Kaja Clara Joo

You work with a wide range of materials and techniques, from analogue photography, natural rubber, brass, copper, steel, latex, and archival footage. What role does materiality play in your practice?

At first glance, one might immediately feel that I'm not a minimalist, neither visually nor conceptually. I'm actually not that interested in the physical attributes of these materials, but in the poetic potential or the historic qualities they possess. Coming from Fine Arts Photography, these materials often refer to the fundamental elements of film, which are time and sensitive surfaces. I understand myself as a photographer first, and then as a sculptor, even though my works might initially indicate something else.

You work with a wide range of materials and techniques, from analogue photography, natural rubber, brass, copper, steel, latex, and archival footage. What role does materiality play in your practice?

At first glance, one might immediately feel that I'm not a minimalist, neither visually nor conceptually. I'm actually not that interested in the physical attributes of these materials, but in the poetic potential or the historic qualities they possess. Coming from Fine Arts Photography, these materials often refer to the fundamental elements of film, which are time and sensitive surfaces. I understand myself as a photographer first, and then as a sculptor, even though my works might initially indicate something else.

Your installations engage with human interference with natural resources, as well as the conditions and traces of labor. What draws you to exploring these themes?

We often talk about the “Age of the Anthropocene”, a term that is informally used within a scientific context. It is a concept that proposes that human activity is a drastic force that is changing the earth’s ecosystem. It is non-negotiable that humanity has a very heavy impact on our surrounding environment, turning itselfinto a sort of materiality as well. It is debated whether the Anthropocene starts with the Atomic Age or the Industrial Revolution. So naturally, as I started looking into these topics, I quickly stumbled upon videos of oil rig workers. What drew my fascination was the violence, yet tenderness of their movements. Not only is it a very labor-intense and dangerous job, it is also connected to a chain of detrimental actions that crucially changed our history. Their motions and maneuvers are embedded within a global choreography of ecological ferocity. I was interested in isolating these physical gestures and their performance-like qualities.

Your installations engage with human interference with natural resources, as well as the conditions and traces of labor. What draws you to exploring these themes?

We often talk about the “Age of the Anthropocene”, a term that is informally used within a scientific context. It is a concept that proposes that human activity is a drastic force that is changing the earth’s ecosystem. It is non-negotiable that humanity has a very heavy impact on our surrounding environment, turning itselfinto a sort of materiality as well. It is debated whether the Anthropocene starts with the Atomic Age or the Industrial Revolution. So naturally, as I started looking into these topics, I quickly stumbled upon videos of oil rig workers. What drew my fascination was the violence, yet tenderness of their movements. Not only is it a very labor-intense and dangerous job, it is also connected to a chain of detrimental actions that crucially changed our history. Their motions and maneuvers are embedded within a global choreography of ecological ferocity. I was interested in isolating these physical gestures and their performance-like qualities.

Are humans and the traces they leave in the world the starting point of your work?

Yes, I think so. My central interest is the humane body, and its relation to the systems and structures that shape our existence, whether we acknowledge it or not.

Are humans and the traces they leave in the world the starting point of your work?

Yes, I think so. My central interest is the humane body, and its relation to the systems and structures that shape our existence, whether we acknowledge it or not.

How do you integrate your own work with archival material in your installations?

Lately, for the first time within my practice, I consciously chose to not work with images that I create, but with pre-existing materials of political, social or cultural events. On one hand, it reflects on the overabundance of visual resources that already exists, rendering the creation of “new” images unnecessary whilst generating a way to “recycle” media. At the same time, it acts as a critique and rebellion of the visual culture of our century. A picture does not represent a singular truth, but rather multiple, very conflicting interpretations. As artificial intelligence is on the rise, the “narration of truth” has become a hefty weight, especially in the USA. It feels as if whoever screams the loudest assertion wins. I try to subvert these mechanisms whilst simultaneously and ironically commenting on them by using found footage materials.

How do you integrate your own work with archival material in your installations?

