I met Seongil at his studio two days before Christmas, though the timing didn’t matter much—he’s not big on celebrating it. What did matter was we had the afternoon, which unraveled into three unhurried hours of conversation. Seongil, the artist behind IL WORKS, a multidisciplinary design studio based in Seoul, was refreshingly open about his secret ambitions, struggles and learnings over the years.

Somewhere in those three hours, he spoke about his time studying and working in Europe before returning to Korea. He also reflected on how going back to school is reshaping his perspective on design—now, more than ever, he believes his work should have a strong cultural backbone and carry weight. At the same time, he just wants to focus on his own happiness. 'People recognize happy work,' he shared. No over-the-top claims, no dressing things up, no chasing the next big thing. He just wants to make honest work that excites him. We also talked about the value of experience—how once you’ve lived something, it’s yours forever. Good or bad, it sticks. Shapes you. And hopefully, it instills in us the confidence to stand behind what we do.

I looked around his studio, and every shelf and open ledge held tools, past works, and projects in progress. Maybe it reflects another layer of Seongil’s approach to design, or life itself. Things get messy. Nothing stays static. Ideas pile up, stack on top of each other, turn into something new. One project leads to the next, each shaping perspective along the way, with work always evolving and accumulating meaning over time. By the end of my visit, he let out a big laugh and said this almost felt like therapy, opening up to someone he barely knew! I laughed too—because he wasn’t wrong. For me, they always do.

How was studying and working in Europe for nine years?

I did my Master's in London. When I was finishing, it was nearly impossible to get a visa because I wasn't working for a company or anything. I was also trying to establish my own practice, which was really difficult. I had to find another way to remain in Europe and thought it was a lost opportunity to abandon Europe and go back to Korea after putting in so much effort. Then I found it was really easy to get a visa in Berlin—you just need a portfolio, and they give you an artist visa!

I moved to Berlin right after my studies, and I was going back and forth to London and Berlin for a while. At that time, I completely lost my sense of home. Nowhere felt like home. I didn't have my home in London anymore, and I had a room in Berlin, but I was absent the whole time. I grew really tired because I was traveling so much, not just between London and Berlin but to other cities for work. Then COVID happened. Everything just stopped, which gave me time to breathe and think about my life—what I wanted to do and where I wanted to be. After a year, I decided to come back to Korea.

In the beginning, I felt really good because my family is here. It felt easier compared to moving to another city. But work-wise, I was a complete stranger, and I still feel a bit like an outsider. There are a lot of creatives here who started their careers in their early 20s, right after graduating. They’re in massive communities—everyone knows each other and is really close. For me, I’m friendly with everyone, but I’m not really close to anyone, and I’m not part of any groups. I’m just by myself. I feel like I’m floating around a little bit. There are still a lot of good things. Everyone’s very fond of me. I’m just not really involved in anything.

Because you studied and worked in Europe for quite a long time, do you feel like your approach to design sets you apart here in Korea?

I don't think so. I just do my stuff. How I do it, it's the same whether I do it here or there. These days, there's not much difference between what you do in Europe and Korea. I think they're all very even now. But recently, I started a PhD by accident. One of the biggest universities here is Seoul National University, and their design course is great—one of the best in Korea. Someone told me they were looking for new PhD candidates, so I applied and got in. I was unprepared because normally, you put a lot of thought into it and plan ahead. But for me, it was random. It's a really different experience—studying in New York, in London, and now here.

What’s different about it?

The process. In London, school was more focused on my work. They give you most of the time to produce your work rather than learning and studying theory or history. I didn't do a lot of reading back then. Maybe other students did, but I didn't. In Korea, it's more organized. You have to earn credits from classes, and they set out certain things you have to do. I thought it was tiring, but in the end, I found myself enjoying it. Even though I’ve been doing this for a long time, there are things I never knew before. I’m actually learning something new.

