Tina Kim has long presented Korean and diasporic artists as integral to contemporary art, without framing them as a category in need of justification. Her early work was shaped by a sense of historical responsibility, situating Dansaekhwa within the political and material conditions of postwar Korea. Exhibitions, research, and publications extended that effort, tracing context and international exchange. Across generations, she builds visibility through research, trust, and long-term commitment, allowing distinct voices to remain fully their own.
PLUS MAGAZINE From the beginning, Tina Kim Gallery presented Korean and diasporic artists simply as part of contemporary art, without treating them as a separate category requiring justification. As Korean art receives increased global attention, what continues to guide how you approach and frame these practices today?
TINA KIM Much of my early work was shaped by a sense of historical responsibility, particularly in introducing Dansaekhwa to a wider audience and emphasizing that these artists were responding to Korea’s specific postwar conditions. The groundbreaking scholarship of Joan Kee was instrumental in reframing the discourse around the movement by highlighting method, process, and the sociopolitical realities in which these artists were working. Through our Dansaekhwa presentation during the Venice Biennale in 2015, and in my subsequent work organizing exhibitions and scholarship on these artists, it was important to demonstrate how the trauma of war and the pressures of rapid modernization shaped their practices, and how materials such as hanji paper or hemp cloth came to carry cultural and philosophical weight inseparable from that context.
I continue to be guided by a commitment to grounding artists’ practices within cultural, historical, and geographic contexts, and this also extends to my contemporary program. It is critical to remain attentive to multiplicity rather than a singular position — across generations, geographies, and relationships to Korea itself. Some artists, such as Minouk Lim or Park Chan-kyong, engage directly with Korean history and politics. Others approach cultural memory more indirectly. Suki Seokyeong Kang draws from traditional Korean forms and materials, but her work ultimately asks broader questions about how individuals inhabit space and relate to one another. Maia Ruth Lee’s practice grapples with ideas of rootlessness and mobility shaped by her own experiences of migration, while Mire Lee’s work confronts the physical and psychological consequences of modernization through the body.
While the gallery is often associated with Korean or Asian art, I have never understood the program as defined by a single identity or throughline. It is important to me to create space for distinct artistic voices to exist side by side without being collapsed into one narrative.
P Your emphasis on multiplicity suggests a practice built through sustained dialogue. Over time, what allows a conversation with an artist to deepen into something truly meaningful for you?
TK Meaningful conversations with artists deepen over time through trust, shared curiosity, and a genuine desire to understand their work and experiences. Many artists I represent from Korea are from my own generation. With earlier generations, particularly the Dansaekhwa artists, those conversations became an opportunity for me to better understand my home country and its recent history. I did not formally study Korean art history, so my initial encounter with Dansaekhwa required me to approach it from a broader, cross-cultural perspective. I saw connections between what these artists were doing and other postwar movements: from Arte Povera in Italy to the Zero group in Germany and Gutai and Mono-ha in Japan. Looking at these movements together helped me understand Dansaekhwa as part of a larger global dialogue, while still recognizing its distinct philosophical and historical foundations. This perspective also proved important at a moment when many institutions were reassessing their postwar collections and seeking to address gaps in those narratives.
The Making of Modern Korean Art, the book of artists’ letters we published last year, became a natural extension of that work. The publication brought together exchanges between Park Seo-Bo, Kim Tschang-Yeul, Kim Whanki, and Lee Ufan from the 1960s through the 80s, when they were living and working across different parts of the world. Many people assume that Korean artists were isolated in the postwar period, when in fact some were living and exhibiting in cities such as Paris, New York, São Paulo, and Tokyo as early as the 1960s, actively seeking critical and institutional recognition despite limited support from their home country. My respect and admiration deepened as I gained a fuller understanding of what they achieved despite those challenges.
Often, the most meaningful aspects of these relationships unfold over time. Lee Ufan was initially reluctant to participate in the letters book, and it took time, patience, and many conversations to gain his blessing. I traveled with Doryun Chung, who co-edited the book, to meet with him in Japan and France and to make the case for why these letters mattered. I am deeply grateful that he ultimately agreed and later traveled to New York for the events surrounding the publication. At a panel discussion, he reflected on the friendships among these artists and the collective efforts that allowed their work to be seen internationally despite difficult circumstances. Later that evening at dinner, he gave an impromptu speech describing art as precarious as a flickering candle and reminding us of the responsibility to protect it in challenging times. With so many colleagues in the room, it was a moment that quietly recommitted all of us to the work we do.
P That long view of dialogue and history also takes shape within a specific place. New York carries its own rhythms and pressures. What about working in this city continues to feel essential to the way you shape the gallery today?
TK New York remains unparalleled in bringing together multiple forms of cultural production — from visual art to film, music, theater, and literature — while also serving as a center for many intersecting industries. A strong gallery program, in my view, must remain attentive to the cultural and political conditions of the moment, and being based in New York allows me to stay closely attuned to those shifts.
I’ve experienced distinct chapters of the New York art world since first moving here as a student in 1995, opening my first office on 57th Street in 2002, and later establishing the gallery in Chelsea in 2015. What has remained constant across those changes is the importance of long-term thinking. The pace of the city and the market can encourage short cycles of attention, but my focus has always been on building sustained visibility and deeper historical understanding for artists’ work across institutional, scholarly, and international contexts. That long-term perspective has also shaped how I understand my role here. From the beginning, my work has been less about anchoring a local scene and more about bridging different art worlds. In an industry defined by continuous movement, it is enduring relationships, built on shared commitment, that truly last.
P Your focus on long-term visibility and cultural exchange suggests a larger role for art within public life. I wonder how you see what art makes possible right now, and what continues to drive your commitment to presenting it.
TK I see art as a site of exchange, one where histories, ideas, and lived experiences can circulate in ways that are often not possible elsewhere. While art is not inherently didactic, it can play a powerful role in expanding cultural visibility and encouraging audiences to engage with perspectives different from their own. I am most compelled to present work when it carries a strong sense of narrative or urgency.
