The Walk is gradus’s interview series featuring creators and artists who inspire us to imagine a better life. As we step into their worlds, we walk through the creative landscapes they have cultivated. Walking has long been a powerful metaphor for life’s journey. To follow in someone’s footsteps is not just about tracing their gait—it’s an attempt to understand the trajectory of their life. By exploring their journeys, we hope to spark flexible thinking and creative energy in your own.

Once a boy who mapped the world through martial arts, Kim Kyung-tae now walks the terrain of his studio. He moves through the space, observing objects from various angles—sometimes passing by, sometimes pausing to take a closer look—before capturing the scene in a single shot. Aware that one photograph can never capture the full story, he layers fragments of his images, enduring the physical strain on his shoulders and eyes. Since 2012, Kim has refined his distinctive approach to observation. We took a brief walk with him through his small yet infinitely explorable workspace.

A Productive Escape

What was the moment or event that marked your “first step” into photography?

I majored in graphic design in college, but I had always been deeply interested in photography. I started with it as a hobby, and eventually, I compiled some of my photos into a self-published book. Looking back, that project feels like the first real step toward a photography career.

Did you work on those projects alone?

This was around 2008 or 2009. I joined an independent publishing workshop run by Mediabus, where I met some friends who later formed a project group with me. Using a mix of my undergraduate work and new photos, I published my own photography collection. We called ourselves “Flatplan,” and we even held a small event at “The Books,” located on the first floor of the Art Sonje Center.

But if I had to pinpoint my transition into professional photography, it would be the series I worked on between 2011 and 2012—photographs of neon motel signs at night and commercial-residential buildings.

I first came across your work when you were photographing stones. Was that before your <On the Rocks> series?

Yes, that project came earlier. Before <On the Rocks>, I worked on a series capturing the shapes of motel façade lights glowing in the dark, the side and rear views of buildings from parking lots, and the forms of old commercial-residential complexes.

Before you fully committed to photography, you studied graphic design. How does that background still influence your work today?

Definitely. My approach to photography still carries the methodologies I learned in graphic design—it’s something I spent a lot of time doing.

Can you explain further?

Like, I'm used to working within constraints—whatever they may be—and finding creative solutions.

In graphic design, the biggest constraint is often the client. But photography doesn’t work quite the same way, does it?

That’s the key difference. But in photography, there are still limitations—deadlines, budgets, and decisions about how and where the work will be presented. A significant part of my process is figuring out how to navigate these constraints while staying true to my artistic vision. Over time, I’ve come to view problem-solving as an essential part of my creative process.

I also notice a difference when I talk to photographers who trained exclusively in photography. While the content of the work is important, for me, the final form is often influenced by where and how the work will be presented.

So, it wasn’t that you disliked graphic design? Some designers leave the field because they want to escape the constant pressure of solving problems for clients.

Right, it wasn’t that I disliked design. Actually, there was a time when I was planning to switch to a completely different field. Even if I had left design, I planned to continue photography as a hobby. But a friend encouraged me to take it more seriously, and that’s when I realized I wanted it to be more than just a hobby. So, I set aside my other plans and went abroad to study photography.

So you left everything behind and went straight overseas to study?

In a way, yes, it was kind of an escape.

What did you major in there?

At the time, the program was called Art Direction, although I’ve heard it’s since been divided into more specialized fields.

In the first year, we studied type design, graphic design, and photography, before selecting a focus in the second year. I initially liked the flexibility of working across disciplines, but once I focused on photography, I didn’t have the time or energy to invest in design anymore. These days, I still apply my design background in small ways—like organizing my portfolio or planning layouts when building shelves.

So for now, there’s no chance of returning to graphic design?

Not really—photography alone keeps me busy enough.

But perhaps one day, you might want to explore something entirely different?

True, that could happen.