When I was young, I thought studying history—history of design—was a waste of time. Like, why? But now, I feel like we should learn this. Maybe I'm getting old. The more I look into it, the more interested I am in traditional crafts, the root. I’m kind of finding my identity as a Korean and as a Korean designer. Before, I didn’t think about this at all. Maybe I was a bit arrogant. I thought finding my originality, just focusing on my work, was more important than looking into tradition. I thought it was old-fashioned, a bit cheesy, or too easy of an approach. I was very negative, but now I realize that was stupid of me because that’s the only thing that separates me from other people. I think I should be aware, and everything should be considered in design. This is my recent kind of thought, but I don't yet know how I'm going to integrate it into my work.

I’m also going to these national museums, which I never did before. There’s this really amazing museum—the Korean National Museum—and there’s nothing contemporary there. It’s prehistoric, or maybe 2000- or 1000-year-old artefacts. In London, I went to the British Museum a lot because I thought it was fun to look at that stuff, but never in Korea. And now I go in there, and I’m like, oh my god, this is so amazing!

It feels like your artistic practice is mirroring your transition to Korea and has allowed you to explore a whole different side of yourself.

Yeah, definitely. But it’s not just about coming back—it’s also about learning. Going to school again, listening to lectures, reading books on Korean art. I’m becoming a bit more academic in ways I wasn’t really interested in before. I don’t really like this word, but as a maker, I don’t write much beyond my work. I don’t observe, analyze, and strategize—I just do what interests me, what feels fun. That’s natural for an independent artist, but school is forcing me to step outside of that. Now, I have to understand the context of where I am and why I’m doing this, so naturally, I’m looking back into history.

It all comes down to defining what good design is. It’s not just about looking cool. It should have a cultural backbone, something that carries weight—whether in context or aesthetics. It should last, not just be an idea that popped into my head. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what this shift is, but I’ve been feeling it these past few months. At the same time, I don’t really care! I don’t think I have to create something great. But also… why not? Maybe I can. Before, I wanted to make work that’s truly original, something no one’s seen before. Now, I don’t think that way. I’m just doing jobs, you know, for fun.

What has changed?

Um, I don't know. I feel like a lot of people think that way, too. When they start out, they might be like, I want to make the next greatest thing, the best thing ever! Maybe, if you realize it's impossible, or once you think you’ve done it, it changes. Because I did. I was part of projects that I'm really proud of, and I really enjoyed the attention, the work and everything.

Do you not feel this way anymore then? What was your experience? 

When I was in London, before I graduated, my secret, secret hope was to get my work published in magazines, you know, these interior magazines, like Frame or Interni—global magazines. That couldn't be a goal to say out loud to other people, but secretly, that was my goal. And that’s because when I was an undergrad in Korea, I read these types of magazines, and it was how I got to understand that there’s a world where independent craftsmen or furniture designers make a living. They produce very small batches of work, and they show their work in galleries and to private collectors. I got to know them through these magazines. I knew for a fact that at Royal College, where I studied, editors attended the graduation show.

And it actually happened. I got interviews, and one of them was with Frame Magazine, who wanted to publish my work. I did this, like, dance, you know, like when you're alone! It’s a very small success. Still, when I think about that moment, it was amazing. But also, you get to know that it really means nothing once that moment is gone. It’s great that someone recognized my work, and people appreciate it and want to write about it. That's really great but then you learn that that's it. The moment passes and you just continue on.

Thanks for being so real. I think your secret goal is probably shared by many others, right? We’re all, at some point, looking for affirmation or acknowledgment that we're headed in the right direction or doing something right.

It really gave me confidence and helped with my self-esteem and I think it means that my work is good enough, which I'm never sure of.

What are you working on these days?

I’m doing a project with the biggest company in Asia that supplies these mega structures made with concrete. These are aluminum moulds for casting concrete that are used in building skyscrapers. Normally, at building sites, many of these moulds are used so they’re constantly recycled and reused for construction. Now, I’m doing a project using these moulds and finding ways to reuse them. But then my question is, why am I doing this? Because they approached me, and they wanted my input on what it could be. But I think, why? Because this material is already recycled all the time. If it’s too worn out, they can be sandblasted, cleaned, and reused, or they can be melted and forged again. That means that in the cycle of this product, there’s no waste. It’s not something that you use once and throw out, so is there any point to it being remade into something else?

