Ari Kim is a multidisciplinary artist and filmmaker whose work navigates the fluid intersection of visual storytelling, personal memory, and cultural heritage. With a background in painting and an intuitive grasp of cinematic language, Ari has carved out a distinct creative space where art and film seamlessly coexist. Her approach is deeply introspective yet universally resonant, capturing fleeting emotions, ephemeral beauty, and the in-between moments that define human experience.
Born with an innate drive to express through visuals, Ari's artistic journey began in childhood, where drawing and painting became her first language. This early passion led her to New York, where she studied at NYU and immersed herself in the city's thriving art and film community. Though her foundation was firmly rooted in painting, exposure to filmmaking introduced a new dimension to her creative practice. She became captivated by cinema’s ability to extend the static image into movement, rhythm, and sound—elements that added depth and complexity to her storytelling.
Over the years, Ari has developed a signature aesthetic that merges meticulous composition with a painterly sensibility. Her work is marked by a restrained yet evocative use of color, light, and negative space, often drawing from personal memories and cultural motifs. A recurring theme in her recent work is the integration of Korean folklore, craftsmanship, and mythology—elements that serve as a bridge between her identity and broader storytelling traditions. From the delicate intricacies of “Mae-deup,” a form of traditional Korean knotting, to the symbolic presence of the tiger in her grandfather’s home, Ari’s work is a conversation between past and present, introspection and expression.
Beyond her visual artistry, Ari’s filmmaking is defined by its quiet intensity and ability to capture the emotional weight of small, seemingly ordinary moments. She approaches each film as an extension of her paintings, constructing every frame with precision and care. At the same time, filmmaking has pushed her beyond the solitary nature of painting, challenging her to embrace collaboration, improvisation, and the unpredictable nature of storytelling in motion.
In this exclusive Q&A, Ari Kim shares the experiences that shaped her artistic vision, the evolution of her creative process, and the intricate ways in which painting and filmmaking inform each other. She offers insight into her evolving themes, her approach to composition and narrative, and the delicate balance between structure and spontaneity in her work. Whether through film, painting, or installation, Ari continues to explore new ways of storytelling, inviting audiences into worlds that are deeply personal yet endlessly open to interpretation.
Q: Could you share a bit about your background and the key influences—people, places, or experiences—that led you to pursue both art and filmmaking?
Art has always been an intrinsic part of my life. As a child, I found solace in drawing and painting, using visuals as a way to process my thoughts and emotions. My mother often reminds me of how I would fill every available surface with sketches—when paper ran out, the walls became my canvas. Instead of discouraging me, she nurtured my curiosity, allowing me to see art as a language rather than just an activity.
My journey into filmmaking, however, was less direct. Moving to New York to study at NYU, I initially saw myself solely as a visual artist. But being surrounded by filmmakers—friends who lived and breathed cinema—opened up a new world for me. Working on film sets, I became fascinated by the collaborative nature of the process, where storytelling extended beyond a single frame and unfolded over time. I realized that filmmaking allowed me to merge my love for composition, light, and atmosphere with narrative, movement, and sound.
Since then, my artistic practice has been a continuous conversation between painting and filmmaking. My background in visual art informs how I construct filmic images, while cinema has expanded my understanding of storytelling. Whether I’m creating a film or a painting, I’m always searching for ways to capture fleeting emotions, forgotten memories, and the quiet beauty in everyday moments.
Q: How would you describe your signature style or aesthetic, and in what ways has it evolved as you’ve grown as an artist and filmmaker?
For a long time, my artistic practice was centered around self-portraiture, using ink on a wooden canvas as a way to explore my identity while being introspective. There was a period in my life when even the act of painting myself felt like a difficult and vulnerable journey—one that required confronting parts of my past that I wasn’t prepared to face. After the pandemic and the deepened relationship I built with myself, I found a new chapter emerging in my work, one that extends beyond self-portraiture into a broader dialogue with heritage, craftsmanship, and mythology.
This shift led me to “Mae-deup,” a new language through which I express connection, resilience, and transformation. As I move forward with my upcoming work, I’ve been drawn to the mythical creatures of Korean folklore—particularly the tiger, a symbol of protection and strength in the family. I keep returning to a memory of a drawing of a tiger that once adorned my grandfather’s door. This is an image that has stayed with me, serving as a quiet guardian of stories, both past and present. These threads of tradition, personal memory, and mythology are woven together in my evolving aesthetic. They shape the way I approach both painting and filmmaking, with a renewed sense of storytelling and cultural resonance.
