HYUNGMIN PAI

Hyungmin Pai, portrait.

Hyungmin Pai is an architectural historian, critic, and curator. Twice a Fulbright Scholar, he received his Ph.D. from the History, Theory, and Criticism program at MIT. He has taught at the Rhode Island School of Design and Washington University in St. Louis and is presently a professor at the University of Seoul. He is the author of Portfolio and the Diagram, Sensuous Plan: The Architecture of Seung H-Sang, and The Key Concepts of Korean Architecture. For the Venice Biennale, he was twice curator for the Korean Pavilion (2008, 2014), and a participant in the Common Pavilions project (2012). In 2014, the Korean Pavilion was awarded the Golden Lion for best national participation. Climate Museum; Life and Death of our Homes, the first art museum exhibition on climate change in Korea, was awarded the Red Dot Award for its innovative exhibition design. He was the Artistic  Director of the inaugural Seoul Biennale of Architecture and Urbanism and the 5th Gwangju Folly.

LUCIJA ŠUTEJ: My first question is how has your approach to presenting and exhibiting architecture as a medium evolved over the years. You’ve worked on so many biennials and festivals—how has your curatorial practice changed?

HYUNGMIN PAI: For a long time, I had identified myself foremost as a historian, and then later added the title of critic. I have been primarily a writer, but for the past decade, have focused on the work of creating exhibitions. Through a series of curatorial experiences, I started to develop my methodology. I’ve written about this a bit. Once I established an idea of what an architectural exhibition could be and how its curatorial methods might differ from, say, an art exhibition, I began to identify myself as a curator.

This methodology became clear during the 2014 Venice Biennale, where I was curator for the Korean Pavilion. We won the Golden Lion, certainly a significant achievement. But the process was as important as the result. Every exhibition is a team effort. There was great camaraderie and collaborative dynamism among the curatorial team and the participants. During that process, I had a specific role—I wasn’t the chief curator but was organically tasked with handling the theoretical aspects of the project, and hence the editing of the catalog. Through the curatorial process - interactions with other curators, designers, and participants - I was able to articulate ideas about the particularity of architectural exhibitions. I gained a sense of confidence about how to approach different kinds of exhibitions.

After the Korean Pavilion’s success, I became more widely recognized as a curator. My scholarly work had never garnered as much attention, but the Venice Biennale opened up new opportunities. As my curatorial practice expanded, I began directing major international biennials. Another key shift during the past decade has been my focus on climate change. For someone of my generation in Korea, where modernization had long been the key agenda, engagement with climate change is a rare and difficult task. Through curatorial practice, I broadened my scope beyond my academic expertise. This has now become a central topic in both my research and curatorial work.

Crow's Eye View, Korean Pavilion at the Venice Biennale. Copyright of Kyungsub Shin.

LŠ: You mentioned that engagement with climate change is a rare and difficult task in Korea - why?

HP: Compared to other advanced capitalist countries, I think it’s because Korean society is still very state-centered. While the government acknowledges climate change as a major issue, politicians and the media do not. There are policy initiatives, research, and activism, but the larger society doesn’t fully understand or commit to the issue. For example, in our last parliamentary election, both right- and left-wing parties included climate change on their agenda, but it was far from a central issue.

Again, I think it’s because Korea has long viewed itself as an icon of modernization and growth. The idea of sustainability, of a “green economy” is seen as a tool for growth rather than a fundamental shift in how we approach our economic and social system, and our presence on Earth. It is a paralyzed worldview, which can also be seen in its inability to deal with its radically low birth rate and rapid aging. 

LŠ: Let’s shift to the latest Gwangju Folly project, which you curated. What about the platform do you admire - and also which past editions did you find particularly inspiring and why? What do you think sets this manifestation apart from other projects you worked on so far? 

HP: What’s special about the Gwangju Folly is that a regional government has consistently funded and promoted experimental architecture. I don’t know of any other public entity that has sustained this kind of project for over a decade. Architecture is rarely experimental—it’s usually tied to practical needs, bureaucracies, and established building industries. Actually building something experimental is very novel.

I directed the fifth edition, but all the previous editions included interesting projects. Some were daring; some were nonsensical to the point that it was unbelievable that they were allowed to be built; some were very well-executed, particularly projects that integrated with the urban setting. I wouldn’t single out one edition, but the continuity of the Gwangju Folly is impressive.

