Artist Do Ho Suh's London Studio is a series of Mazel-like spaces within a Victorian warehouse complex in northern Islington. In one room the walls are covered with carved monochromatic mesh maquettes similar to his previous homes in Seoul, New York and Berlin. Another is a rainbow-colored textile line workbench and shelves spool. Suh, 63, and his team of around 12, are pulled from them to create a furry “thread drawing” depicting the body and architectural structure that melts into a mass of thin lines embedded in handmade paper. On the other side of the winding staircase in the center is a room in which the artist does his mechanical work. On a wooden table, the robot's arms float above a prototype of his home-inspired sculpture, made from red thermoplastic polyester.
As each part of his studio talks about his practice differently, many of the SUH home sculptures combine rooms of different eras and places in the artist's life. These works that defined his three-year career are usually life-size, made from gossy, colorful fabrics of etheric quality. For example, “House in a house inside a house inside a house” (2013) imitates a Russian doll. A replica of Sue's childhood home in Seoul is wrapped in a true fabric imitation of the three-storey Providence, which he lived when he first moved to the US in 1991. In apartments in New York's Chelsea neighborhood, rented for nearly 20 years since the mid-1990s, this version is upside down from the ceiling. Suh's work is about precise recreation, as well as the distortion, about incorporating details as small as light switches and plug sockets. Ultimately, they capture how the act of transfer affects memory.
Suh is the son of the artist of Suh Se-Ok, an influential soul-based abstract ink painter who passed away in 2020, but he had early ambitions to become a marine biologist. When he began making art, he was also adamant about how temporary homes and communities were created and then left behind. He studied traditional painting techniques at Seoul National University in the 1980s, then completed his undergraduate and graduate degrees from Rhode Island School of Design and Yale University. Suh made the first true overlap of his childhood home in 1999: “Seoul Home/LA Home/New York Home/Baltimore Home/London Home/Seattle Home” folds completely and is built entirely from a silk organza in the same light jade green as the original ceiling of the residence built by his father in the 1970s. As Suh says, “I'm exposing a very personal space.”
For his major research exhibition at Tate Modern in London, which opens this week, Suh has created a new work, “Nest/S” (2024). Visitors can walk through the work that they call “the intertwining of time and space.” The edges of the structure overlap as in the memories of artists in each place. The exhibition also includes the 2018 video “Robin Hood Gardens,” which was filmed in the UK for a brutal housing project of the same name just before it was destroyed in 2017. The translucent screen splits the predictions of that video from other nearby works on the show, allowing some of that light to leak into the exterior walls of Sue's replicas in his childhood home. The blur between the two works reflects the artist's overall practice. It is deeply personal yet porous, creating room for strangers and interpretation.
In March, sitting at a large table in the studio, Suh completed a survey of T's artists.
How about your day? How much do you sleep and what is your work schedule?
I'm not like an artist who comes to the studio at 8am and works all day long. For about eight years, until two years ago, I had to wake up (early) to take my two daughters to school. But I was not a morning person. Now I wake up when I want to wake up.
What was the first piece of art you have ever made?
The oldest piece that still exists was one I made when I was four years old. I scribbled it down on one of my mother's cabinets (random markings). It's fading, but I know where it is. My first “real” art was probably “works,” a set of painted folding screens I made in 1987 at Graduate School (Seoul National University).
What's the worst studio you've ever had?
It was in Dumbo (Brooklyn) around 2000. It was a sithole, I have to say. There was a dog running around on the street outside. People were always robbed. The building was huge and there were mice everywhere. I was there for three or four years, but didn't know any neighbors until just before I moved. They were making porn movies! I came out of the studio and there was a woman who passed me completely naked. Something strange happens in New York.
What was your first job you ever sold? How much is it?
(at Seoul National University) Etching called “Heaven and Earth.” It was sold for about $30.
When starting a new work, where do you start?
With ideas that are already thought up and waiting to find the moment that comes out, I always feel like the carousel or Ferris wheel is spinning in my mind.
How do you know when you're done?
