A Couple of Questions with
Hye-Ryong Min
(한국어로 보시려면 이곳을 클릭해 주세요)
“Much of my work begins with
We met Min Hye-ryoung at the beginning of spring, when the air wavered gently with warmth like a mirage.
Her series The Hours Breathe had caught our attention for the way it held time with her children—quiet, almost still, like breath itself.
We were curious about the person behind such intimate stillness. Through conversation, we found a thread.
Min Hye-ryoung quietly unfolds the inexpressible—those emotions that elude clear language—through the medium of photography.
She has long worked with the camera, producing various bodies of work over time.
And yet, what threads her projects together is a common drive: a search for connection, personal release, and ultimately, communication.
She spoke of “emotional and relational loops” in her work. Perhaps all of us, in our own way, are tying and untying ourselves to others,
stepping forward, slipping sideways, walking our own paths.
Hye-ryoung has made bold, thoughtful decisions along hers—and we are eager to see what she shares next.
by Sanghee Choi, Harbour Press
Could you briefly introduce yourself?
My name is Min Hye-ryoung, and I work with photography.
I lived in the U.S. for 16 years and became a mother to twins while I was there.
Four years ago, my husband—also a photographer—and I returned to Korea to raise our family and continue our work together as artists.![]()
What first led you to photography?
If I go way back, I remember how rare it was for families to own cameras when I was in elementary school.
Whenever we had school outings, I’d proudly take an automatic camera with me.
Afterward, I’d rush to the photo lab, have the film developed, label the prints, and hand them out in envelopes.
I loved that process.
Later in university, I majored in German literature and studied advertising.
But photography kept pulling at me.
After graduation, I worked in a fashion studio, but I realized that if I stayed there too long, I’d become a studio photographer.
What I really wanted was to pursue my own work—so I decided to study abroad and headed to New York.
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So New York is where your photography practice truly began?
Yes. Going back to school came with some hesitation—I wanted to focus on making work, but I also had to relearn the basics.
Still, being a student comes with the perfect kind of “excuse,” if you will.
You have access to darkrooms, studios, facilities—so I made full use of that.
Later on, I attended the MFA program in Digital Photography at the School of Visual Arts,
where I learned more deeply about digital media and how to integrate it into my work.
Why did you choose New York in particular for your studies?
At the time I applied, it was nearly impossible to find information online.
You had to go to annual study-abroad fairs or visit bookstores in Jongno to flip through physical school guides.
Even contacting schools required clunky old email programs with blue Windows screens.
Honestly, I knew very little—didn’t even know whether New York was on the East or West Coast.
But I was drawn to it. I applied to several schools, but I focused mostly on New York.
It wasn’t about it being in the U.S.—New York felt like its own world,
a city with a singular presence that didn’t feel bound to any one country. That’s what drew me in.
And once you got there, what kind of character did you feel from the city?
Cities like Berlin, London, and New York have certain things in common, sure.
But America is a country shaped by immigrants—and New York sits at the very center of that.
It felt like a place where I could just be myself, without having to explain.
I didn’t fully grasp that before going, but once I lived there, I began to feel it:
that constant freshness, that overlapping of the unfamiliar and the familiar.
That tension kept the city alive for me—and kept me there.
When you approach a theme in photography, what do you consider most important?
Every artist probably values different aspects in their process.
For me, the moment of capturing the image is what matters most.
Since most of my work comes from personal narratives,
that single instant—when I release the shutter—is deeply meaningful.
It’s almost like a meditation I offer to myself.
Editing, selecting, exhibiting, building a portfolio or book—
those are structural stages that matter too, of course.
But what I try to express within the image is something less visible:
the ties between people. These could be emotional knots,
conflicts, affirmations—or memories.
Those are the recurring keywords in my work.
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That sensitivity really shows in your work. The Hours Breathe is a great example.
My subjects are never predetermined.
Sometimes it’s a passerby on the street,
sometimes it’s the neighbor I see outside my window,
sometimes it’s my niece.
But the work always begins from something happening in my life.
![]()
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![]()
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Take Personal Landscape, for instance.
Even as a child, I vaguely believed I’d have to leave Korea one day.
When I finally boarded the plane to the U.S., I cried the entire way.
And once I arrived in New York, I kept looking for Korea—
“If I turn that corner, maybe I’ll see the alley behind my house.”
“If I look up, maybe I’ll see the mountain.”
I kept wondering, “Where do I belong?”
“Where is this confusion headed?”
“Do I miss this place, or that one?”
And then when I came back to Korea,
I missed that tiny room in New York terribly.
So I started archiving both cities and eventually made a digital composite series.
That became Personal Landscape.