Lately, for the first time within my practice, I consciously chose to not work with images that I create, but with pre-existing materials of political, social or cultural events. On one hand, it reflects on the overabundance of visual resources that already exists, rendering the creation of “new” images unnecessary whilst generating a way to “recycle” media. At the same time, it acts as a critique and rebellion of the visual culture of our century. A picture does not represent a singular truth, but rather multiple, very conflicting interpretations. As artificial intelligence is on the rise, the “narration of truth” has become a hefty weight, especially in the USA. It feels as if whoever screams the loudest assertion wins. I try to subvert these mechanisms whilst simultaneously and ironically commenting on them by using found footage materials.

Do you look specifically for footage or how do you come across it?

Yes, I often engage in very specific targeting for projects. While working on a movie in Texas, the protests in Iran were happening. As I looked through the videos of the demonstrating masses, I focused on specific gestures in their hand movements, embedding them into my film. Yet even if I don’t deliberately look for new material, it is impossible to escape this stream of visuality. The moment you step outside your home or unlock your phone, you are being annexed into this constant flux of images. It has strongly shaped my practice as a photographer and filmmaker over the past years.

Do you look specifically for footage or how do you come across it?

Yes, I often engage in very specific targeting for projects. While working on a movie in Texas, the protests in Iran were happening. As I looked through the videos of the demonstrating masses, I focused on specific gestures in their hand movements, embedding them into my film. Yet even if I don’t deliberately look for new material, it is impossible to escape this stream of visuality. The moment you step outside your home or unlock your phone, you are being annexed into this constant flux of images. It has strongly shaped my practice as a photographer and filmmaker over the past years.

Where do you see your work situated between the documentation of sociopolitical issues and the use of fiction as a narrative framework?

There is this Austrian term called “Räubergeschichten” (“Stories of Thieves”), which refers to stories that can hypothetically be true, yet at the same time are not. I find this principle very compelling: Things that sit very close to reality, whilst potentially being fully fictional. As an artist, it feels impossible not to respond to the world we live in. At the same time, I remain cautious, because I am not a teacher or a scientist. I cannot claim remarks that are empirically or scientifically backed up. That’s not my job. What I can do is create a frame in which I encourage viewers to question reality and norms through surrealism, irony or humor. It’s a much easier way to build a bridge between the spectators and the work.

Where do you see your work situated between the documentation of sociopolitical issues and the use of fiction as a narrative framework?

There is this Austrian term called “Räubergeschichten” (“Stories of Thieves”), which refers to stories that can hypothetically be true, yet at the same time are not. I find this principle very compelling: Things that sit very close to reality, whilst potentially being fully fictional. As an artist, it feels impossible not to respond to the world we live in. At the same time, I remain cautious, because I am not a teacher or a scientist. I cannot claim remarks that are empirically or scientifically backed up. That’s not my job. What I can do is create a frame in which I encourage viewers to question reality and norms through surrealism, irony or humor. It’s a much easier way to build a bridge between the spectators and the work.

Is the inclusion of fictional elements also a way of dealing with the responsibility toward truthfulness you feel as an artist?

People often assume that framing something as fiction is a simple way of deflecting from a lack of expertise in a given subject. But I believe that fictional tales have the same impact as, for example, a lecture. Ultimately, the decisive moment lies in what remains with the viewer once they leave the gallery or the education hall. I do not want to rely on the presentation of dry facts. I want my works to arouse a sense of curiosity.

Is the inclusion of fictional elements also a way of dealing with the responsibility toward truthfulness you feel as an artist?

People often assume that framing something as fiction is a simple way of deflecting from a lack of expertise in a given subject. But I believe that fictional tales have the same impact as, for example, a lecture. Ultimately, the decisive moment lies in what remains with the viewer once they leave the gallery or the education hall. I do not want to rely on the presentation of dry facts. I want my works to arouse a sense of curiosity.

Your recent works often draw on narratives and myths connected to Korean history and folklore. They preserve historical moments but also transform them artistically. How do you engage with cultural history, and what role does it play within your practice?