My job is completed as soon as I imagine an idea. The rest is just making it happen – (at that time) I'm facing obstacles. But what is important in my practice is how much of the purity of the idea lies in the final piece. The last thing I want is to create a compromised piece. That's my rule and it makes my team angry.
How many assistants do you have?
In a traditional sense, there are probably two or three assistants. They help the physical thing. But I rarely call them assistants. They are team members. The rest of my team is around nine people, and they are all young professionals with their own expertise (like mechanical production and studio management). I cannot make art without them. The way I try to run a studio is to be open and democratic.
Have you supported other artists?
When I was a graduate student, I probably did it for two days. I studied in Columbia for a year before going to Yale and helped Professor (American artist) John Kessler organize his studio in New York. I supported financially by carpentering, graphic design, album covers, and sometimes translations and interpretations (for example, between a Korean shopkeeper and a film crew working with them).
What kind of music do you play when you're making art?
When I start drawing, I have to concentrate, so I'm not listening anything. If you feel that work is going well, bring in music. I listen to my daughter's rock and pop school concerts many times. In the middle age, I listen to Buddhist chan chans like when I was cleaning up the studio.
When was the first time you felt comfortable saying you were a professional artist?
It was the most difficult thing in the late 1990s right after Yale. I moved to New York and lived in this small apartment and couldn't find a studio. There was a financial crisis in Korea and money was cut for all the projects I was doing there. My future was not clear at all. I was lying in bed a day after I returned from this carpentry, and suddenly I thought, “I'm going to be an artist.” It was probably when I decided to give up, but I became clear at the moment.
What would you do if you were to postpone it?
My father was a painter and he was also a professor at Seoul National University. He was always late for class. He spent hours every day in the garden picking up one pine needle at a time. I now realize I'm doing something very similar. I have a lot of downtime and people think I'm not doing anything creative. I do all the laundry at home and I love folding it. But that's not really a procrastination. While I was doing that I was able to come up with ideas. I don't think the artist will take a break. I wish I could go on my days off and switch it off. There is this thin thread that the artist is always trying to hold onto.
What was the last thing that made you cry?
A small or a big cry? I have lots of little screams, but my last big scream came completely unexpectedly in November. My father passed away four years ago and the family donated his paintings to the local council (Korea). We are about to build a small museum. It is 3,000 pieces of his own work and his collection (including works by 18th-century Korean landscape painter Gyeomajae Jeong Seon and 19th-century calligrapher Chusa Kim Jeong-Hui). It was a long process, and in November, the South Korean government finally approved the funds. That was the biggest hurdle. When I heard the news, I couldn't stop crying. He also crys and says goodbye to his mother every time he leaves Korea. When I see the expression on her face.
What do you rent?
The monthly varies. Rent a temporary space project for each project.
What do you buy most often?
Probably toilet paper. And maybe an espresso capsule.
Do you want to exercise?
Yes, mainly because of my mobility. A little bit of stretching and weight training.
Are you currently banging at any show?
“Dance Mama.” It's torture. But the rest of my family love it so I'll watch it together.
What are you reading?
I just made the beetle book, “Lukanidae of the World” (2023) Dooseok Yi. He is an architect rather than a professional biologist, but is obsessed with distinguished subspecies. The photos are very beautiful. I also read The Einstein's Dream (1992), by Alan Reitman, a book on theoretical physics that attempts to explain the origins of the universe and time. It's a simplified version like dummy physics. I want to be reborn as a physicist. I think they are closer to unlocking the secrets of the universe. I have discovered so many similarities between quantum physics and Buddhism.
What is your favorite artwork by someone else?
I don't have one, but Felix Gonzalez-Torres is one of my favourite artists. His candies and stacks of posters that visitors can take for free were a very generous gesture. (In works like Untitled (Portrait of Ross), 1991), Gonzalez Torres allowed viewers to remove fragments of the installation.
Which job do you regret for yourself, or do you do it differently now?
I never feel 100% satisfied with my job, but I don't use the word “remorse.” I think there's a reason why all the work is there. The idea can be great, but I understand it doesn't answer all my questions. But that leads to other projects. It is a different mechanism than regret. It's a motivation to continue working.
