15 july 2025, Martine Bontjes
The studio of… Songnyeo Lyoo
For Songnyeo Lyoo, her studio is both a sanctuary and a battlefield: a safe space for quiet introspection, but also a place where thoughts and emotions collide. During her training in Buddhist painting, she learned that maintaining a meditative calm is essential to her painting process. Even the smallest actions, from mixing pigments to adjusting the light, are part of a carefully cultivated work ritual. Also the figures in her work appear to be on a journey toward a world in which they gradually seem to find calm and peace.
In her work, Lyoo places everyday objects from her studio – such as a Keith Haring mug, houseplants, and tea boxes – into imaginative spaces she calls “youtopia.” Lyoo suggests that utopia is not a distant dream, but something that can exist within the everyday. She invites us to rediscover the ‘poetic potential’ of our own surroundings.
Where is your studio, and how would you describe this place?
My studio is located in Düsseldorf, Germany, in a city-run building for artist collectives. Artists from various disciplines work here, each with their own approach. For me, though, the space becomes entirely my own the moment I close the door. Some days, it feels like a quiet retreat, like a mountain cabin, ideal for introspection. Other days, it becomes a battleground, where thoughts and emotions collide. It is here that I meet myself each day, carving out a path forward, one brushstroke at a time.
Songnyeo Lyoo , Safe Nest #03, 2023, Namuso Gallery
Let’s say I spent a day as your intern. What would a typical day in your studio be like? What kind of meetings or activities would I witness? Do you listen to music?
I begin each day in the studio by organizing my brushes and filling my water container with fresh water for painting. With a cup of coffee, I review the previous day’s progress and get my materials ready before diving into work.
During the day, I try to maintain focus and momentum. When working with color, I allow for drying time and adjust my rhythm accordingly. For line drawing, I often sit in quiet concentration for long stretches. Around 4 p.m., I take a short break with coffee and a small snack. Since the work can be mentally intense, these pauses help me reset and refocus.
I always listen to music while I work. I’m not particular about genre, but when I need deep concentration, I often choose loud, intense music at high volume. Eventually, when the sound of the brush becomes louder than the music, I know I’ve entered full immersion.
If you were assisting in the studio, you’d observe how even small rituals—like mixing pigments or adjusting light—are part of the process. You might help prepare materials, document work, or simply witness the rhythm of quiet attention that guides my day.
There is a kind of meditative calm in your work. Does that derive from your training in Buddhist painting?
Yes, the meditative stillness in my work is closely tied to the mindset I developed while studying Buddhist painting. Traditional Buddhist art is not just about representation, it’s a form of disciplined meditation. Each brushstroke becomes a way of centering the mind and entering a reflective state. That approach has naturally woven itself into my practice, and I believe it’s reflected in the quiet presence of the figures and spaces in my work.
But I don’t see this calmness as static. Meditation also involves becoming aware of movement and flow. So even within stillness, there is tension, subtle motion, and shifting energy. In recent works, this meditative quality extends beyond religious symbolism into broader reflections on inner time, space, and imagined utopias. The figures in my work are not fixed in place—they are each engaged in a quiet search for their own world, finding peace along the way.
You work with hanji (Korean paper). What attracts you to this technique? How does this paper differ from other types of paper?
Hanji is a traditional Korean paper with over a thousand years of history. It is made from the inner bark fibers of the mulberry tree and is known for its remarkable durability - so much so that it can endure for centuries without disintegrating. Although it appears thin and almost translucent, it has excellent moisture control and allows pigments to slowly seep into its fibers, creating subtle depth and a distinctive texture. Historically, hanji has been used in many aspects of Korean life, from painting and calligraphy to documents, Buddhist scriptures, crafts, and even architecture. In that sense, it carries with it the aesthetics and philosophy of Korean culture.
In my work, hanji is not simply a material, but a vessel of time and physical presence. Through repeated acts of drawing, coloring, and layering ink or gold pigment, the paper seems to breathe—granting the surface depth and texture that unfolds slowly. If painting is a space where time and sensation accumulate, hanji is the ideal support to express that process. At the final stage, I sometimes layer traditional Korean silk or fabric onto the work. This expands the tactile and visual dimensions and allows the language of Eastern painting to extend beyond the frame.
In your work, we often see hybrid figures and idyllic landscapes. Where do these creatures come from? And are these places based on real locations?
