As a starting point, religion has paved the way for detrimental traditions that have hindered the development of the female mind and experience; and Heesoo Kwon realised this as she rewound her family’s memories on a trip back home in South Korea.
In her desire for liberation, Heesoo dove into art to begin again, as well as to give her female ancestors’ experiences, who lived under the yoke of a more oppressive patriarchal society, a second and more freeing opportunity. Based on an almost absolute self-taught training, Kwon became aware and proactive about the value of art for expression and embodiment, and began a journey through photography, video, and 3D animation sculpture that led her to the foundation of Leymusoom, an autobiographical feminist movement that, through the incarnation of a snake-woman hybrid, has progressively transformed into an open-ended religion in which women are encouraged to embrace their feelings and emancipation candidly and wholeheartedly. Today, we sit down with her to spiral into self-taught learning, the artistic possibilities of technology, feminism and Leymusoom.
Hi Heesoo! Welcome to METAL. Before diving into the interview, let’s get to know each other better. How would you define your current vital moment based on the music you’re now obsessed with?
Hi, thank you so much for having me! That’s such a great question. Right now, I feel like I’m in a moment of softness and transformation — navigating a lot of transitions, like building a new family (I recently got married and we adopted our fur baby kitten, Young Oh) and going through some really significant shifts in both my art and my life. The music I’m drawn to lately really reflects that state.
I’ve been starting my mornings with cozy jazz playlists on YouTube — things like coffee shop jazz or those Snoopy-themed mixes. They bring this quiet, grounded energy that helps me ease into the day with gentleness and intention. Driving has also become its own kind of ritual. Chan Hyuk Lee’s solo track 당장 널 만나러 가지 않으면 (If I Can’t Go See You Right Now) has become one of my favourite driving songs — it’s so emotional and cinematic. I’ve also been loving the ‘Mexican dad’ playlists on Spotify when I’m on the road. There’s a rawness and warmth to them that makes me feel connected to everyday joy and a broader sense of community.
And once I’m in the studio, working on my art, I dive into medieval hip hop — especially Beedle the Bardcore mixes on YouTube. That fusion of the ancient and contemporary really helps me blur timelines and immerse myself in the world I’m creating.
I’ve been starting my mornings with cozy jazz playlists on YouTube — things like coffee shop jazz or those Snoopy-themed mixes. They bring this quiet, grounded energy that helps me ease into the day with gentleness and intention. Driving has also become its own kind of ritual. Chan Hyuk Lee’s solo track 당장 널 만나러 가지 않으면 (If I Can’t Go See You Right Now) has become one of my favourite driving songs — it’s so emotional and cinematic. I’ve also been loving the ‘Mexican dad’ playlists on Spotify when I’m on the road. There’s a rawness and warmth to them that makes me feel connected to everyday joy and a broader sense of community.
And once I’m in the studio, working on my art, I dive into medieval hip hop — especially Beedle the Bardcore mixes on YouTube. That fusion of the ancient and contemporary really helps me blur timelines and immerse myself in the world I’m creating.
Let’s start from the beginning. You’re a multidisciplinary artist, but what was your first approach to the field?
My entry into art was very personal and rooted in a deep desire for liberation. I actually majored in business in college and even started a one-person startup while I was still in school. It was a long and nonlinear journey to shift from business to art, but it came from a real need to remake my daily life — to rebuild it in a way that could liberate not only myself, but also my female ancestors. Art just made the most sense for that.
Since I didn’t have formal art training, I began creating intuitively, making videos and sculptures in my bedroom. I had a very clear vision of becoming an artist, and I followed the conceptual direction of the work, always choosing the medium that best served the idea. Even if I didn’t know how to use a tool or technique (whether it was 3D animation or photography), I taught myself if it felt right for the piece.
Because I didn’t come from a traditional fine art background, my approach was driven more by curiosity, longing, and urgency than by formal technique. And once I entered the MFA program at UC Berkeley, that fluid, experimental way of working only deepened. It gave me the freedom to move across disciplines and fully trust the path I was carving out for myself.
Since I didn’t have formal art training, I began creating intuitively, making videos and sculptures in my bedroom. I had a very clear vision of becoming an artist, and I followed the conceptual direction of the work, always choosing the medium that best served the idea. Even if I didn’t know how to use a tool or technique (whether it was 3D animation or photography), I taught myself if it felt right for the piece.
Because I didn’t come from a traditional fine art background, my approach was driven more by curiosity, longing, and urgency than by formal technique. And once I entered the MFA program at UC Berkeley, that fluid, experimental way of working only deepened. It gave me the freedom to move across disciplines and fully trust the path I was carving out for myself.