If I make furniture out of it and apply different materials, it breaks the cycle of use, which I think causes more problems. It’s not really helping but just borrowing the context, which may interest people. It’s very dystopian, but also very Korean, and it’s a very interesting material, which is why I accepted the project. But if I’m being really critical, it’s actually better to do nothing.

Sometimes, I think if I really want to say something more or change something in the world, maybe I shouldn't do design. I should write, or I should make a documentary, or be in politics. I don’t know if I’m adding new value to the world with my work. Am I just making things for people to buy? That's why my focus now is just doing what I’m interested in. I don't try to oversell anything or I feel like a scam. Like, look, this is revolutionary, it’s recyclable, it’s amazing! I don't want to say these things because I know it's false, and no one's getting fooled. I think it's healthier for me, or I think it’s just more honest to say that this project excites me, and I think this is pleasing aesthetically as well. This is my way of looking at things now—more humble and honest.

How did you come to realize that you just want to do what excites you?

When I was running my studio and doing projects, I had to explain my work to other people or write about it, and I always felt like I was such a scam. I wasn’t really honest. It didn't feel great. But I wasn’t really lying either—I was using recycled material. But using recycled material doesn’t necessarily mean it’s sustainable because, like I said, if you're taking waste material and mixing it with different materials—wood, plastic—it becomes something you can’t recycle ever again. You’d have to bury it.

I think a lot of object designers do this, and I feel like it’s just killing the material. Sometimes, it’s not really doing anything positive, even if that’s what you’re claiming. So, I always felt a bit uncomfortable talking about sustainable pieces, but I did it anyway. Since moving back to Korea, though, I’m just doing my own stuff. I have the freedom to be more honest and focus on whatever interests me.

The downside is, if you look at my work as a whole, there’s nothing that really connects everything together. A lot of designers and brands are very strategic about this. If you use the same material all the time, it can become your signature, your strength, and it makes you more easily recognized. But because I’m working project by project, everything I do is different. At the same time, I feel like I have complete control over my work and freedom, which is great.

Instead of that one technique or material that people would recognize you by, could it be your signature that you don’t stick to just one method or material?

It could, in a way. But the most important thing is my happiness—I shouldn't be stressed about my work. I should always be happy. And I feel like people recognize happy work. They see it. So I just try to approach everything very lightly—not too seriously or with too much stress. And I don’t. I also try not to be too ambitious about it because I think that could also have a negative effect.

Oh interesting. Do you think this comes from once being super ambitious and later realizing that maybe that mindset wasn’t the healthiest?

In the beginning, I think I always acted cool, like I wasn’t interested in anything. I thought that was cool, but secretly, I did care. I cared a lot. I wanted to be a part of something. Establishing your own studio is difficult, being recognized as a designer or artist, and putting myself on the map of creatives—that’s really difficult. So, back then, I think I needed that ambition to get me to where I am. Now, I feel like I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. At some point along the way, I feel more confident knowing that my work is good and that I’m happy with it. I don’t have to prove that I can do good work.

So now, it’s more about making work that excites you and feels right to you rather than proving anything? You do good work and that’s enough.

Yeah.

Were there any moments that helped you realize your work was enough? That gave you the confidence to stand behind it?

There are these mini moments—with magazines and things like that—but I think overall, confidence comes with time and experience. This is something I used to think about a lot—that the value of experience is greater than anything. So I say this to my students as well because I teach at universities. Some students want to go study abroad like I did, and they ask me, ‘How did you prepare a portfolio, how did you make money, how did you do this and that?’ I also had a tough time justifying spending that much money on tuition fees.

So what did you tell them?

I tell them that maybe they’re underrating the value of experience. The idea of experience is abstract. Once you have it—whether it’s good or bad—it’s yours. No one can take it from you. That’s something I feel was really valuable for me. If I think of my mind as a bookshelf, then anything I do is like adding a book to that shelf.

