Sarah Lee was born in Seoul and is based in New York City. She has studied at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and at Seoul National University in Korea. Her work has been exhibited in galleries including Albertz Benda, 1969, and ATM in New York, Stems in Paris, PMAM in London, Bill Brady and Anat Ebgi in Los Angeles, and Carl Kostyal in Milan.
Image: The environments in your work feel almost archetypal, like they’ve emerged from deep memories or dreams. Do you have any early memories of landscapes, of especially the kinds of stormy skies that hover through your works?
SL: I remember feeling excited on stormy days. When there was loud thunder and lightning, I was a bit scared, but at the same time I felt a sense of relief knowing I was safe inside. I was too young to understand why I liked such bad weather, but when I think back, I realize those were moments when I felt, even if only faintly, closer to the power beyond the human, and I became aware of my own vulnerability.
I was a shy kid. I had a hard time showing my emotions to strangers—and my definition of strangers included everyone except my mother and a few best friends. I think I feared rejection and judgment. Without that emotional exchange, relationships were never easy and never felt genuine. I realized my struggle early in life, and I shifted my interest to nature and animals. I felt much safer interacting with them. Regardless of my emotions, they were consistent and always there. Even though it wasn’t their intention, their existence comforted me. I finally felt accepted.
Image: Many of these landscapes have a sense of powerful forces beyond human control, maybe beyond human comprehension. To some that might feel threatening, to others maybe liberating. What emotions do you have as you create these environments?
SL: When I paint, I’m constantly searching for moments in nature that are precious but have a hint of eeriness because of their unpredictability, like the calm before a storm. Imagining and painting these strange yet plausible scenes gives me a rush of conflicted emotions. It makes me feel alone and a bit nervous but also gives me a sense of liberation from feeling powerless. Sometimes I imagine myself walking into the scene, and there’s an indescribable belief that this nature wouldn’t hurt me. I’ll be safe.
Image: The human figure is notably absent in these works. I think back to works like Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog (1818) or Monk by the Sea (1808–10) where a person stands at the precipice of a mysterious natural expanse. In a way, it feels like you put the viewer in that position. What kind of reactions have people shared with you?
SL: Sometimes they feel completely different emotions than I did. When I painted Butterfly’s Dream, I was in complete solitude for several months, exhausted from the seemingly endless pandemic with no one around me. I painted a white butterfly aimlessly wandering, lost in a blue cave. It felt too painful to show this work to the public, like exposing a wound, and I was hesitant to include it in the show. After a long conversation with the gallerist, I changed my mind. When the show opened, I was surprised that many people told me they got a feeling of hope or liberation from the work. It made me see the painting from a whole different angle.
Image: Do you think those reactions would differ in alternative spaces? I could almost imagine an opera transpiring in front of a massive image of your work, or see one of your paintings in a niche in a cathedral crypt.
SL: From conversations with viewers, I’ve learned that their experience depends a lot on the physical presence of my work, not just the size but also how it connects with its surroundings. A couple of years ago, I had a show in Los Angeles of mostly nighttime snow scenes. I realized that many local viewers found these scenes surreal and fairy-tale-like because snow is uncommon there. However, that body of work came naturally during winter in New York.
The interesting thing about painting nature is that it’s such a universal visual language, yet people in different regions have different reactions to it. In alternative settings, I believe my work could create different connections, especially in places where people are open to deeper reflections and emotions, like an opera or a church.
Image: Where do you look for new inspiration? Is there anything you particularly like to read that generates creative space for you?
SL: I watch a lot of nature and crime documentaries and often visit the NASA website to look at new galaxy photos. I’m fascinated by pre- and post-apocalypse movies. I love reading fiction by Bernard Werber and Ted Chiang. I traveled to Iceland to see the northern lights and glaciers. Sometimes I do random Google searches for exotic animals and insects. One thing leads to another, and it keeps going endlessly. I collect fragments of inspiration and puzzle them together when I paint.
Image: What kind of work are you making in the studio now? Do you feel something new emerging on the horizon?
SL: I’m working on my next show, which will be in November at Anat Ebgi in Los Angeles. In my new works, I’m exploring more surreal aspects, creating a sense of tension by having conflicting elements coexist in the same space—such as day and night, or wind blowing below the horizon while a silent galaxy exists beyond it.