Interview: Siha Park

Untitled, Acrylic on fabric, 36”x30”, 2025

1) Could you introduce yourself? Where are you from, and where did you receive your art education? Who were some of your favorite mentors or peers that left you a lasting impact on your art philosophy?

I’m Siha Park, an abstract painter. I received my BFA from Hongik University in Korea and completed my MFA at Pratt Institute this year. I was lucky to be surrounded by incredible mentors and peers—too many to name just one. Since this was my first time studying in the U.S., I had a lot to adjust to. I’m truly grateful for the friends who supported and understood me through that. Experiencing that kind of support in a competitive and fast-paced city like New York made it even more meaningful. In my final semester, I worked on my thesis with Laurel Sparks. She helped me refine my visual language and encouraged me to trust that the visual elements in my paintings could function as a kind of language.I also worked with Joe Fyfe from my first semester to my last. His insight helped me understand a wide range of artworks and shape the way I think about painting. Developing my visual language required constant questioning—both of myself and the work. I had to find ways to articulate something that didn’t always fit into a fixed structure. Since each element functions in relation to the others, it’s not about formulas, but about context. Joe supported me through that process, especially as I was writing my thesis. I’m also grateful for the feedback and support I received from Nat Meade and Michael Brennan. I believe I have grown a lot thanks to their support.   And I feel very lucky to have shared this journey with peers who were deeply committed to their practice. Art is a solitary path, but we don’t grow alone. I believe we need talented people around us. I’ve always tried to be someone who grows alongside others. 

We Art Belong Here Together, 30"x22", acrylic on canvas 2025

2) What is your art philosophy, if you could phrase it in several sentences? What makes a work of art successful? What differentiates a strong and meaningful work of art from a weak and easily forgettable one?

I paint my attitude toward the world. My work often begins with personal experiences, and the thoughts and perspectives that arise from them remain on the canvas. This experience could be likened to the sandstorm described by the boy named Crow in Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore. Once I came out of the storm, the world was no longer the same. It looked different, and I could see things I hadn’t seen before. I try to capture the invisible, inevitable frictions that exist in my relationships with people and the world—violence, tension, dissonance. But I don’t see these as negative. I recognize them as part of life, as inevitable events. That is why I use humor and absurdity: they allow me to keep a certain distance.  There’s something ironic about the canvas. It’s a limited space, yet it offers infinite freedom. I’m always thinking about how much of that freedom to actually use. From the moment I choose the background color and texture, I start imagining what comes next. The first step is always the most important. Everything that follows is a response to it. I think and wait until the next element feels right. The works I feel are most successful are made of irreplaceable relationships. The elements clash, misalign, and create tension. Then, sometimes, a strange or unexpected form shifts the entire mood—and that moment often carries humor. But if those relationships don’t hold, the painting falls apart. It just becomes noisy. That’s why I don’t rush or compromise. I stay with the work until it responds. I believe a strong painting keeps evolving. It doesn’t settle for visual tricks. It grows with the artist. Forgettable work, on the other hand, often comes from compromise. I once had a conversation with my husband, Sangho Han, who is also a painter. We were talking about what makes a good or bad painting. He said it’s more important to see the overall evolution of the work, not just the success or failure of individual pieces. I completely agree. That way of thinking is at the core of how I approach my practice.

On Earth, 69"x60", acrylic on canvas, 2025

3) If you are an abstract painter, how do you conceive of the meanings and the ideas behind your work? How much of ideas and meanings can an abstract work hold within its composition? What is the difference between a formal abstraction and idea-based abstraction, if such things could be discerned or observed?  

In my paintings, meaning is formed through the relationships between color, shape, texture, and scale. For example, We Belong Here Together consists of three distinct elements: buttery thick brushstrokes, cartoon-like yellow marks, and smeared areas where paint was first poured and then wiped away. These elements don’t naturally belong together, yet I wanted to create a composition where their coexistence felt inevitable—like they were meant to be together. I began with a dark purple smear on the right, then waited until the next elements came to me. The remaining two emerged intuitively—strange, but necessary. Each part doesn’t carry a fixed meaning on its own, but the emotional tone is shaped by the way these very different parts relate to each other. That emotional resonance was the goal. Another layer to my abstraction is how it draws from memories and lived experiences. For instance, splashes of paint can evoke blood, food stains, muddy water on a rainy day, physical impact, or even emotional outbursts—things anyone might recall from their own life. These forms hold emotional qualities like violence, awkwardness, playfulness, absurdity, energy, or anger. Just like real-life experiences feel different depending on their context, these marks take on different emotional tones depending on surrounding colors, forms, and composition. I’m not sure how to fully explain this “tone,” but it is not just about emotion of feeling. I want to create an atmosphere shaped by the complex interplay of situations, time, and relationships. Thick brushstrokes, thin layers, graffiti-like marks, the physicality of paint, the speed of gestures, and color interactions—all of these elements create contrasts:   For example, matte black forms often appear in my paintings, and though they look similar, they take on different roles depending on their placement. They can reflect a sense of internal anxiety, or a kind of will—an attempt to find balance and counter that anxiety—as well as fragility or even humor - all depending on context.  So if viewers are able to perceive both formal and idea-based abstraction in my work, it’s probably because I tap into shared human memories, and also because we have an intuitive ability to read abstraction. 