Q: How do your art sensibilities inform your approach to filmmaking, and conversely, how has filmmaking impacted your artistic perspective?
My background in painting and visual art has deeply shaped my approach to filmmaking, particularly in the way I compose shots, use color, and build atmosphere. I tend to approach filmmaking as if I were constructing a painting—thinking in terms of layers, textures, and balance. Every frame is an opportunity to evoke a feeling, not just through action or dialogue but through composition, light, and negative space.
One of the biggest ways my artistic sensibilities influence my filmmaking is through my attention to stillness and restraint. I’m drawn to images that linger, moments that invite contemplation, and narratives that unfold through suggestion rather than exposition. Much like a painting, I want my films to leave space for the viewer to interpret and feel, rather than spelling everything out.
At the same time, filmmaking has completely transformed the way I think about art. In painting, I was primarily concerned with a single image—how it functioned as a static, self-contained moment. Working in film introduced me to the idea of rhythm, duration, and sequencing. It taught me that images don’t exist in isolation but in relation to one another and that the way they’re arranged—through editing, sound, and pacing—fundamentally changes their meaning.
Filmmaking also forced me to let go of control in a way that painting never did. When I paint, I have full autonomy over every element. But in film, I have to trust the process, rely on collaborators, and embrace the unpredictable nature of production. This has been both challenging and liberating—it’s made me more open to improvisation, more receptive to new ideas, and more aware of how art is shaped through collective effort.
Now, when I approach a painting or installation, I think about it not just as a static image but as something that interacts with time, space, and the viewer’s experience. I consider how light shifts throughout the day, how sound might influence perception, and how the physical presence of the work changes depending on where and how it’s exhibited. In that sense, filmmaking hasn’t just influenced my artistic perspective—it has fundamentally reshaped both the way I see and the way I create.
Q: Walk us through your creative process—how do you move from an initial concept to a fully realized project, whether it’s a painting, film, or other medium?
My creative process often begins with a memory or an experience that lingers in my mind. I tend to collect fragments—textures, bits of conversation, or a certain melody that I want to explore. From there, I start journaling ideas that might not yet make sense but feel connected in some way.
If I’m working on a film, I begin by developing a visual language—like a frame that feels like a painting. From there, I start creating mood boards, testing different lighting scenarios, and considering how movement and framing can shape the emotional tone. I think about the environment as much as the characters: How does space shape the way a story is told? What details should be emphasized, and what should be left unsaid?
Once I have a clear vision, I refine the structure—write a script, create a storyboard, and construct a sequence of images. But I also leave room for discovery—some of the most compelling moments in my work come from unexpected shifts in the process, like the way a painting evolves through layering or how a scene in a film changes when an actor brings something unplanned.
When it comes to realizing a project, I think a lot about texture, pacing, and how the viewer engages with the work. Whether it’s a painting, an installation, or a film, I want the final piece to feel immersive—to draw the audience into a world that is both deeply personal yet open to interpretation.
Q: Can you discuss a significant challenge or breakthrough moment in merging your artistic practice with filmmaking, and how you navigated it?
One of the biggest challenges I faced early on was reconciling the solitary nature of painting with the collaborative nature of filmmaking. In painting, I have full autonomy over every decision. But in film, I had to learn how to communicate my vision to a team, trust other creatives to make it happen, and let go of control in certain areas. Initially, this was frustrating—I wanted to be involved in every detail, from set design to editing. However, I quickly realized that the most powerful films come from trusting the process and embracing collaboration.
A major breakthrough came when I started thinking about filmmaking as a form of expanded painting—rather than seeing the two practices as separate, I began integrating painterly approaches into my films. For example, I started experimenting with how light could function as a brushstroke, how movement could create texture, and how color palettes could evoke an emotional state beyond dialogue.
Q: In what ways do your personal experiences or cultural background shape the stories you tell, and how do you incorporate social or environmental concerns into your work?
My work is deeply personal, even when it isn’t autobiographical. I’m drawn to stories of memory, displacement, and the way time softens or distorts our perception of the past. Growing up in a culture that values tradition while simultaneously navigating a world in constant flux has made me particularly attuned to the themes of transition, identity, and the in-between spaces where belonging feels both familiar and uncertain.
I find myself drawn to the emotional landscapes of people who feel out of place, who exist on the margins, or who are caught between different worlds. This naturally extends to broader social and environmental themes as well—I see personal history and collective history as intertwined. Whether I’m working in film or visual art, I strive to create pieces that reflect not just individual emotions but also the larger forces shaping them.
