A conversation with Jennifer

Hi Jennifer, how are you? Could you tell us a bit about yourself and what you do?

Hello. I'm a multidisciplinary artist from Seoul, Korea. I work across food, paper, and craft. I often describe myself as a food artist because it's the simplest way to explain what I do, but I think of food as a medium rather than a subject. I use it to create both edible and inedible works; shared meals, installations, handmade paper. Essentially, I'm exploring how ephemeral materials can carry memory, care, and connection.

You've moved between Korea and the US and recently back. That geography matters in your work, doesn't it?

Yes. Being away from home made me realize that home isn't only a place. It's something you build through everyday rituals and the people around you. That idea often appears in my work through the Korean concept of bottari, a wrapped bundle made with bojagi, a traditional wrapping cloth. Once something is wrapped, it becomes something you carry with you. I think of home in the same way: not as a fixed location, but as something portable that you continuously make wherever you are.

So home became a practice, not a place.

Exactly. When I lived away, shared meals became the fastest way to build a sense of belonging. Those gatherings eventually transformed unfamiliar places into somewhere I could call home. That's something I hope my work can offer others.

Let's talk about the materials themselves. You work with food, paper, handcrafts. What draws you to these specifically?

Food is one of the quickest ways to connect with another person. Sharing a meal lowers people's guard and creates a space for conversation, memory, and care. That's something I return to again and again. Papermaking became a way to extend the lifespan of seasonal ingredients. It doesn't stop decay, but it allows those materials to exist in another form. And with all of these, whether I'm weaving, making paper, bookbinding, or cooking, they share a rhythm of repetition and attention. They ask me to slow down and care for the material over time, and I think that quiet labor becomes part of the finished work. 

There's something almost meditative about that repetition. The process feels almost ritualistic. Repetition quiets my mind and gives me a sense of stability. There are many things in daily life that I can't control, but I can trust my hands. As long as I keep showing up to the material, something will slowly take shape. There's something deeply comforting about that.

And yet you work with materials that are disappearing. Seasonal produce, paper that decays. You're creating something permanent with something that's destined to be temporary.

I spend countless hours trying to preserve things that are destined to disappear. Sometimes I step back and wonder if the whole effort is a little absurd. But I don't see futility as failure. I think the act of caring is meaningful even if the outcome isn't permanent. Maybe I'm rooting for the underdogs, for vegetables that spoil, or meals that disappear after an hour. Their brief existence makes them worth paying attention to.

What do you mean by that? Why does their impermanence make them worth attention?

I'm drawn to ordinary things precisely because we overlook them. Grocery lists, seasonal vegetables, scraps of paper, these are the materials that quietly shape our everyday lives before disappearing. I don't want to monumentalize them so much as pay attention to them. Making art from ordinary objects is my way of slowing down long enough to notice their beauty before they're gone.

Working seasonally must force a different relationship with time.

It does. My materials don't wait for me. If I miss a season, I miss that particular color, texture, or flavor until next year. I remember wanting to make paper with Korean spring greens this year, but work became so busy that I missed much of the season. That disappointment reminded me that my practice depends on being present. Ephemeral materials demand a kind of attentiveness that I don't always have in everyday life, and I think they've taught me to slow down.

How is food different from your other materials? You work with paper, textiles, but food has a very specific ending.

Food has a very clear purpose: it's meant to be eaten and enjoyed. There's something freeing about that. Once a meal is shared, the work is complete. Food also has an immediate audience. Everyone understands eating, even if they don't have a background in art. That accessibility allows me to create experiences that feel playful and welcoming. I often describe my food practice as "playing with food," and maybe because that's something we're told not to do as children, it opens up room for curiosity and experimentation.

What are you working toward now?

Right now I'm thinking a lot about summer and all of its fleeting ingredients. I'm excited to work with fruits and vegetables that only exist for a few weeks each year, both in cooking and in papermaking. More broadly, I'm trying to bring my food practice and my paper practice closer together. They've often existed as parallel bodies of work, and I'm interested in finding ways for them to become one conversation rather than two separate ones.