The beings in my work often begin with real-life figures or objects, but gradually transform into hybrids shaped by imagination, memory, and desire. They are drawn from childhood memories, traditional Korean landscapes, unfamiliar plants or buildings I’ve encountered in Germany or during travels, or fragments from dreams. These elements are reassembled into new imagined worlds. The landscapes are also not based on specific locations. They are spaces where Eastern and Western understandings of nature, past and present, and reality and fantasy intersect. These are not fixed places, but open environments that invite interpretation, spaces where each viewer might find their own sense of utopia.
Songnyeo Lyoo , Invitation an everyday life #01, 2025, Namuso Gallery
On one of your works “Invitation an everyday life”, I see all kinds of modern objects like a disco ball, a Sponge Bob box and a Keith Haring mug. Are these objects yours? Why did you choose these items?
“Invitation an everyday life” began during the pandemic, when daily life was confined to interior spaces. The series explores how personal environments can be imagined as utopias—intimate snapshots of an ideal world. The disco ball, SpongeBob case, and Keith Haring mug are all real objects from my home and studio, things I encounter regularly. By embedding these familiar objects into symbolic or fantastical spaces, I wanted to suggest that utopia is not a distant dream, but something that can exist within the everyday. This series blurs the boundary between reality and imagination, inviting viewers to discover the poetic potential of their own surroundings.
There are two threads that run through my work: the journey toward utopia and the moments that capture a glimpse of it. In some pieces, you’ll see figures who seem to be searching for something vast and undefined. In others, you’ll find quiet scenes where people discover peace within their own rooms, surrounded by familiar objects and small daily rituals. “Invitation an everyday life” belongs to the latter, it reflects the idea that everyday spaces can themselves become a kind of utopia.
Hairy arms and legs recur in several of your works, what do they symbolise?
The recurring figure in my work is both “me” and “everyone.”. It’s not a portrait of any specific person, but rather a figure designed to invite viewers to project themselves, or someone they know, into the scene, encouraging personal interpretations. To allow for this openness, I intentionally leave out defining details like gender, clothing, facial expressions, or accessories. In the process, the figure becomes a simplified, almost naked form. I began focusing on hair for its anthropological and symbolic meaning. Body hair suggests vitality and instinct; head hair symbolizes wisdom. It’s something shared by people of all ages and genders. Figures with hair take on a neutral, fluid identity, shifting between personal and universal, human and non-human. They suggest a form that is free to move between categories and connect with different modes of being.
Your work brings together ancient Eastern philosophies and a contemporary European visual language. What connections do you see between these two worlds?
I studied Buddhist painting in Korea, where I trained in the structure and philosophy of traditional art. Rooted in scripture and ritual, Buddhist painting was a deeply disciplined practice—focused more on transmission than on personal authorship. Later, when I began studying painting in Germany, I encountered a different kind of question for the first time: What do I, as an individual, want to express? It marked the beginning of a deeper inquiry into how I could communicate as an artist and what kind of stories I could convey through my own visual language. One day, while walking along the Main River in Frankfurt, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a quiet sense of happiness in that moment. From then on, I began to reflect on what true freedom and utopia might mean. We often imagine utopia as a far-off goal or destination to be reached, but I gradually came to understand it as an inner state—something shaped from within rather than found outside ourselves.
The idea of ‘Youtopia’ emerged from that moment, a vision of utopia not as an endpoint, but as an inner state discovered through small, meaningful moments. This approach reflects Buddhist philosophy, yet also resonates with fundamental questions found in Western thought. While Eastern and Western modes of thinking may differ, they both seek a kind of inner freedom and peace. My work aims to bring these philosophical threads together. The spatial logic of traditional Korean painting and Buddhist concepts such as emptiness and dependent origination intersect with Western ontology and the multi-perspectival, deconstructive nature of contemporary art.
If you had not become an artist, what other path would you have followed?
If I hadn’t become an artist, I might have become an archaeologist. Archaeology involves interpreting what remains after time has passed, decoding traces of life and understanding how they connect to the present. In that sense, it shares something essential with art: both require close observation, reflection, and a deep interest in human nature and time.
Are there any future projects you are looking forward to?
I’m continuing “Invitation an everyday life” in new formats and sizes, while also developing a new body of large-scale paintings. These works explore how figures and objects interact within hybrid, shifting structures, beyond fixed ideas of space and time. I'm especially drawn to geometric compositions that introduce fragmentation, layering, and interruption. These are not just formal gestures, they’re ways of inviting viewers into a layered perceptual space, where surface and time unfold in multiple dimensions.
Songnyeo Lyoo, Safe Nest #02, 2023, Namuso Gallery