![]()
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![]()
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![]()
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Also for The Hours Breathe
It began when I became a mother in 2018.
With twin boys and no support nearby, I couldn’t even step outside the house.
Life felt like a hamster wheel.
Then one day, I began to feel like the objects around me were speaking.
Like they were saying, “Hey, you’ve never even greeted me.”
That’s how the photographing began—very naturally.
![]()
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The series regarding my old diaries, I had always thought I should do something with the journals I’d kept over the years.
But I didn’t have the courage to even open the box I had brought back from Korea.
Eventually, I made a promise to myself: “Before I turn 40, I’m going to face this.”
It felt like homework I had to finish.
So I became an artist-in-residence at a place in Woodstock, and that’s where I worked on it.
Writing a diary is already a kind of distortion.
It’s always from your point of view.
There must have been distortion even at the time I wrote them.
Then, re-reading them and translating them into photographs—
that created yet another layer of memory reconstruction.
I found that process incredibly compelling.
The Korean title is 기억의 재구성; in English, I called it Re-membrance of the Remembrance.
It’s about observing how memory shifts and reshapes itself inside me.
In The Hours Breathe, there’s a deep sense of calm in the way you captured time with your children. As a parent myself, I know how chaotic life with kids can be. Now that your children have entered school, do you ever reflect back on that series?
Yes—like you said, the kids have grown into more fully-formed little people.
They now share more of my world.
They drink from the same cups, sleep under the same blankets.
They can even flip through my photobooks without damaging them.
So at some point, I felt this work had reached its end.
It was time to close that chapter.
That said, life today isn’t necessarily more peaceful or less chaotic.
It’s still a mess sometimes.
Looking back, many of the objects I photographed have already become part of the past.
Some, the kids don’t even remember.
Other times, they’ll say, “Oh yeah, I remember this!”
play with it for a while, and forget it again the next day.
![]()
![]()
Documenting their things—these moments—has become a habit for me.
It’s hard to throw anything away.
Even the kids say now, “Mom, you should photograph this. From the front. From the top. Make sure its face shows. It’s become something of a family routine.
When they were little, I could only shoot while they napped.
But now that they’re older, they understand what I’m doing.
Even when they catch a bug, they’ll say, “We’re letting it go—but first, take its picture!”
For both you and your husband, Korea might feel unfamiliar in many ways.
Yes, my husband Jaime has lived in Guatemala, Israel, and New York—and still feels like a foreigner here in Korea.
He speaks many languages and is used to a nomadic life, but Korea is different.
Being in Asia, the language barrier is much higher, and even though he studied some Korean, it’s tough.
His recent solo exhibition was titled Blindness, which perhaps speaks to that feeling.
It’s his way of processing and accepting this phase of life.
For me, it’s been similar.
I didn’t study photography in Korea, and I had already left for New York before beginning my practice.
So when we returned, I didn’t quite know how things worked here.
A lot had changed in 16 years.
Honestly, I felt as lost as he did—like a foreigner in my own country.
In 2023, you were selected for KT&G SKOPF and are currently part of Sarubia Gallery’s outreach & support program. How do you see the working environment for artists in Korea compared to New York?
In New York, even if I had an exhibition, it might be on the West Coast—and I wouldn’t be able to attend.
Meetings were always on Zoom. Artwork had to be sent via air freight.
The scale was just different.
But opportunities came more freely, not just in the U.S. but internationally.
In New York, I felt like the art world wasn’t so divided by national borders.
In Korea, the art scene is smaller, so things feel closer—both physically and psychologically.
That has its advantages too.
In the end, it all comes down to people and relationships, no matter where you are.
One clear difference is that here, if you receive government funding,
you have to report everything.
Each step is documented.
Overseas, once you get the grant, that’s often it.
Artists don’t just work 24/7—we pay rent, we feed our kids.
So whether the money goes toward baby formula or film,
I think that choice should be the artist’s to make.
Still, I appreciate how many kinds of support are available in Korea.
That’s definitely a positive.
As you settle back into life in Korea, is there a particular theme you're currently interested in—perhaps a glimpse of your next project?
When I think about the images in The Hours Breathe,
what’s not visible is the chaos behind the camera: crying children, piles of dishes, endless laundry.
What you see in the frame is the stillness I longed for.
It wasn’t that my life was calm—I was breathless.
And in those moments, the objects and the stillness helped me breathe.
That’s why the work feels so quiet.
These days, I find myself drawn to rural landscapes and nature—not because they’re beautiful, but because I catch glimpses of myself in them. I don’t yet know what form that will take.
But I’d like to try.
