There is a quiet radiance in Ho Jae Kim’s work. It is not loud or insistent, but gently insistent, like the sun coming through gauze curtains in the early morning. His paintings, which blend 3D modeling, hand-layered transfers, and intuitive applications of paint, do not simply depict a scene. They reveal what lies beneath, what is often overlooked: the immaterial, the spiritual, the unresolved. In our conversation, Ho Jae spoke vulnerably about his process as excavation, the tension between structure and spontaneity, and the long road toward trusting intuition—or, as he calls it, “trusting color.”
Through laughter, reflection, and careful thought, we explored what it means to make art that holds space for joy and grief, tradition and invention. We spoke about his work with CIVIL ART, a collective centering AANHPI voices, and how community and personal practice mirror and inform one another. What follows is a layered portrait of an artist whose work feels both ancient and new, solitary and collective. It is, in his own words, “trying to paint light.”
Darius Phelps: There’s a tenderness in your process—from 3D modeling to layered transfers and paint—like you’re slowly excavating something deeper. Can you talk about how that unfolding mirrors your emotional or spiritual process? And how do you know when a piece is telling the truth?
Ho Jae Kim: I like the word you used—excavate. Because that’s really what it feels like. There are many ways to see or realize the world around us. Sometimes it feels organic, like it just happened. But when you start looking closer—at the intimate, the subtle, the details—you realize it’s endless. The more you learn, the more there is to comprehend. Behind those layers, it might seem accidental, but it also feels like all the details are considered. When I paint, I’m trying to share that realization—what it means to really see the world. Not just the image, but the nuances. And I hope that looking at one of my paintings mimics that kind of realization. Yes, you can see it as a finished piece, but you can also excavate it.
In terms of spirituality, it’s complex. Whether you call it religious, emotional, or spiritual—these are all just ways of naming the immaterial. These phenomena are things we 100% feel but often can’t define. And depending on who you are, you may reject one name and prefer another. But we all recognize that feeling. I think of Haruki Murakami. He gives so much detail—almost hyperrealism—so he can talk about things he can’t describe. That’s something I aim for too. Through layers, through form, I want to make space for that immaterial feeling to exist.
(Photo Credit: JSP Art Photography “The Sleepwalker’s Garden” by Ho Jae Kim )
DP: You’ve said in a previous interview that learning to trust color changed everything. That’s such a powerful metaphor—to trust something that once felt uncertain. What helped you lean into that? What has trusting color taught you about yourself?
HJK: That came out of a real tension in my process. A year ago, I was rethinking everything. My work was very draftsmanship-heavy. Lots of planning: sketching, turning sketches into 3D models, rendering, then transferring that to canvas. It left little room for interpretation, intuition, or discovery. I started seeing draftsmanship and color as opposites on a spectrum. Draftsmanship stood in for planning. Color stood in for intuition. And I realized my work was leaning too heavily toward the former.
I began to feel that imbalance a long time ago, but it took me a while to act on it. Even when we know something, it can take forever to make a change. Sometimes because we’re scared. You worry: Will this work? Will people get it?” But I started leaning in slowly—baby steps. Visiting museums, hiking, seeing the way color lives in nature. When you see beautiful things in the world, unplanned and chaotic, it gives you permission. It makes you leap.And that’s the lesson. Color taught me to embrace intuition. To lean into the uncertain. And I think, in doing so, I started trusting myself more. Not just in the studio, but in life.
DP: There’s a quiet ache in many of your pieces—solitude, stillness, a waiting. What role does vulnerability play in your work? And how do you care for yourself while sitting in those spaces?
HJK: I think one of the best things about creative practice is that you’re always reaching for the impossible—impossible perfection. But at the same time, you learn to embrace the beautiful failures. Knowing that, and accepting that balance, helps you take care of yourself. Your desires and ambitions are endless. Most artists, we’ve seen amazing work. We’ve read great books. We want to do something just as great. But it’s never quick. It’s a long journey. An odyssey. Learning how to navigate that odyssey is the work. I’ve realized I work best when I can play, when I have time to experiment. When I’m not rigid or stressed, the work flows. It’s a balance, always. That balance is a form of self-care. Knowing that you’re not going to hit perfection—that you’re going to fail beautifully—is liberating. It allows me to keep going without burning out. It makes room for grace.
