Yoon Shun
Shun’s practice moves between art, design, and craft—rooted in material, process, and the sensory depth of form. In our conversation, he reflects on silence as a mode of expression, the emotional weight of touch and tension, and why he sees sculpture not as a representation of emotion, but as a space where feeling can quietly unfold.
Yoon Shun (*1984) is a Korean artist based in Antwerp. His sculptural work explores the relationship between material, time, and perception — shaped through processes of repetition, friction, and touch. Drawing from both East Asian and European contexts, his practice resists fixed stylistic or cultural definitions, engaging instead with form as a quiet, physical inquiry. His work often involves charred wood, subtle imbalances, and reduced gestures that evoke presence without overt narration. Shun studied furniture design in Europe before gradually moving into the field of contemporary art.
You studied furniture design and now live and work as an artist in Antwerp – how did that come about?
Studying design in Europe was, in many ways, a process of learning a language—learning to name, to compose, to critique, and to explain one’s work. Yet throughout that process, emotion remained largely untranslatable. The sensations I work with—such as the subtle tremors at the fingertips or the memories evoked through weight—were rarely acknowledged within the language of design education, and often treated as irrelevant. Over time, I began to feel quietly alienated—disoriented by a system in which articulation was valued more than the work itself. That dissonance marked the beginning of my practice. Rather than forcing unnamed sensations into language, I began looking for ways to structure them through form. Even now, my work feels closer to grasping fragments of emotion outside of language.
Elements like balance, tension, weight, and transparency become a kind of non-verbal syntax—a way of composing alternative sentences through material. I’m not interested in explaining emotion, but in creating a structure through which emotion can move. By this, I mean not a fixed interpretation or representation, but a sculptural condition that allows emotion to settle, shift, or surface—quietly and indirectly. The tension between symmetry and asymmetry, the temporality etched into a charred surface, the rhythm of repeated gestures, the weight of touch, the deliberate presence of emptiness—these are not illustrations of feeling, but spaces in which feeling can unfold. Emotion is not displayed; it circulates—subtly, silently—within and around the work.
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Your work feels calm, reduced, and at the same time very physical. How would you describe your approach?
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What comes before form is the sensation in the hand, and it is from that place that structure begins to take shape. Rather than using sculpture to explain emotion, I search for ways in which emotion itself can generate structure. My work holds tactility and silence, weight and interiority—concerns that are less about visual play and more about the depth of sensation, shaped over time through repetition and trial.
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In many of your pieces, you use charred wood – especially noticeable in the Goshun series. This technique really shapes the surface and character of your objects. How did you come to work this way?
I see the act of burning as both destructive and restorative. Rather than concealing the surface, it reveals the grain of the material and leaves a trace—allowing presence to be expressed through what remains.​​​
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Your new exhibition Every night runs dry explores the theme of dryness. What drew you to that idea – and what interests you about it?
Dryness is not simply a form of lack, but a kind of transparency—what remains after something has disappeared. This exhibition began with the quiet landscapes that emerged for me at night, after the day had ended. As I recorded those moments, I started to consider what kinds of forms might arise from emotional depletion and material fatigue.The possibility of a new sculptural language emerging from such residues felt deeply private and intimate—there are moments when sensation becomes clearest precisely within what has been stripped away. I wanted to give space to that clarity.
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Which artists do you currently find exciting or inspiring?
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Lately, I find myself drawn to sculptures that have remained anonymous over time, and to objects or places that have been left unused or quietly forgotten. There seems to be a depth of emotion embedded in these images—layers that are not immediately visible, but quietly persistent. I sense that they leave a lasting impression on my work, and I feel compelled to understand more about that connection.
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How do you like Antwerp – as a place to live and work?
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Antwerp is a small city, but one where I can breathe deeply. Its unhurried rhythm, its atmosphere of craftsmanship, rich history of art, and the space it allows for quiet recalibration all resonate with the way I work. As a foreign artist, I often carry a sense of in-betweenness—but rather than resist it, I’ve come to see it as something that sharpens the density and structure of my practice. At the same time, I’ve been fortunate to encounter so many peers here. There is a generosity among people—despite the inevitable competition, there’s still room to help one another, to share time and daily rhythms. That sense of community is something I carry with quiet gratitude.
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What’s coming up next for you – is there a project you’re particularly looking forward to right now?
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A journey to Greece lies ahead—something I’ve quietly looked forward to for a long time. I hope that by the latter part of next year, I’ll be able to share what I’m now beginning to imagine. Greece has always held a certain significance for me. It carries an image of origins—of knowledge, image, and technique—and I’ve long admired the way roughness and wild emotion seem to coexist there. I’m curious to see how I’ll respond to that place now—what I’ll notice, and what I’ll feel compelled to say. I hope to record those shifts with care.
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