Observer of an Uncharted Territory

When G Colon, the magazine company I used to work for, launched a book brand, your name came up repeatedly during our project planning. People kept saying you had a unique perspective and an extraordinary way of thinking. They believed that, whatever the subject, you’d create an incredible book.

Looking back, I guess they were right. But at the time, I didn’t fully realize it. Now, though, I see so many talented people around me.

Did it feel like you were working in uncharted territory back then?

I wouldn’t say it was completely uncharted, but I did wonder why no one else was approaching things the way I was. Of course, I’m sure there were others doing similar work behind the scenes.

Maybe there just weren’t many platforms to showcase or discover that kind of work?

That could be it. In the early days of my career, when I uploaded photos to social media, people would often say, “No one takes photos like this.” But I always thought, “If they see it and try, most people should be able to replicate it easily.”

I don’t think they could.

Of course, there are differences. It’s the same with design—experts can see the subtle nuances that are hard to replicate. But to someone outside the field, it might all look the same.

It seems really hard to imitate. I think your craftsmanship really shines through in your focus stacking techniques.

I’ve always considered that my strength, and I still do. But sometimes, I wonder if it’s worth all the time and effort.

I actually think there’s something valuable about not being efficient.

It’s rewarding, but also exhausting. I often feel like I’m pouring everything into my work. If I allowed for slight imperfections, I could achieve similar results with much less effort. I constantly struggle with how much energy to invest in details that most people won’t even notice.

But your effort really comes through. I can sense how much time you spend observing before taking a shot, even though it’s not immediately visible. If that’s true, where does your drive or motivation for observation come from?

Observing has been second nature to me since childhood. I lived in the countryside until I was ten—first in Hapcheon, Korea, until I was five, then in Geochang until I was ten. Every day, I’d go to the stream, catch fish, and collect stones. To catch fish, you have to watch them closely. Most fish and insects blend into their surroundings, and there were countless stones to sift through, so careful observation naturally became part of my daily routine.

Did you have companions?

Sometimes, but I usually went alone. Hapcheon was a really rural area, and there weren't many kids my age. There were some at the daycare in town, but they lived far away. In Geochang, I had neighbors, so we sometimes went together. Oh, and my father was really into bonsai and collecting stones.

Oh! That reminds me of a manga that was made into a movie called The Life of an Incompetent Man (無能の人). It’s about a father who collects and sells stones in a quiet rural village. His young son doesn’t understand him… I think you’d like it.

Observing Objects, Day by Day

Can you tell me about the physical and technical aspects of your work process?

I wouldn’t say I have a fixed process, but I spend most of my time simply observing. When I have something I want to photograph, I place it somewhere and leave it there for a while. I don’t stare at it constantly, but I keep it in one spot as I go about my day. I consider this part of my observation process—though some might call it procrastination.

That’s a bit eerie. When you’re not looking at it, it’s just sitting there, watching you.

It would be unsettling if it were a person, but since it’s just an object, it’s fine. Maybe that’s why I struggle with portrait photography.

Do you get a lot of requests for portraits?

Every now and then. It’s easier when it’s someone I know well. I can photograph people I’m comfortable with, but I wouldn’t say I’m particularly good at it. With portraits, you have to capture fleeting moments, and I find it hard to confidently say, "This angle, this moment, is the best."

So do you usually take multiple shots and then narrow them down?

For certain types of shoots, yes. Especially with buildings or certain events, I try to capture as many angles as possible.

Because you can't bring them back to your studio?

Exactly. But for small objects, instead of taking countless shots, I observe them for a long time before choosing a single moment to capture. Within that moment, I might make slight adjustments, like changing the angle or tweaking the lighting.

That sounds pretty demanding. You're dealing with a changing environment and time constraints.

(Un)Archiving and the Question of Consistency

You’ve been a photographer for a little over ten years. Has your workload fluctuated much during that time?