I grew up in the 90s and early 2000s in Austria, which was very racist at that time. The racism is still present, but in more concealed and subtle way today. For many years, I lived a kind of parallel existence: I read, wrote, and spoke Korean and engaged deeply with Korean culture, but only within the safety of my own four walls. Outside of that I was, in a sense, “whitening” myself. I even adopted a very Austrian accent to better fit in. Only in recent years have I felt that I have grown significantly, not only as an artist, but also as a woman. I have come to understand that there is nothing to fear or be ashamed of in being half Asian, and that I can carry this part of myself into my artistic practice without being immediately reduced to a “fully Asian artist” in a European context. So, on the one hand, this is a lived reality. I am half Korean and grew up with figures such as “Bulgasari”, which also appears in my work. On the other hand, it is a liberating process of recognizing and accepting that this is part of my practice, without needing to overstate it.

Your recent works often draw on narratives and myths connected to Korean history and folklore. They preserve historical moments but also transform them artistically. How do you engage with cultural history, and what role does it play within your practice?

I grew up in the 90s and early 2000s in Austria, which was very racist at that time. The racism is still present, but in more concealed and subtle way today. For many years, I lived a kind of parallel existence: I read, wrote, and spoke Korean and engaged deeply with Korean culture, but only within the safety of my own four walls. Outside of that I was, in a sense, “whitening” myself. I even adopted a very Austrian accent to better fit in. Only in recent years have I felt that I have grown significantly, not only as an artist, but also as a woman. I have come to understand that there is nothing to fear or be ashamed of in being half Asian, and that I can carry this part of myself into my artistic practice without being immediately reduced to a “fully Asian artist” in a European context. So, on the one hand, this is a lived reality. I am half Korean and grew up with figures such as “Bulgasari”, which also appears in my work. On the other hand, it is a liberating process of recognizing and accepting that this is part of my practice, without needing to overstate it.

Would you say that the works that deal with your half Korean identity are your most vulnerable works?

I’m not sure if “vulnerable” is exactly the word I would use, but perhaps it is. I think the works I’ve created over the past years feel more vulnerable in the sense that they are closer to who I am, or how I genuinely feel. At the same time, it is ambivalently more difficult, because I know I am positioning myself within a very specific field of identity politics. But in terms of creating, they are easier to make than anything I’ve ever done before.

Would you say that the works that deal with your half Korean identity are your most vulnerable works?

I’m not sure if “vulnerable” is exactly the word I would use, but perhaps it is. I think the works I’ve created over the past years feel more vulnerable in the sense that they are closer to who I am, or how I genuinely feel. At the same time, it is ambivalently more difficult, because I know I am positioning myself within a very specific field of identity politics. But in terms of creating, they are easier to make than anything I’ve ever done before.

You just mentioned the Bulgasari as a recurring figure in your works. For the current exhibition Weaving the Present at Neuer Kunstverein Wien, you produced a new edition of the Bulgasari Manual, a series you began in 2023. How does it feel to return to a series after several years, and how has your relationship to the story evolved – particularly with the inclusion of new elements such as tears?

Even though 2023 doesn’t feel that long ago, it already seems like ages. I have grown significantly as an artist and as a person since then. Initially, I was more interested in the formal and visual qualities of the “Bulgasari” as a mythical figure, but it actually is also a very complex story that connects North and South Korea, as well as Austria. In the 1980s, the North Korean government kidnapped South Korea’s most famous actress and director and brought them to the North, where they were forced to produce a Godzilla-style film called “Bulgasari”. The film eventually became so prominent that they were invited to a film festival in Vienna. Once the director and the actor arrived in Austria, they managed to get into a taxi and flee to the embassy, escaping North Korean custody after years of captivity. So, there is a deeply moving, human, and political dimension to the story of the “Bulgasari” figure, which I tried to engage with more strongly in this series than I was able to three years ago. On the one hand, I worked with my tears, referencing a very immediate, emotional potential of materiality. They left very thick, green and rainbow colored oxidation marks on the brass plates, like earthen sediments. On the other hand, the laser-cut forms that previously traced ancient drawings of the “Bulgasari” were replaced with historical cartographies. I drew the border between North and South Korea, making this edition both a geographic and somehow geological extension. All the pieces are interconnected. You can stack them together to form one large work. They function as cartographies of unknown momentum in both historical and sentimental terms.