Untitled, 54"x40", acrylic and mixed media on canvas, 2024 

4) Do you conceive of many of your abstract paintings as psychological spaces or as landscapes? How do the two directions coincide in your work? What differentiates your abstract landscapes from typical landscapes, and what differentiates your abstract psychological spaces from typical psychological spaces in painting? 

My abstraction is a kind of inner landscape, but it often begins with real spaces. Sometimes familiar environments—streets I walk daily, everyday views—suddenly feel strange. In those moments, I experience a kind of visual dissonance. There’s a passage in Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore where the boy named Crow speaks about a sandstorm. He says that after you go through the sandstorm, nothing will be the same—everything will look different. The space I paint feels like the landscape after that storm. An ordinary scene may feel unsettling or even violent beneath the surface. I think this began when I started noticing the invisible tension and underlying violence within life and relationships. To reflect both the visible and the hidden, I began painting the interplay of anxiety and balance. Even though my paintings don’t depict literal landscapes, they often give that impression. The psychological space I create feels like a landscape of the mind. The vertical and horizontal structures in my compositions—though unintentional—contribute to that impression. What sets my psychological space apart from others, I believe, is how I confront and resolve anxiety within the work. Each artist does that differently. For instance, in Rothko’s work, color fields seem to dissolve into the space. When I look at his paintings for a long time, I find myself absorbing the anxiety without resistance. It makes me feel that this unease isn’t personal—it’s something inherent in nature. In contrast, my work creates a space that is both good and bad, peaceful yet tense, humorous yet heavy. These opposing forces coexist. That’s what keeps the space from leaning too far in any one direction, serving as a neutral ground. 

5) Is Freudian psychoanalysis an important part of your work? Do you categorize your work as part of Neo-Abstract Expressionism, perhaps? Do you also know of the Cobra movement that may have had an impact on your style or processes? 

I’ve never consciously drawn from Freudian ideas.There are certainly overlaps between my work and Neo-Abstract Expressionism or the Cobra movement, and I’m sure there are shared sensibilities. But I approach painting differently. I focus more on paint as a material—its texture, shape, and the composition—rather than expressing the kind of raw emotion associated with Abstract Expressionism. Even when the surface of my work feels chaotic or unstable, I’m always aiming for a sense of balance. I try to create a controlled, neutral space within the composition.

6) Are concepts such as Ethnic Abstraction or Feminist Abstraction important to you? Does the Dansaekhwa movement have an impact on you as an artist originating from South Korea?

Although identity has become a major focus in the contemporary art world, I've never thought about my work in terms of my identity as an Asian artist.  What concerns me more are the universal experiences of life—what it means to live in this world. That said, as someone who grew up in Korea, my emotional sensibility and aesthetic must be rooted in that background. In a way, I feel like a traveler or observer living in New York. So instead of deliberately showing identity through my work, I think it naturally comes through—shaped by lived experience. As for Dansaekhwa, it had already existed as a major art movement in Korea long before it gained international recognition. The emphasis on emptiness, repetition, and self-discipline can be traced back to traditional aesthetics that value spirituality and the concept of space. However, I personally find more connection in the Korean concept of haehak (해학). It’s often translated as humor or satire, but it’s not quite the same as Western ideas. Haehak is a way of embracing the absurdities and hardships of life as part of nature. It lightens them. It’s a posture toward life—a way of laughing at the heaviness rather than being crushed by it. That spirit influences my work more deeply than any formal tradition.

Distorted Pink, 48”x 50”, acrylic on canvas, 2025

7) Who are some of your favorite South Korean artists? How about your favorite American artists? How are the two groups similar, and how are they different, in terms of the philosophy, visual style, and ideation process? 

