Sungho Bae and Lori Waxman

Lori Waxman: Everything you produced during your time at RAIR looks so clean, so pristine. How is that possible? Could you talk generally about the sanitation and dirtiness of your found materials, both how you think about this issue philosophically, and how you manage it in practical terms? 

Sungho Bae: During the project’s inception, an essential aspect of my work involved the cleaning process. Over 90% of the textile and fashion waste was laundered. In the case of plastic-based toys, while an initial simple cleaning was performed, subsequent steps involved dusting. Consideration was given to the delicacy of the textiles; washing machines and handwashing, in some instances, were employed. This cleaning procedure wasn’t just a preliminary step; it was a deliberate and integral part of the value reestablishment game predicated on hygienic conditions. Through this process, I aimed to distinguish between sanitary contamination and personal contamination. 

Most clothing waste was nearly pristine, excluding their contamination from other waste. There was barely any evidence of wear or the passage of time. I considered these pieces fragmented representations of “how one wishes to be perceived.” In essence, they represented collections of discarded efforts or attempts. I believe these items, lacking any imprints of personal time or interaction, were contaminated primarily by their disposal location. Conversely, some objects bore evident traces of time and interaction — half-burnt clothing, jackets adorned with yearbook signatures, and toys with names written on their soles. These were not just items with mere contamination, they conveyed deep personal histories, and warranted preservation. I approached these objects as artifacts, each carrying information about our experiences within a material world. 

After encountering materials that assumed artifact-like value due to specific types of contamination or damage, my understanding of the spectrum of contamination broadened, allowing me to employ different approaches to categorizing materials. 

LW: Waste makes me feel ill — food waste, energy waste, material waste. I am sickened by the vast amount of squander that is standard in contemporary North American culture, from unnecessary packaging to discarded produce. Just looking at Rooms of Accumulation — well, the unprocessed side of it — turns my stomach. Can you talk about your approach to our culture of excess? 

SB: At RAIR, after witnessing firsthand the overwhelming volume of redundant waste, I was compelled to reevaluate its implications, realizing it transcends mere symptoms or phenomena. I perceive the culture of excess we confront not as an anomaly, but as a dense ecosystem with its own established cyclical structure. I hesitate to speculate on whether this ecosystem has an endpoint, and if it does, whether it heralds calamity or transformation into a new phase. Perhaps because I’ve been overwhelmed or numbed by the culture of excess, I am not even able to harbor an ambition to achieve total change, or to escape this starkly wasteful ecosystem. We are struggling to survive in a perilous modern jungle of its own making. 

Efforts solely aimed at overcoming the discomforts and revulsions emanating from materialistic excessiveness might risk culminating in nihilism. Instead, I prefer to regard these discomforts and revulsions not only as subjects of overcoming but also as catalysts for the evolution of survival, prompting the transition to the next stage. We risk stagnation if we solely rely on one of the three cards — pessimism, optimism, or nihilism. As a species, we consistently seek transformation and assert ourselves, despite overwhelming excess. I hope we’ll continually find ways to adapt and coexist in any environment, as with our unyielding quest to explore seemingly uninhabitable planets. 

LW: How does beauty, or aesthetics more generally, fit in here? 

SB: For someone like me, who was actively immersed in pop culture and subcultures, I view the state of excess as not merely a mundane occurrence but also an aesthetic premise optimal for navigating subtle visual stimuli. The incessant repetition of both tangible and intangible entities to attain a state of excess inherently contains minuscule differences, suitable for branding as “new products.” These microscopic differences can be elusive to define in writing. They might manifest fleetingly in moments of creativity, subtly in societal reactions, or simply as imperfections in mass production processes. Ironically enough, while these differences are concealed due to the state of excess, they simultaneously exhibit patterns detectable only in this state. 

My aesthetic approach is to recognize these fine distinctions, accumulate them as data, and then generate a new state of excess that subverts the existing one. This process could either culminate in restoring the original conceptual structures preceding the state of excess, or in using visual anesthesia that disguises itself within the excess.

LW: Your work involves an immense amount of labor: sorting, cleaning, planning, sewing, stuffing, gluing, etc. Can you describe the extent of this feature of your practice, and consider what might be its more enigmatic aspects? By the latter, I mean that the intensity of your labor suggests there are psychological and/or spiritual aspects to it. 

SB: By using the state of excess as a visual subterfuge or anesthetic, it’s evident that a certain level of labor is necessarily performed. Labor, for me, is a strategic measure. The intense repetition of labor can induce a meditative state and exert positive psychological influences. However, I believe such effects constitute no more than 30% of the overall experience. Most of my labor unfolds under fragmentary, multistage plans, allowing me to intersperse and integrate sporadic yet coherent thoughts. Unfortunately, this isn’t an experience I can fully romanticize; it’s mainly about observing my hands as they swiftly execute the electrical circuit flow of the neural pathways, and thinking about the next assembly. Considering my intrinsic lack of spiritual aspects, labor is part of a process based on strategic necessity to attain subversive visual states. 

Interestingly, during the production of Rooms of Accumulation, I could reevaluate the psychological impacts of labor — this was also challenging. While others label me a hoarder, I self-define as a collector, who for over two decades, has been collecting specific toys. After completing the work, and looking at the two spaces, I incessantly wondered whether I am truly a hoarder on a psychological level — one who seeks stability through the act of labor itself. If the nonstrategic component of labor resonates more with hoarding, then I must question whether I am collecting labor itself. What am I projecting onto this act of labor, and what are the origins of such psychological projection? I’ve only just begun posing these questions to myself, and where these inquiries might lead remains an enigma to me. 

LW: Toys provide both material and narrative inspiration in so much of your work, including in 40.0239° N, 75.0290° W_00. Plus, your finished artwork often has a distinctly playful quality to it, in terms of color and pattern — and material, naturally. So first, what’s the appeal of toys, discarded and otherwise? And second, do you consider there to be a playful aspect to your work? Is playing itself important to you?

SB: From my perspective, toys derived from preexisting media hold strange significance. Intrinsically designed to emulate their original counterparts, they eventually falter and fail in their mass-produced iterations — a fate I find captivating. Despite sharing the same goals and undergoing identical manufacturing processes, these toys invariably exhibit minute asymmetrical and reduced features. 

Moreover, discarded toys symbolize particular life phases that I either haven’t reached or have no intention to explore. My collection process is guided by stringent, nonnegotiable criteria. I have altered these guidelines once, and even then, toys excluded from my collection underwent transformation rather than disposal. Toys are not just sources of amusement or one phase of life; they resemble biological species. Seemingly released into the world for mere entertainment, the physical attributes of toys, their marketing, and their consumption dynamics continually serve as subjects of my relentless observation. In this context, discarded toys prompt reflection on how the affection and attention they once received are transformed and reintroduced into others’ lives. 

My practice frequently and unmistakably echoes the nature of play. Even beyond toys, the act of collecting and physically modifying certain objects often involves the application of different taxonomies — these often become the rules of play. What’s pivotal for me within this playful procedure is the presence of elements that either induce discomfort, or destabilize existing conceptual structures based on their material properties. These are important sources of playfulness in my practice.