Incorporating social and environmental concerns into my work isn’t about being overtly didactic; rather, it’s about creating an emotional space where these issues can be felt on a human level. For example, I think a lot about how landscapes carry memory—how places bear the weight of history, erasure, and renewal. In film, this might manifest in the way I frame a location, the way a character interacts with their environment, or the absence of something once present. In painting, it might mean working with materials that have a physical connection to the subject, layering textures that hint at what’s been covered or lost.
Q: With so many mediums and emerging technologies available, how do you decide which tools or platforms best serve each new project? Do you think about where your paintings will hang and their impact throughout your process?
Each project begins with a feeling—an atmosphere I want to explore—and from there, I determine the medium that will best express it. Sometimes, that feeling calls for the intimacy of a single image, and I turn to painting. Other times, it demands storytelling, duration, and dialogue, and it becomes a film. I don’t see medium as a limitation but as a vessel for experience, and I try to stay open to the possibilities that new technologies offer in expanding that experience.
When it comes to painting and installation work, I do think about space and context throughout the process. I consider how a piece will live in relation to the viewer—how they will move around it, what their physical relationship to the work will be, and how light, scale, and texture will alter their perception. Even for my recent exhibition, Mae-Deup, which is at Galerie Shibumi, I walked around to see each corner and room and calculated when the audience would see this work. When they walk in, how would they react? Similarly, in filmmaking, I think about where and how a film will be experienced: will it be seen on a massive screen in a dark theater, or will it be encountered in a more immersive, site-specific setting? The viewing environment fundamentally affects how a story is felt, so I try to be intentional about these decisions.
Q: Film projects often involve large teams—how do you balance collaboration with maintaining a cohesive artistic and design vision?
Collaboration is one of the most rewarding aspects of filmmaking, but it also requires a delicate balance between structure and openness. I see my role as both a guide and a listener—I come into a project with a clear vision, but I also trust my collaborators to bring their own insights, interpretations, and expertise.
One of the ways I maintain a cohesive vision is by establishing a strong visual and emotional language from the outset. This includes detailed references, mood boards, and discussions that go beyond logistics and into the feeling of the film—what we want the audience to experience on a visceral level. I believe that if everyone involved understands the emotional core of the project, the details will naturally align.
At the same time, I embrace the unexpected. Some of the most powerful moments in filmmaking arise from improvisation—an actor’s spontaneous gesture, the way light shifts unexpectedly, or a happy accident in production. Being open to these moments while still holding onto the film’s essence is what makes collaboration so exciting.
Q: What impact do you hope your work has on viewers, and how do you envision audiences interacting with or reflecting on your art and films?
I hope my work lingers. Not necessarily in a loud or obvious way, but in a way that seeps into the subconscious—like a memory resurfacing later, revealing something that wasn’t immediately clear. I’m more interested in evoking a feeling rather than delivering a fixed message.
I love when viewers find personal connections to my work that I hadn’t anticipated. A single image, a particular sound, or a moment of stillness might remind them of something from their own lives, and that interaction transforms the work into something that far exceeds my original intent. That’s why I try to leave space for interpretation—to create an experience rather than dictate an outcome.
I also think a lot about slowness and attention. In an age of constant digital stimulation, I want to create work that asks viewers to pause, to sit with an image for a moment longer than they might expect. Whether it’s a film, a painting, or an installation, I want it to function as a place of harmony and reflection—providing an opportunity to see, feel, and remember.
Q: What advice would you offer to emerging creatives seeking to blend art and film, and what upcoming projects or directions are you most excited about?
My advice is to embrace experimentation. Don’t feel confined by traditional boundaries between mediums—let them inform and expand one another. Pay attention to what draws you in, what holds your attention, and follow that curiosity. Sometimes the most interesting creative breakthroughs happen when you step outside of what feels safe or familiar.
Be patient with the creative process—it is often nonlinear, and it’s okay to not have everything figured out immediately. Trust that every project, even the ones that feel unfinished or unsuccessful, is contributing to your larger artistic language.
As for my own work, I’m currently excited about finding new ways to bridge physical and cinematic experiences. I’ve been exploring installation-based storytelling, where film exists not just as something to be watched but as part of a larger, immersive environment. I’m also interested in collaborations that push the boundaries of traditional exhibition formats, creating experiences that bring audiences into the world of a film in a more tangible, sensory way.
Ultimately, I’m always searching for ways to bring people into a space—whether that’s a literal space, an emotional space, or a space of memory. True success is when an audience member is able to see what I see, but frame the story in a way that not only embraces their history but also paves the way for their future.