of mine, I could discover elements that would eventually captivate me anywhere, even if they weren’t interesting at first.

I sure was lost at the beginning. The questions of “What do I actually like?”, “What excites me?”, “What do I truly want?” continued while I was doing tattoos. But over time, I’ve come to accept that being lost and confused as a part of myself. I used to approach my work with a certain concept. But these days, I don’t overthink it because in the end, I know I’ll follow my own path again. Regardless of the situation or setting, I’ll always do what I’m meant to do. That’s just how my process works. That said, I do find a sense of satisfaction in making a decision, creating a long-term plan, and following through step by step—but honestly, that kind of structured approach can feel overwhelming to me. At my core, I’ve struggled with skepticism and moments of self-destruction. But through it all, I’ve also found a deep sense of fulfillment in embracing different perspectives and allowing myself to approach things in new ways.

I’d like to put you in this way : You’re like a scholar—examining and exploring in a academic manner. And the subject of your exploration is yourself, even if that wasn’t your intention. I don’t think it ends with simply encountering things along the way. Rather, it becomes a process of examining just how precious these moments are and discovering the value they hold. After each encounter, you find myself transformed—becoming someone different than you were before. And you learn to embrace the unexpected opportunities over time.

That’s exactly it. I’ve always felt like life was catching me off guard. I never expected to feel certain things, yet I kept seeing and experiencing so much. Each time, it arrived as something entirely new to me.

Artist’s Space

I'd like to talk about your space. You were born and raised in Busan, right? How did you end up in Seoul?

After learning tattooing in Busan for about a year, I met Ahn Eun-mi.

She led a project called Pina&Ahn in Busan, which gave amatures two minutes on stage to do whatever they wanted. That’s how I first met her—I participated in the project, and from there, I ended up joining all the workshops. It was around the end of the my public service, so I was also able to take part in the actual performance.

After the performance, she told me, "There's an audition in Seoul. You should come up." And that’s how it all started. Busan is a great place to live, but at the time, I felt this emptiness. I wanted to break free from my routine, to get out of my comfort zone. So I went to Seoul for the audition. But Ahn Eun-mi ended up cutting me from the audition. Looking back, I can’t blame her—everyone else was a professional dancer except for me. I already had a feeling I wouldn’t make it, and sure enough, I didn’t.

Afterward, she told me, "If you go back to Busan, it'll just be the same pattern all over again. Come to Seoul and study."

I replied, "Okay," and that was it.

I changed my plan to return to Busan the very next day ended up staying in Seoul. At that time, all I had with me was a pair of underwear, a T-shirt, and a toothbrush stuffed in my shoe pocket. Yet, I stayed in Seoul for nearly a month or two without ever going back.

So you moved out of your parents' house, all on your own.

Yeah, I flew from the nest. At first, I was living in a small place—pretty much just a single room. Then, a friend of mine in Australia reached out, telling me to come over for a working holiday. I went, and ended up staying in Australia for about two years. In Australia, coming back felt terrifying. The thought of starting all over from scratch in Korea was overwhelming. At one point, I even considered staying in Australia permanently. I got a business license and started tattooing there, but when it became clear that I couldn’t extend my visa, I had to make a decision. Looking back now, I was going through a deep depression. It was bad—really bad.

Eventually I returned to Korea. I had to continue tattooing and in the meantime, I also worked as a nude model. At first, I crashed at my youngest sibling’s place in Changsin-dong( a town near Eulji-ro) for a while because I wanted to stay in seoul but had nowhere else to go. When he moved into a new place, I took over his old one and settled there. From there, I got back into tattooing, lived in Yukilbong(an art gallery in Euljiro, featured on episode 12) for a while, and eventually made my way to Euljiro

Did you end up in Euljiro because of Yukilbong?

That’s right. I came here because of a friend name Ga-in from Yukilbong. She wanted to get a tattoo, so she called me over.

The studio was still under construction when I got there. Even so, I was immediately drawn to the space—it was amazing. I kept looking around, saying, This place is incredible. Then Ga-in told me, "I have three rooms here and there, you can stay as long as you want"

At first, I was going back and forth between my home and Yukilbong, but over time, I began to think, If I’m going to keep working and creating here, maybe I should just stay. So I cleared my old flat and moved in.