![]()
Portrait of the photographer, Hye-Ryong Min
All photos included in this post, copyrights to Hye-Ryong Min
Hye-Ryong Min
(한국어로 보시려면 이곳을 클릭해 주세요)
“Much of my work begins with
personal narratives.
For me, the act of capturing
those stories through the camera—in that fleeting moment—
is what matters most.”
We met Min Hye-ryoung at the beginning of spring, when the air wavered gently with warmth like a mirage.
Her series The Hours Breathe had caught our attention for the way it held time with her children—quiet, almost still, like breath itself.
We were curious about the person behind such intimate stillness. Through conversation, we found a thread.
Min Hye-ryoung quietly unfolds the inexpressible—those emotions that elude clear language—through the medium of photography.
She has long worked with the camera, producing various bodies of work over time.
And yet, what threads her projects together is a common drive: a search for connection, personal release, and ultimately, communication.
She spoke of “emotional and relational loops” in her work. Perhaps all of us, in our own way, are tying and untying ourselves to others,
stepping forward, slipping sideways, walking our own paths.
Hye-ryoung has made bold, thoughtful decisions along hers—and we are eager to see what she shares next.
by Sanghee Choi, Harbour Press
Could you briefly introduce yourself?
My name is Min Hye-ryoung, and I work with photography.
I lived in the U.S. for 16 years and became a mother to twins while I was there.
Four years ago, my husband—also a photographer—and I returned to Korea to raise our family and continue our work together as artists.
What first led you to photography?
If I go way back, I remember how rare it was for families to own cameras when I was in elementary school.
Whenever we had school outings, I’d proudly take an automatic camera with me.
Afterward, I’d rush to the photo lab, have the film developed, label the prints, and hand them out in envelopes.
I loved that process.
Later in university, I majored in German literature and studied advertising.
But photography kept pulling at me.
After graduation, I worked in a fashion studio, but I realized that if I stayed there too long, I’d become a studio photographer.
What I really wanted was to pursue my own work—so I decided to study abroad and headed to New York.
So New York is where your photography practice truly began?
Yes. Going back to school came with some hesitation—I wanted to focus on making work, but I also had to relearn the basics.
Still, being a student comes with the perfect kind of “excuse,” if you will.
You have access to darkrooms, studios, facilities—so I made full use of that.
Later on, I attended the MFA program in Digital Photography at the School of Visual Arts,
where I learned more deeply about digital media and how to integrate it into my work.
Why did you choose New York in particular for your studies?
At the time I applied, it was nearly impossible to find information online.
You had to go to annual study-abroad fairs or visit bookstores in Jongno to flip through physical school guides.
Even contacting schools required clunky old email programs with blue Windows screens.
Honestly, I knew very little—didn’t even know whether New York was on the East or West Coast.
But I was drawn to it. I applied to several schools, but I focused mostly on New York.
It wasn’t about it being in the U.S.—New York felt like its own world,
a city with a singular presence that didn’t feel bound to any one country. That’s what drew me in.
And once you got there, what kind of character did you feel from the city?
Cities like Berlin, London, and New York have certain things in common, sure.
But America is a country shaped by immigrants—and New York sits at the very center of that.
It felt like a place where I could just be myself, without having to explain.
I didn’t fully grasp that before going, but once I lived there, I began to feel it:
that constant freshness, that overlapping of the unfamiliar and the familiar.
That tension kept the city alive for me—and kept me there.
When you approach a theme in photography, what do you consider most important?
Every artist probably values different aspects in their process.
For me, the moment of capturing the image is what matters most.
Since most of my work comes from personal narratives,
that single instant—when I release the shutter—is deeply meaningful.
It’s almost like a meditation I offer to myself.
Editing, selecting, exhibiting, building a portfolio or book—
those are structural stages that matter too, of course.
But what I try to express within the image is something less visible:
the ties between people. These could be emotional knots,
conflicts, affirmations—or memories.
Those are the recurring keywords in my work.
That sensitivity really shows in your work. The Hours Breathe is a great example.
My subjects are never predetermined.
Sometimes it’s a passerby on the street,
sometimes it’s the neighbor I see outside my window,
sometimes it’s my niece.
But the work always begins from something happening in my life.
Take Personal Landscape, for instance.
Even as a child, I vaguely believed I’d have to leave Korea one day.
When I finally boarded the plane to the U.S., I cried the entire way.
And once I arrived in New York, I kept looking for Korea—
“If I turn that corner, maybe I’ll see the alley behind my house.”
“If I look up, maybe I’ll see the mountain.”
I kept wondering, “Where do I belong?”
“Where is this confusion headed?”
“Do I miss this place, or that one?”
And then when I came back to Korea,
I missed that tiny room in New York terribly.
So I started archiving both cities and eventually made a digital composite series.