Some of my favorite Korean artists are Yun Hyong-keun, Choi Wook-kyung, Park Seo-bo, and more recently Kim Whanki. Ironically, things I couldn’t recognize while living in Korea became clear after moving to New York. For example, seeing works by Park Seo-bo, Lee Ufan, and Kim Whanki in Chelsea left a strong impression on me. Dansaekhwa reflects Korean aesthetics such as emptiness, restraint, and an attitude of accepting nature as it is—sensibilities that felt so natural in Korea that I only became aware of them from a distance. A similar quality can be found in the moon jar, whose subtle distortions embrace imperfection and create a deeper beauty, leaving space for openness and acceptance. Since coming to New York, I’ve also discovered artists of many nationalities, including Willem de Kooning, Rebecca Morris, Amy Sillman, Imi Knoebel, Albert Oehlen, Robert Mangold, Sigmar Polke, and Fiona Rae. A few months ago, Richard Tuttle’s exhibition in Tribeca was particularly striking. His use of humble, everyday materials created rhythms and tensions that reminded me of painting. It felt less about imposing expression and more about discovering possibilities within the nature of the materials. Both groups of artists, in different ways, address unease and inner conflict. Above Korean painters absorbed the scars of colonization and Korean war, expressing them through acceptance or meditative acts of emptiness, which give their work a profound resonance. However, I’m cautious about separating artists into “Korean” and “Western” categories to describe differences. While I understand Korean aesthetics and historical contexts—shaped in part by the experiences of my grandparents and parents, as well as my own—it’s not easy to define the work of artists I’ve encountered in New York in simple terms. What I notice is that each artist approaches their work in their own way, shaped by personal and cultural experiences. In my understanding, there are differences in how energy is gathered and released, reflecting each artist’s own process.

8) What kind of spiritual outlook do you explore that you might apply to your abstract paintings? How does your spirituality inform your artistic philosophy and vice versa? 

My work is about finding balance within conflict and unease. Recently, I’ve also been disrupting stable compositions to create tension and discomfort. I spend a lot of time shifting between these two approaches—giving unstable elements a sense of order or humor, and, conversely, bringing tension into calm spaces. One distances me from certain emotions, while the other helps me recognize what lies beneath them. The dissonance that results conveys a sense of duality. The in-between space created by these opposing qualities reflects my own effort to maintain equilibrium. It is the kind of space I seek to build on the canvas, but also vice versa, it becomes a process of self-discipline and act of expansion and contraction. 

9) What overall color temperatures or relationships do you prefer in your work - warm, cool, muted, dark, saturated, bright, high contrast, low contrast, harmonious, discordant, etc? How does it reflect your personality as either a realist or an idealist?

My paintings combine vibrant and earthy colors. I’m open to all colors, but I seldom combine highly saturated colors together. They feel unnatural, since we hardly see them together in everyday life. Colors in my work always shift depending on how they interact with forms, brushstrokes, or material qualities. Sometimes I use primaries to break a heavy atmosphere or to add unease. Color, for me, is a material—an intuitive way of conveying emotion. I often pair bright, playful colors with unsettling forms or chaotic compositions to create dissonance. Black organic forms also appear often, carrying meanings of anxiety, will to balance, or humor. Through these interactions, I explore dualities of life and emotion. I think my attitude leans toward being realist, but at heart I am also an idealist.

Your Words, 20”X26”, acrylic on canvas, 2025

10) Is every kind of art political? Or are certain types of art more political than others? What do you think about the idea of art for art's sake? Do you think perhaps that art that explicitly conveys a political message or opinion is easily hijacked by the political ideology as a form of illustration for those ideas? What should differentiate fine art painting from political propaganda and illustrations? Where do you position yourself as an artist and your artwork within the ecosystem of art? 

I think life itself is political, rooted not in right or wrong but in difference. We fight, hate, and yet live together. I see the violence and conflicts that emerge from these differences as part of nature. I’m not interested in using art for political or social purposes. Propaganda serves persuasion, often relying on illustration and clear messaging, while my work seeks something slower and less direct. Through color, form, and composition—not in a strictly formalist sense —I try to capture underlying emotions of life. I want paintings that require time, multiple viewings, and moments of personal recognition. For that reason, my work would not serve propaganda well. As for my position in the art ecosystem, I’m not sure. What I know is that I work with abstraction that depends on color, form, composition, and materiality—elements that may seem conceptual or not kind. But to me they are simply ways to express the abstraction already inherent in all of us.

11) What are your plans and dreams for the future? Where do you see yourself in the next 5 years?

In five, I simply hope to keep painting well. I want to continue growing as an artist, and I’m curious to see what I’ll be looking at and thinking about by then.