Back then, Ga-in and Han Yo-han were running the place, and I blended in like a employee, helping out. I can say that I was first member of Yukilbong. Yukilbong was meant to be a full-time art studio, but in order to support it financially, we had to shift to more of a commercial shop.

At first, I ran tattoo workshops there. But as time went on, we built a crew, and I realized that it is not going work for me to stay there. I needed a separate space for my own studio. So after a lot of discussions, I decided to move out.

It was an incredible time—one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. Looking back, I think that was a real turning point for me.

Are you going to stay in Euljiro for a while? What are you concerns on that?

For now, I want to stay. The people around me at Euljiro, their presence and the relationships I have with them, means a lot. There’s always been this fear that when I become physically distant to an area, the relationships tied to it will also start to fade.

But at the same time, I don’t feel a deep attachment to the space itself. That’s just how I’ve always been. Moving back and forth is more of an inconvenience than anything else; besides that, I’m not attachment to a particular place.

There are times when just having that person there gives you a lot of strength.

That’s right, that’s right. But I also think it can sometimes lead to isolation. That’s something I’ve come to realize after spending three years in the Eulji-ro scene. In a way, I’ve become more aware that I could end up being excluded, so I try to be mindful of that.

That’s all part of the process—the result of being shaped by the friends you’ve made here and the environment itself.

Of course. I’ve had so many great experiences and learned a lot from them. It’s not just about the hardships—there have been plenty of good memories too.

It seems that the people around you help keep you from falling, even when you’re feeling lost and uncertain—whether it’s a partner, close friends, or your local community. But at the same time, there’s also an effort on your part to get yourself together. You set clear standards for your work, defining its beginning and end, or impose limits, like choosing to draw only with lines.

There are many situations with no endpoint, and one could easily fall into an endless cycle of anxiety and conflict. I think that, whether they realize it or not, the people around me pull me back. In the past, my work has even taken precedence over my own life. Whenever I felt something deeply, my instinct was to process it through my work. But now, my life comes first. I no longer question myself; I’ve reached a place where I fully trust my process. I guess I became more genuine. What spills out naturally from my life is my work.

I think I have a very swinging character. There are moments when I’m a inch away from diving into intense feelings. But I fail being immersed in them because I can’t tell if it’s purely emotional or rational.

Looking back, I’ve never been able to completely lose myself in just one thing. Maybe it is because of my capricious tendency. I used to envy geeks—how do they become so completely consumed by their interests? I wanted to experience that level of obsession, but I just couldn’t. I liked things, but never to the point of total immersion.

But recently, I realized something: Oh, I seek my way out when I get trapped in a certain scene. That’s my artwork. Right now, I’m doing my work.

It hasn’t been long, but I’ve found a sense of balance in my own way. It feels like I’m in harmony with myself. There is conflict inside myself, butI’ve accepted that I’ll always be in this state of back-and-forth. Things are constantly shifting, changing, unfolding. I meet people without planning to, situations arise by themselves, and those moments create new experiences. It can be more painful, yet I find a deep satisfaction in simply being—in letting these moments shape my work and my life.

Looking at Tomorrow

Finally, I’d like to wrap up the interview with the upcoming exhibition. It will be your first solo exhibition, displaying all the years of work you’ve gone through. Could you share more about it?

This year, I decided to try drawing again. I just wanted to see and appreciate my own paintings. I thought, Maybe someday, they’ll be on display. I never anticipated it would come together so quickly.

The solo exhibition naturally made its way, almost as if it was meant to happen. Congratulations on your first solo exhibition.《From Whom》and《Track》will be featured on the exhibition and more works will be presented on the following exhibition in Busan. I admire the journey you've been on, the time you've spent reflecting and observing, and wish you the best for your future.

the artist who tries his best to catch himself off guard

Chak is an artist who tries his best to catch himself off guard. His journey reminded me of the lifetime of monks, practicing and introspecting. If past life is real, he would have dedicated countless lives to this pursuit of growth and self-cultivation.

Life often takes us down unexpected paths, but it’s the people we meet along the way who fill those journeys with meaning. Nothing lasts forever, and the present becomes even more precious.

Perhaps the countless lines by Chak carry stories of connection and life itself. I’d like to finish this interview with a reminder to cherish the choices we make and the people who walk beside us, in each moment of life.