When I was in Switzerland, I didn’t take on much outside work—I felt I needed time for myself. Right before I left, I had a sense that I could start a real career in photography, but I was afraid of diving in too quickly. I wanted to experiment more on my own first, so I went abroad. That’s why I’ve described it as an escape.

But it wasn’t just an escape from something—it was also an escape toward something, which sounds more positive. Do you have more control over your workload now?

Since I came back to Korea, I’ve been really busy. But if you only looked at my social media, it might seem like I’m not consistent because I sometimes delay uploading things for months, even a year.

So, do you keep an online archive of your work?

No, I don’t even have a website. It would be great to have a space where I could present my full process. If I had to name my biggest challenge right now, it would be building a website.

Are you planning to build it yourself?

No, I’m already overwhelmed with photography, so I plan to hire someone for development and design. Looking back, I haven’t taken more than two days off in a row in the last five years. I’ve never taken a vacation just to relax.

That’s the life of a digital nomad—always connected, even when you’re supposed to be on vacation.

Exactly. Balancing personal work with client projects leaves little room for breaks. When it comes to exhibitions, I always try to showcase new works instead of reusing old ones.

That must take a lot of energy. And if you ever decide to properly archive your work, that’ll require even more effort.

Yes. I try to explore different things whenever possible—whether a project is short or long, I always aim to create something new. That’s why I was surprised when you mentioned inconsistency in my work. I always feel like I’m working, and people often ask why I work so much.

Well, your name does pop up here and there. The impression of inconsistency might actually come from the lack of an archive. It doesn’t feel like you set a timeline but instead let your work lead you.

That’s right—I’m constantly in motion. As long as the conditions aren’t too extreme, I try to participate in exhibitions whenever possible.

Saying, “As long as the conditions aren’t too extreme” is something you decide beforehand, but once you're deep into a project, challenges inevitably arise. Have you ever taken on a project and later thought, “Maybe I shouldn’t have done this—it was too difficult?”

Almost every time! I often ask myself why I agreed to something in the first place.

But you wouldn’t be satisfied otherwise.

Is it really about satisfaction, though?

Maybe it’s like a crustacean molting—you have to keep shedding and evolving. Have you ever left a project unfinished?

I always find a way to finish. I’m not usually meticulous or perfectionistic in daily life, but when it comes to work, I want things to be perfect. That pressure brings constant stress, but it also pushes me to create work I’m proud of. Sometimes, I realize I actually enjoy the struggle.

You seem driven by a restless desire for newness, constantly publishing new works and pursuing change. Do you find it hard to repeat yourself?

I do, but lately, I’ve been wondering if it might be worthwhile to revisit past work instead of always pushing forward. I used to think archiving was something I’d do later, but now I realize that “later” might never come.

So we might see an archive soon?

Yes. By archiving, I want to see my work from a broader perspective. Since my subjects and styles change, people sometimes ask, “Why did you do this?” Once, someone even asked if I changed my style because I hit a creative limit. That surprised me—it made me realize how others perceive my work. I don’t think I’ve ever exhausted a particular approach before moving on. Maybe it’s time to balance archiving, reviewing, and developing simultaneously.

Memories of Cooking and Exercise

  

After talking with you, I feel like your work and life aren’t very separate.

That’s the biggest problem.

Is there any part of your life you’d consider purely personal? Even maintaining this fish tank seems like part of your work.

That’s true. I approach it like work, and there’s a good chance it will eventually tie into my projects. But still, it’s a hobby I picked up after a long time.

Is there anything in your life with no potential connection to your work? Cooking, for example.

Well, it’s been ages since I last cooked properly.

The first time I ever ate asparagus was in a dish you made—about ten years ago, when you participated as an author for <The Creators’ Bookmarks> and <Pet Plants> published by G colon Books. You invited me to the release event, right before you left for Switzerland. At the time, you gave me a glimpse of what it was like to live alone in the city—grilling asparagus and growing moss.