This continuity, however, is not without controversy. There is and has been debate about whether the Gwangju city government should continue support for this initiative. Many question whether the public funds invested are worth the results. Part of the citizenry and certain public officials don’t understand the value of these experimental structures, and there’s always some discontent about their practicality.

Climate Museum. Photo Jung Dong Goo.

LŠ: You’ve titled the latest Gwangju Folly, Re:Folly. A testing platform for both curatorial and architectural practices, particularly in experimenting with materials. Could you elaborate on that?

HP: Yes, I’m very proud of this aspect of Re:Folly. There’s been a lot of experimentation in the laboratory, academic studios, and exhibition installations. But to actually build houses, occupied and used, with this experimental approach; that is extremely rare. It is the key contribution of the Re:Folly.

There were two main curatorial challenges: one was the professional side, dealing with architects, material processes, and construction logistics; the other was navigating the bureaucracy. Early in the process, city officials and the Biennale organization were uncertain about my direction. But as the projects took shape and were built, they understood the value of what we were doing.

LŠ: We spoke about the role of duration (of projects) in shaping public spaces. How did you see this through the lens of Folly? How do you see the impact of Gwangju Folly on the further cultural planning and urbanism developments of the cities of the future?

HP: The Gwangju Folly operates within a Biennale framework, and hence I had the authority of an artistic director. But because it’s a publicly funded project, I had to balance curatorial freedom with public accountability. The most difficult practicality was embedding R&D funding into the artist contracts. I had to explain to the biennale administration why research into new materials was necessary. Emphasizing the regional and local value of the projects helped justify their investment. But because of the nature of this framework, my interaction with the public officials crucial to the activation of public spaces was limited. Public spaces are created by civic activity and not just by building. I allotted a budget for public programs that were quite successful but there has to be continuity after the Biennale funding is no longer available.  

LŠ: You’ve described Gwangju Folly as a modern jeongja, a communal space for gathering and dialogue. How does this concept challenge the Western notion of folly as an ornamental structure? 

HP: I don’t necessarily contrast the two. In today’s milieu of concern with climate change and social equity, the architectural folly has to be justified. Projects like the Serpentine Pavilion or the MPavilion in Melbourne are exceptional. The Gwangju Folly is unique in its regional focus and my edition’s focus on material experimentation is 

The traditional Korean pavilion, or jeongja, was a space for literati to gather and share knowledge. It wasn’t just a physical structure but a node in a network of knowledge and experience. Similarly, I envision the Gwangju Follies as connections between local and global, and with my fifth edition, I wanted this nexus to revolve around material research.

LŠ: How do you see the jeongja tradition evolving in contemporary urban contexts, especially in a city like Gwangju? 

HP: The jeongja tradition is really up to the community. I believe I contributed to the Gwangju locality with the Re:Folly projects, but I am an outsider. It is up to the local citizenry to activate the potential places created by the follies.

LŠ: Your vision for the platform was to emphasize the use of repurposed and renewable materials. Why is material research so central to your curatorial practice? 

HP: Growing up as a modernist, one of my key interests was in tectonics. In its modern iteration, tectonics is an issue of material and representation, object and subject. My interest in material continues as I transition away from a modernist paradigm to one of networks of production, consumption, and circulation. It is a theme that provides an important intellectual continuity, not just at a personal level, but because change never stops.

LŠ: ​​I would love to hear how you divided the chapters of the Re:Folly. 

HP: First and foremost, I wanted range and diversity in terms of regional background, experience, approach, material expertise, etc. From the Japanese master Toyo Ito to the young Korean team of BARE, from the industrially established wood to handcrafted lacquer and engineered seaweed bioplastics, I wanted to show a diversity of approaches to material application in architecture. Curating is essentially a dialogical process. You approach potential participants without knowing what they will eventually do. That is the whole point of the curatorial process; that is to open up possibilities. You must present a strong but open vision that allows for a range of possibilities that the participants will realize.

LŠ: Speaking of material research, a special case is the Eco Hanok project, which looked at an important topic of preservation and the active relearning of traditional building techniques. 

HP: Yes, the Eco Hanok project was interesting because it involved a dilapidated traditional Korean house, a hanok as we call it. The architects—Assemble, BC Architects & Studies & Materials, and Atelier LUMA—didn’t initially fully understand the implications of working on a hanok. Eventually, the project became a fusion of traditional Korean building techniques and experimental material research, particularly in the use of hot lime.