My whole experience in Europe was difficult. I struggled financially, with work, with living in a foreign country—everything. But no one can take away what I experienced or what I know. They just can’t. And no one can devalue it either. It’s not like a bar of gold sitting in a vault because even that could be taken. Experience—no one can take. There’s incredible value in that. If you only think about the money, there’s just no way to justify paying that much to study abroad. But the value of experience is amazing and it’s something you’ll carry with you for life. That doesn’t mean you have to spend that kind of money to gain experience but if you think it’s something you really want to do, don’t overthink it. Just do it if you can. That’s what I tell my students, and it’s something I strongly believe. And it’s through all of my experience that I’ve learnt that my work is good. I’m not 100% confident but if I can show my own point of view and still get job offers, I feel like my work is good enough.

That’s really great insight. I think it’s comforting for me to remember that the journey artists take is full of ups and downs, but every experience—good or bad—contributes to our growth. Over time, that process will help us feel more assured in our work. Even if we’re never 100% confident, maybe that’s because confidence isn’t a fixed thing.

Yeah, maybe it’s not there. Maybe it’s an illusion.

Can you tell me more about your studio? Does your space need to be a certain way to help inspire your work or your day-to-day?

No, I'm really good with messy places. If you see this studio, it's not really meant to look nice—the furniture is all temporary picnic tables so we can just fold them away when we need more space. But some studios, like the ones I know in Korea, put a lot of money and effort into their space because it’s also where they hold meetings and meet clients. That really changes the approval rate.

You mean like if you're a bank manager, you should drive a nice car?

Yeah, something like that! But I like it when a place kind of grows, when it gets more crowded. It’s been a year and two months since I moved into this studio, and now there’s more and more stuff, more work. A shelf is getting too full—I feel like I’m going to have to buy another one soon. I like spaces that evolve over time. It doesn’t have to be too nice or expensive. I like it like this.

Like this stool, for instance, it’s really poorly made. It’s embarrassing to show anyone because you can see all these drips, a really bad paint job, and it just looks dirty. If you look underneath, it’s unfinished—just lazy work. But it’s one of my favourite stools. I made it for a project for a streetwear brand, Carhartt, but it ended up being a leftover.

Oh yeah, I know it!

Yeah, they have a shop and cafe on the other side of Seoul and they wanted some stools for the cafe so customers can sit and drink coffee. For this stool, I didn’t apply any finish to it and I made it because I needed something to step on to reach the top shelf. I don’t know why it’s one of my favourite stools because it’s a really bad job but I don’t really care. I really like not giving a shit about what it is! I like that attitude about this stool. The design—you can’t really even call it a design—is really practical and secure. It’s not perfectly finished, but there's nothing like this stool in the world. I like how I didn't really mask or fill in all these gaps and can see how it's constructed. I like it because I didn’t really think about it.

ON RECENT WORK

This is my recent work that I haven’t actually shown anywhere. It started with this stool, and then it evolved into this, and this one is my latest. They all look the same, like a mushroom or a robot, but I really like this design because it reflects my attitude. The material is different, and the design is really weird. You can really tell that I was aiming for a different shape, something that stands apart from other furniture.

Making a shape with minimal elements like these blocks make it really difficult to communicate or design a new visual language because it’s been done before. Everyone designs with squares and it’s so easy to construct something out of them. But when I was designing this, I thought, maybe this could be something funny and fresh. I like it because it’s fun. The material is completely conventional, nothing special, but it still looks very distinctive from other things I’ve seen. Sometimes, when I look at it, it reminds me of little characters—like a robot or a mushroom. It feels very me. I can’t say it’s the most functional, but how much more functional does it really need to be?

I made this stool first for a private client who wanted a full set of furniture for her gallery—not for display, but for actual use in the space. So I made a stool, a bench, and a bookshelf using these blocks. I called it the Blocks Collection!  Afterwards, a Swedish brand called Hem approached me and asked me to produce a limited edition of the same stool for one of their special projects. They wanted something different, so I proposed a version with a mirror finish (Mirror Block Stool)—almost similar, but with a different surface treatment. I made a limited amount, and they all sold out, so that was kind of a success. Then Wallpaper Magazine became interested in the stool and wanted to show it during Milan Design Week, so I made a few more and sent them over.

Now, this stool is made of maple—really hard maple—so it’s incredibly sturdy. I made it because I was sick of metal.

Oh, were you?!