Now that I think about it, I used to cook a lot back then. Since I worked from home, it was convenient, and there weren’t many restaurants nearby. Affordable, good foreign cuisine was especially hard to find. In Switzerland, I had no choice but to cook. But when I returned to Korea, I was shocked at how expensive ingredients had become. These days, with so many great restaurants in Seoul, I don’t cook as much as I used to.

A lot has changed in ten years. You still love driving, right? Now that I think about it, driving is connected to your work too. It played a crucial role in your <From Glaciers to Palm Trees > photography collection project. Do you prefer it because it’s faster than walking?

Yeah, I think so. When I was in middle and high school, I was really into skiing and snowboarding. I even went alone sometimes. It was expensive, so I couldn’t do it often, but when I did, I’d stay all day, from dawn till night. I loved that feeling of gravity, of speed. That’s probably why I liked martial arts too—certain moves really let you feel the force of gravity. I even enjoyed breakdancing, so I guess I’ve always been drawn to that sensation.

In Switzerland, I used to ride a cruiser board a lot. The smooth pavement made it so much fun. I finally got why people love it. But I started becoming more cautious about injury, so I gradually stopped.

At what age did you start feeling more cautious than thrilled?

In my early 30s. I felt like I was bound to get seriously injured someday. And in Switzerland, getting injured would have been a huge hassle, so I rode carefully.

I guess you wouldn’t even consider extreme sports now.

Right. When I was in college, I especially liked Taekwondo, Judo, and Capoeira. It wasn’t that I liked dangerous sports—I think I was drawn to movements that efficiently or dramatically utilized gravity and centrifugal force.

It would be interesting if you ever did a project on martial arts. Those freeze-frame moments in Bruce Lee or Jet Li films, where the credits roll over a still image in the middle of intense action, are really inspiring. You could create a collection of such moments.

That’s true—it could be an interesting project.

What if…

You’ve mentioned that graphic design influenced your path as a photographer. Do you think the reverse is also true? What if things had happened in the opposite order? This is a “what if” question about the road not taken.

Since I started with graphic design before moving into photography, it’s hard to imagine an alternate path without that experience. I even wonder if I would have pursued photography at all without my background in design.

That makes sense. I think graphic designers are really good at problem-solving—they create structure, break things into layers, and bring order to chaos. That’s why I love looking at how they organize and present content. They take scattered information and turn it into something clear and intuitive. That kind of thinking seems like it would be helpful in daily life too.

I agree. When I look back at my design work, it was always well-structured. But in my personal life? Not so much. My photos are precise and controlled, almost obsessively so, but my workspace is a mess.

Maybe it’s because you hold yourself to really high standards when it comes to organization?

Yeah, I tend to aim for perfection, even though my reality is nothing like that.

That applies to daily life too? If you only have 30 minutes, you’d rather not clean at all.

Exactly. If I can’t do it properly, I’d rather not start.

In a way, that’s efficient.

When I lived in a place with a big bathroom, I even worked out there. I’d exercise, sweat, and then shower immediately—it just made sense. But if I knew I couldn’t shower afterward, I’d skip working out altogether. If I needed to use the bathroom and also planned to shower, I’d hold off on both until I could do them together.

That must make it hard to use public restrooms. Sounds like a bit of an obsession.

Well, it’s true. I avoid them as much as possible. They’re not comfortable, and I can’t shower afterward.

That’s Also Who I Am...

Looking at your photography, I’ve noticed that altering the scale of your subjects completely transforms their impression. Do you ever apply that same perspective to yourself?

As a child, I often imagined myself shrinking when I looked at bonsai trees. Even now, when I take photos, I often shift my sense of scale. When photographing larger subjects, I imagine myself growing bigger; with smaller subjects, I picture myself getting smaller. Sometimes, when I photograph buildings, I try to see them as tiny, but that makes my walking pace feel way slower than expected, which can be frustrating. As for self-perception, that’s something I think about often.