(Photo Credit: JSP Art Photography “The Sleepwalker’s Garden” by Ho Jae Kim )
DP: I’m deeply moved by your work with CIVIL ART. How has that collective work shaped your own practice? And in what ways does community make its way into your canvases?
HJK: Art has so many potentials. You can chase beauty, aesthetics, conceptual rigor. But art is also linked to social constructs, institutions, people’s narratives and histories. CIVIL ART and my studio practice have grown side by side.It started in college. One of my professors helped me realize how much I didn’t know. That humility pushed me toward philosophy, ideology, and social theory. And for a long time, I was asking: can I balance these things in my art?
The social aspects of art felt inaccessible to me at first. My paintings could do a lot aesthetically, but could they penetrate the larger history I was reading about? Could they matter in that way? Now, I wake up on Mondays for CIVIL ART. During the week, it’s 7am to noon for CIVIL Art, then studio work after. It’s more work, yes, but it’s healthy. I meet people from all walks of life. I pitch, fundraise, collect stories. That work makes me a better artist. It keeps me young. It keeps me learning. And most importantly, it reminds me that art doesn’t happen in isolation. Even the most personal work is shaped by the communities we are part of.
DP: What are you dreaming into next? Is there a project, medium, or idea whispering to you lately?
HJK:Yes. I wrote a play. But not one meant for the stage. I’m turning it into a body of paintings. Each significant scene will be a large canvas. I’m curious: what happens when a play is experienced nonlinearly? When viewers walk through a performance in a gallery space? In this curation, they’re not bound by time. They become fourth-dimensional beings, able to experience the narrative from beginning to end, end to beginning, or in chaotic order. The idea is to provide more power and agency to the audience. Let them see a story unfold from every angle. And maybe, that shift in perspective can change how we feel, too. It’s like an opera performed through paintings. A storyboard in space. I want it to feel immersive, like the viewer is walking through a memory.
(Photo Credit: JSP Art Photography “The Sleepwalker’s Garden” by Ho Jae Kim )
DP: What would you say to young BIPOC boys who are drawn to art but have been told their stories don’t belong on the canvas or the page?
HJK:I’d write them a letter. Honestly, I’d write to my younger self. Before I was a full-time artist, I was in hospitality for almost a decade. People saw me as a restaurant manager, not an artist. But after my shifts, I’d go to the studio and put on my skin of an artist. That’s why Don Quixote resonated with me. He saw himself one way. Everyone else saw him as something else. To hold onto your vision like that—that takes courage.
You might not be seen for a long time. That kind of limbo can be hard. But remember: it’s about sustainability. Take care of yourself. Take breaks. Show up for your work, but also show up for your life. Make art. Send newsletters. Build community. Even if people don’t support you immediately, you never know who might come back into your life. Advocate for yourself. Take your time. Don’t hurt yourself. It’s a long game. Also—get smart about social media. Use it without letting it use you. And send newsletters. Stay in touch with the people you meet. They may not be your patrons now, but they could be your champions later.
DP: Last question. What’s a question about your work no one has asked, but you wish they would?
HJK:I tell people even when they don’t ask—maybe that’s from my restaurant days, always pitching one more bottle of wine. But if I had to name something, I’d say this: I’m trying to paint light. Light not just in the visual sense—though yes, describing optics, light and shadows, how figures are informed by that relationship—but also the immaterial sensation of light. The act of looking into the light—sunrise, sunset, campfire, waves—those things pull us in. You don’t know why you’re drawn to them. You just keep looking. It reminds me of love. Of joy. That intangible pull. And that’s what I want my work to hold. Yes, there’s darkness. But the darkness is there to make the light more vivid. ‘Isn’t light more beautiful when it’s in darkness?’ A candle in broad daylight isn’t the same as a candle at night. Same thing with happiness, with beauty. They resonate deeper when you’ve known shadow. So maybe the truth I’ve been waiting to speak is this: I’m painting light so that others can recognize their own. Even if they’re standing in the dark.
(Photo Credit: JSP Art Photography “The Sleepwalker’s Garden” by Ho Jae Kim )
Darius Phelps is a poet, educator, and scholar whose work explores grief, identity, and liberation through poetic inquiry. He is a Poetry Co-Editor at Matter, Associate Editor at Tupelo Quarterly, and the author of the forthcoming My God’s Been Silent.
Ho Jae Kim is a painter, storyteller, and co-founder of CIVIL ART. His interdisciplinary work blends visual art, narrative, and community-building to explore themes of memory and light.