There was a lot of cross-learning between Korean builders/artisans and European architects. For example, the insulation method ultimately used the traditional Korean technique of bamboo frame, earth, and burned rice husk, countering the European team’s initial proposals. These discussions were incredibly rich and could fill an entire publication. (laughs)

Eco Hanok - shell lime brick wall. Photo by Lee Sang Hoon.

LŠ: In specific I also wanted to turn —— you worked very closely with many researchers and institutions on the development of new approaches to the building process — how can we tie the research industry closer to architectural practices?

HP: We need actual building projects that allow experimentation and research. Actual building facilitates material research to move beyond the laboratory and to work with the building and material industries. The challenges of climate change require a realignment of our industrial networks. For example, the hot lime for the bricks, plaster, and glazes wereeventually supplied by a company that primarily works with cleaners and disinfectants.

LŠ: Which architectural studies do you think are leading the way in material experimentation and why? 

HP: Material Design is the new multi-disciplinary field that has entered the university curriculum. The results are understandably uneven. The challenge is to set up a collaborative system, with architecture obviously in the mix, within the pedagogical system. This is difficult in the generally conservative, compartmentalized institutional system of the university. 

LŠ: The Urushi Shell project activated an ancient lacquer technique. Could you talk about its application and the importance of working with laboratories and scientists?

HP: The Urushi Shell project raised questions about the scope of sustainability, and what we mean by this term. Initially, the team planned to create a geocrete shell without formwork, but we switched to lacquer because the overall architectural quality of the geocrete project was just not satisfactory. Lacquer is essentially a high-quality bio-plastic. Its application is limited due to its high cost both in terms of the material itself and the labor-intensive craft process. How could we justify the use of such an expensive material when our agenda was sustainability? 

What was most interesting to me was the expansive potential of the interaction between architecture and craft. While lacquer will never be a common material, the project aimed to make the craft more accessible and relevant in contemporary architecture. For architecture, experimentation requires, almost forcing its participants to do hands-on work. Because there is no prior data, you have to make it yourself. Craft, on the other hand, is pushed to think, to go beyond its long-cherished conventions. The Urushi Shell highlighted the value of tactile knowledge and the democratization of craft. My sense was that it was a kind of Ruskinian practice of creative labour.  

Urushi Shell, photo by Lee Riwon.

LŠ: What potential do you see for traditional materials like urushi in contemporary architecture?

HP: Traditional materials, in their contemporary use, require clarity about purpose. It is a sense that reminds us that we sometimes mindlessly accept modern building conventions. Seaweed was long used as a binder in earth structures in Korea. Why use them now when cheaper industrial materials are available? Nostalgia cannot be the reason you revive older traditions because they will almost always be more expensive. You have to clarify why you are using them and that necessitates asking simple questions whose answers may not always be evident.

LŠ:Exploring the Projects: Process, Challenges, and Impact — the sections are very interesting because they simultaneously bind innovation with learning traditional techniques and knowledge. For example, Breathing Folly is one with a focus on the airflow. The Air Folly project focused on seaweed-based bioplastics and challenged the architects to work at the nanoscale. Could you elaborate on that - what impact do you see it leaving? 

HP: The Air Folly was a unique project because it required the Korean architects, BARE to engage with material chemistry. BARE is very familiar with pneumatic structures but the change from Polyurethane to Seaweed- based bioplastic was more fundamental than expected. The different performances of the material required a rethinking of the design process, form, and construction. This was a new experience for them, and it opened up new horizons in their understanding of materials. The project raised fundamental questions about scaling, building lifespan, and the life cycle of materials. These are issues practicing architects don’t usually face, but they became central to the Air Folly.

Air Folly, photo by Jang Sooin.

Air Folly mock-up. Photo by Jang Sooin.

LŠ: How has your perspective on architecture and design evolved through this process?

HP: I have always been a believer that a good process brings about good results. So Re:Folly was more a confirmation in this approach. But setting up a good process is easier said than done because new types of projects require new kinds of processes. For innovation in  contemporary architecture and design, you must have a practical grasp of the industrial, craft, and building systems that are embedded in architecture and design. This requires cultivating specific connections with many different agents that are usually not involved in artistic projects. It is difficult but the process of working with them is quite gratifying.