Some people rarely reflect on such things, but artists seem to revisit their self-image constantly because of their work.

Yes, because as an artist, you inevitably reveal parts of yourself. That’s one major difference from my time as a graphic designer. In graphic design, the goal was to minimize the designer’s presence in the final product. But now, I find myself questioning how much of myself I should reveal in my work.

But once a certain image of you takes hold in people’s minds, don’t you ever feel the urge to challenge it?

At first, I was confused when people saw me differently than I expected. I wondered, “Why are they misinterpreting me?” But over time, I realized that people can only perceive things through their own lens. And when I think about my work, it’s all about exploring surfaces and how they’re perceived. So instead of resisting different interpretations, I’ve come to embrace them as natural—and even interesting.

But doesn’t being 'misunderstood' imply that you already have a fixed idea of who you are? Have you ever heard an interpretation that made you think, ‘Oh, that’s me too?’

Many times. When that happens, I take it as just another facet of myself. As long as it’s not completely off base, I try to stay open to different perspectives. Instead of thinking, Why are they getting it wrong? I remind myself that they’re simply seeing a version of me that makes sense from their point of view. After all, I do the same when I look at others. Visual art always has its limitations in fully conveying meaning, but I try to be mindful not to let my words overshadow the work itself.

For example, even a graphic designer who mainly does client work can develop a distinct artistic identity. If a visual artist is also skilled with words, that becomes a powerful tool. But beyond words, there’s also the unspoken nuance of a person’s presence. I once thought that those who primarily work with words might feel disconnected from their real-life experiences, as if the fictional worlds they create are less fulfilling—maybe even 'lower-tier.' But now, I see it differently. Writers aren’t just offering 'lower-tier' experiences—they’re creating experiences for others. The ability to immerse people in those worlds, whether firsthand or not, is a skill that deserves deep respect.

That’s true. My priority is to communicate through my work, but language is an essential tool as well. As long as it doesn’t overshadow the work itself, I’m fine with it.

Have you ever titled a work "Untitled"?

I don’t like doing that, but I did it once. Usually, I prefer to either use the subject’s actual name or give it a coded title.

Naming things must be one of the hardest parts. Speaking of which, when did you start using EH as your artist name?

Around 2014—so almost ten years ago. At the time, I wanted to distinguish my exhibition work from my other projects. There were also a few other photographers with the same name, so I figured it would be useful to have an alternative.

Did that make you seem elusive, like a loach slipping away?

Maybe. I initially picked “EH” in a rush, just to have a separate name for exhibitions. But over time, I stopped using it that way—it’s now just my business name. Honestly, making sure “EH” was written correctly became too much of a hassle. I always had to specify that it should be in all caps, and every time someone got it wrong, I had to ask for corrections. Eventually, I realized it wasn’t worth stressing over anymore.

So at least as a business name, it’s here to stay.

Yes, I no longer insist on EH in name fields, but I still like it as a business name.

e.e. cummings (Edward Estlin Cummings) was famous for writing his name in lowercase. I remember when we were publishing a Korean edition of his book, I asked his agency, “Should we print it in lowercase?” and they replied, “You can just use uppercase.” That was a bit disappointing.

Yeah, even when I provide the correct English format for my name, it often gets printed incorrectly. At some point, I started wondering if it was worth stressing over, and gradually, I stopped using that name.

Walking the Frame, Finding the Shot

Last question—where do you walk most often?

These days, I mostly walk around my workspace. I rarely go outdoors or do other forms of exercise. It’s been nearly ten years now, and my body is still holding up, so I think all this indoor walking is keeping me going. Just by moving back and forth while shooting, I end up walking at least 10,000 steps a day.

So, do you walk to find the perfect shot?

Yes, exactly. Every time I turn around, I spot something new. I keep pacing—sitting, standing, and repeating the process over and over again.

Well, standing up and sitting down repeatedly is actually a great way to strengthen your body’s largest muscles.