You just mentioned the Bulgasari as a recurring figure in your works. For the current exhibition Weaving the Present at Neuer Kunstverein Wien, you produced a new edition of the Bulgasari Manual, a series you began in 2023. How does it feel to return to a series after several years, and how has your relationship to the story evolved – particularly with the inclusion of new elements such as tears?

Even though 2023 doesn’t feel that long ago, it already seems like ages. I have grown significantly as an artist and as a person since then. Initially, I was more interested in the formal and visual qualities of the “Bulgasari” as a mythical figure, but it actually is also a very complex story that connects North and South Korea, as well as Austria. In the 1980s, the North Korean government kidnapped South Korea’s most famous actress and director and brought them to the North, where they were forced to produce a Godzilla-style film called “Bulgasari”. The film eventually became so prominent that they were invited to a film festival in Vienna. Once the director and the actor arrived in Austria, they managed to get into a taxi and flee to the embassy, escaping North Korean custody after years of captivity. So, there is a deeply moving, human, and political dimension to the story of the “Bulgasari” figure, which I tried to engage with more strongly in this series than I was able to three years ago. On the one hand, I worked with my tears, referencing a very immediate, emotional potential of materiality. They left very thick, green and rainbow colored oxidation marks on the brass plates, like earthen sediments. On the other hand, the laser-cut forms that previously traced ancient drawings of the “Bulgasari” were replaced with historical cartographies. I drew the border between North and South Korea, making this edition both a geographic and somehow geological extension. All the pieces are interconnected. You can stack them together to form one large work. They function as cartographies of unknown momentum in both historical and sentimental terms.

Environments seem quite important for your practice in general. Many of your installations are site-specific, and you’ve recently spent time at residencies in Korea and Texas, while currently being based in Vienna. How do these different locations influence your artistic process?

I came back home radicalized, especially after the US. I arrived during the ICE demonstrations and killings, while at the same time the deadly protests in Iran were unfolding in Europe. I felt paralyzed by shock, and an awful sense of undeserved privilege crept in: being able to travel, to live from my practice, and to access so much safety, knowledge, education, and beauty through art, while simultaneously witnessing a world in crisis. It made me quite hopeless as an artist, and I started questioning whether anything we do will ever be relevant or meaningful. At the same time, I met so many wonderful people. Writers, poets, painters, especially in the US., who felt equally dreadful, yet continued to work regardless. In times of difficulty, the best way to maintain momentum is to simply keep going. This has shifted my perspective on many things. It made me much more aware of the importance of staying true to one’s own practice, without compromising for a market or external expectations. Even when it gets hard. I think this is the strongest influence and most significant experience I took from nearly ten months abroad.

Environments seem quite important for your practice in general. Many of your installations are site-specific, and you’ve recently spent time at residencies in Korea and Texas, while currently being based in Vienna. How do these different locations influence your artistic process?

I came back home radicalized, especially after the US. I arrived during the ICE demonstrations and killings, while at the same time the deadly protests in Iran were unfolding in Europe. I felt paralyzed by shock, and an awful sense of undeserved privilege crept in: being able to travel, to live from my practice, and to access so much safety, knowledge, education, and beauty through art, while simultaneously witnessing a world in crisis. It made me quite hopeless as an artist, and I started questioning whether anything we do will ever be relevant or meaningful. At the same time, I met so many wonderful people. Writers, poets, painters, especially in the US., who felt equally dreadful, yet continued to work regardless. In times of difficulty, the best way to maintain momentum is to simply keep going. This has shifted my perspective on many things. It made me much more aware of the importance of staying true to one’s own practice, without compromising for a market or external expectations. Even when it gets hard. I think this is the strongest influence and most significant experience I took from nearly ten months abroad.

Current & Upcoming Exhibitions

Weaving the Present at Neuer Kunstverein Wien
21 March – 19 April 2026
Curated by Sophie Wratzfeld
Produced by Sasha Yakubov

DASI at Koreanisches Kulturzentrum Wien
22 April - 5 June 2026

Contact

@kaja_clara
www.kajajoo.com