Yeah. Metal is amazing because you can weld it, and if you really think about welding, it’s an amazing process. It literally melts and fuses two pieces of metal together into one. There aren’t many materials that can do that. I think it’s fascinating. But as furniture, metal feels cold and it’s loud. I don’t like that. So, I’ve always wanted to make this stool in wood.

Is this an example of you having fun and doing what makes you happy?

It is. I should do more of that.

ON PAST AND FUTURE WORK

I was really interested in these meshes—how small the holes are. They all react differently to plastic so I made the red chairs (Hardened Mesh Project—Red) like this one here. Everything is made with this grid material, mesh. The holes are small enough that the polymer fills them completely, making it look like a closed surface. But if you look inside or hold it up to the light, you can still see the holes.

In some of the designs I made, I left the holes exposed so it looks like rattan furniture, made of straws or bamboo. This plastic is a very special industrial material. The way it’s made is really fun because the polymer is applied with a big spray gun. So I made the base really light, using flexible metal sheets that I cut with metal scissors and rolled into certain shapes.

This type of polymer plastic is rubbery and very tough. It’s used as a finish coating for truck beds to make them more sturdy and scratch-proof. I had used it before in projects just as a finish, and then I thought, this is amazing—why don’t I just use this material and make objects with it? Since it’s tough but also sets and cures within minutes, it’s instant. I was fascinated by its properties. But physically, it’s impossible to shape just the powdery, gooey stuff into reusable objects, so I needed a base. Since the polymer cures so fast, it settles and hardens before the liquid has time to form a clean surface. It freezes while it’s dripping, which creates these details that are rich in surface.

It feels like it’s still in motion.

Yeah, exactly. The material itself is very industrial, very new, but the results feel very crafty. This approach is actually very problem-solving in a way that makes it efficient, easy, and fast. 

Will you keep exploring this material, or are you shifting to new projects in the coming year?

I feel like I’m nearly at the end because my interest fades quickly! I think I’ve already proven my point by showing it in a few exhibitions, so I’m ready to move on. One of my next projects is the construction mould I showed you earlier, and I’m also exploring waste material from oyster farming.

Oyster farming is a huge industry in southern Korea, and it produces so much waste. The coastline is just full of plastics and I don’t know exactly what it is, maybe a net or a rope, that allows oysters to attach and grow. After one season, the oysters are removed and the net gets discarded because it’s too tangled to reuse. They just dump it along the shore and the cycle repeats. Now, some coastlines are almost unrecognizable.

There used to be a recycling process where tire factories would integrate the plastic waste into tire material, but since tire production has moved to China, that no longer happens. So, I’m trying to reach out to officials and see if there’s a way to push this project forward. I could go there myself, collect some of the waste, and make something out of it, but I think it would be much more meaningful to work with officials and farmers to turn it into something bigger. Maybe it’s too ambitious, but I want to find a way to show them that this material has value.

How did you come across this and what caught your interest?

I was traveling on the South Island when I saw a pile of used fishing nets, and I was wondering why this happens. I watched a short film about the byproducts of this industry and how any type of farming is harmful to the environment.

You know these ideas—sometimes you watch or read something, and you think that could be an amazing idea. But then, the more you look into it, you realize it doesn't really match your expectations, or there are already similar projects out there, so there’s no point for you to do it. I do a lot of research to see how materials can actually be used, and it’s really important to me that it’s practical and not just an art piece you admire. And I think that's really difficult—not a lot of ideas reach that standard.

Do you get discouraged when that happens?

No, it’s natural, so I don't feel discouraged. But it's really difficult to find a good project, so you need to have a lot of seeds—I call these seeds of ideas. I explore a lot of them, and once in a while, something comes out of it.

Looking forward to seeing where you take it. Thanks for your time, Seongil!

Instagram @seongilchoii
Website www.il-works.com

Vulnerable Works is about the quiet courage of making. At its core, this project is deeply personal. Through these conversations, I seek perspective and ways to navigate feelings of doubt, uncertainty, and the tension between vision and reality. These stories weave my reflections with those of the artists, offering a glimpse into the process, the trust it demands, the triumphs that keep us going, and the vulnerability inherent in creating. Sometimes I pick up a little more—the songs that fill artists’ studios, bits of their daily routines—but always, I return with photographs.