That became Personal Landscape.
Also for The Hours Breathe
It began when I became a mother in 2018.
With twin boys and no support nearby, I couldn’t even step outside the house.
Life felt like a hamster wheel.
Then one day, I began to feel like the objects around me were speaking.
Like they were saying, “Hey, you’ve never even greeted me.”
That’s how the photographing began—very naturally.
The series regarding my old diaries, I had always thought I should do something with the journals I’d kept over the years.
But I didn’t have the courage to even open the box I had brought back from Korea.
Eventually, I made a promise to myself: “Before I turn 40, I’m going to face this.”
It felt like homework I had to finish.
So I became an artist-in-residence at a place in Woodstock, and that’s where I worked on it.
Writing a diary is already a kind of distortion.
It’s always from your point of view.
There must have been distortion even at the time I wrote them.
Then, re-reading them and translating them into photographs—
that created yet another layer of memory reconstruction.
I found that process incredibly compelling.
The Korean title is 기억의 재구성; in English, I called it Re-membrance of the Remembrance.
It’s about observing how memory shifts and reshapes itself inside me.
In The Hours Breathe, there’s a deep sense of calm in the way you captured time with your children. As a parent myself, I know how chaotic life with kids can be. Now that your children have entered school, do you ever reflect back on that series?
Yes—like you said, the kids have grown into more fully-formed little people.
They now share more of my world.
They drink from the same cups, sleep under the same blankets.
They can even flip through my photobooks without damaging them.
So at some point, I felt this work had reached its end.
It was time to close that chapter.
That said, life today isn’t necessarily more peaceful or less chaotic.
It’s still a mess sometimes.
Looking back, many of the objects I photographed have already become part of the past.
Some, the kids don’t even remember.
Other times, they’ll say, “Oh yeah, I remember this!”
play with it for a while, and forget it again the next day.
Documenting their things—these moments—has become a habit for me.
It’s hard to throw anything away.
Even the kids say now, “Mom, you should photograph this. From the front. From the top. Make sure its face shows. It’s become something of a family routine.
When they were little, I could only shoot while they napped.
But now that they’re older, they understand what I’m doing.
Even when they catch a bug, they’ll say, “We’re letting it go—but first, take its picture!”
For both you and your husband, Korea might feel unfamiliar in many ways.
Yes, my husband Jaime has lived in Guatemala, Israel, and New York—and still feels like a foreigner here in Korea.
He speaks many languages and is used to a nomadic life, but Korea is different.
Being in Asia, the language barrier is much higher, and even though he studied some Korean, it’s tough.
His recent solo exhibition was titled Blindness, which perhaps speaks to that feeling.
It’s his way of processing and accepting this phase of life.
For me, it’s been similar.
I didn’t study photography in Korea, and I had already left for New York before beginning my practice.
So when we returned, I didn’t quite know how things worked here.
A lot had changed in 16 years.
Honestly, I felt as lost as he did—like a foreigner in my own country.
In 2023, you were selected for KT&G SKOPF and are currently part of Sarubia Gallery’s outreach & support program. How do you see the working environment for artists in Korea compared to New York?
In New York, even if I had an exhibition, it might be on the West Coast—and I wouldn’t be able to attend.
Meetings were always on Zoom. Artwork had to be sent via air freight.
The scale was just different.
But opportunities came more freely, not just in the U.S. but internationally.
In New York, I felt like the art world wasn’t so divided by national borders.
In Korea, the art scene is smaller, so things feel closer—both physically and psychologically.
That has its advantages too.
In the end, it all comes down to people and relationships, no matter where you are.
One clear difference is that here, if you receive government funding,
you have to report everything.
Each step is documented.
Overseas, once you get the grant, that’s often it.
Artists don’t just work 24/7—we pay rent, we feed our kids.
So whether the money goes toward baby formula or film,
I think that choice should be the artist’s to make.
Still, I appreciate how many kinds of support are available in Korea.
That’s definitely a positive.
As you settle back into life in Korea, is there a particular theme you're currently interested in—perhaps a glimpse of your next project?
When I think about the images in The Hours Breathe,
what’s not visible is the chaos behind the camera: crying children, piles of dishes, endless laundry.
What you see in the frame is the stillness I longed for.
It wasn’t that my life was calm—I was breathless.
And in those moments, the objects and the stillness helped me breathe.
That’s why the work feels so quiet.
These days, I find myself drawn to rural landscapes and nature—not because they’re beautiful, but because I catch glimpses of myself in them. I don’t yet know what form that will take.
But I’d like to try.
Portrait of the photographer, Hye-Ryong MinAll photos included in this post, copyrights to Hye-Ryong Min