“In the digital realm, I could create a space where both my imagination and my ancestors could live freely. That’s been the biggest source of artistic freedom for me.”
Your work spans many mediums: video, sculpture, 3D animation, photography, and more. Which one has given you the most artistic freedom, and how has that shifted over time?
I think every medium I’ve worked with through digital tools (photography, 3D animation, video) has given me a kind of freedom, especially during the uncertainty of the pandemic. Before that, I was really focused on sculpture and had collected so many materials for making physical work. But I realised that way of working wasn’t sustainable for me, especially living in the United States as an international artist.
At the time, I didn’t know how to drive, and even just getting to the Korean grocery store was difficult, so the idea of transporting big sculptures or heavy materials felt totally out of reach. Then, after graduating in 2019, the pandemic hit. Like everyone, I was stuck in my small bedroom doing everything — making art, working out, eating, sleeping. My desktop became my entire world. But in that digital space, I found this fascinating, expansive freedom. It was sustainable, and it opened up infinite possibilities.
Conceptually, too, working digitally allowed me to collapse time and space. I was in the Bay Area, while my female ancestors were in Korea or had already passed away. But through digital media, I could bring them into my work. I could create rituals that never existed, reimagine histories, and even call my great-grandmother back into being. In the digital realm, I could create a space where both my imagination and my ancestors could live freely. That’s been the biggest source of artistic freedom for me.
At the time, I didn’t know how to drive, and even just getting to the Korean grocery store was difficult, so the idea of transporting big sculptures or heavy materials felt totally out of reach. Then, after graduating in 2019, the pandemic hit. Like everyone, I was stuck in my small bedroom doing everything — making art, working out, eating, sleeping. My desktop became my entire world. But in that digital space, I found this fascinating, expansive freedom. It was sustainable, and it opened up infinite possibilities.
Conceptually, too, working digitally allowed me to collapse time and space. I was in the Bay Area, while my female ancestors were in Korea or had already passed away. But through digital media, I could bring them into my work. I could create rituals that never existed, reimagine histories, and even call my great-grandmother back into being. In the digital realm, I could create a space where both my imagination and my ancestors could live freely. That’s been the biggest source of artistic freedom for me.
What has technology brought to the creation of your art that could not have been achieved through any other means?
I often say that I’m a kind of shaman connecting two worlds: the Leymusoom utopia, where I envision liberated versions of myself and my ancestors, and the world where my physical body exists now. Technology is my shamanic tool. It allows me to visualise our spiritual interactions and give form to the visions I receive.
Through tools like 3D modelling, digital archives, and VR spaces, I can materialise Leymusoom — not as a fixed belief system, but as a living, evolving practice. Technology gives me the freedom to build a space where memory, ritual, and imagination can coexist beyond the limits of geography, time, and even death. It’s not just a medium, it’s a portal.
Through tools like 3D modelling, digital archives, and VR spaces, I can materialise Leymusoom — not as a fixed belief system, but as a living, evolving practice. Technology gives me the freedom to build a space where memory, ritual, and imagination can coexist beyond the limits of geography, time, and even death. It’s not just a medium, it’s a portal.
Your current work is mostly centred around Leymusoom, the autobiographical feminist religion you created in 2017. Understanding it as some sort of alternative to the myths that surround the creation of Catholicism and intrinsic cultural misogyny transforms it into an ideological concept. However, it is artistic at its core. What role do you think art plays in social and cultural transformation related to women’s rights?
Art gives me a language to imagine beyond what I’ve inherited. For me, art isn’t separate from my life; it’s completely entangled with it, like an ongoing ping pong game where my experiences inform the work, and the work reshapes how I live. That’s the foundation of Leymusoom. It began as a personal need to liberate myself and my female ancestors, but over time, it’s grown into a living, breathing archive. A space where memory, myth, and futurity co-exist.
For instance, in my recent video work, Going Home, I reflect on marriage from a deeply personal and cultural place. The Korean word for marriage, 혼인 (honin), literally means ‘going to the in-law’s home’. That linguistic framing opened a portal for me to examine generational experiences of marriage — my mother’s traditional, patriarchal life, and my own recent queer marriage. The work includes layered voice recordings from my mom, my partner, myself, and my hypnotherapist. These voices collapse time and space, offering a multidimensional reflection on womanhood, family, and choice.
Art gives form to these possibilities. It allows me to offer an alternative mythology — one that doesn’t erase or silence, but remembers, heals, and reimagines. Through Leymusoom, I’m not just critiquing dominant narratives, I’m building new ones. And that, to me, is the radical potential of art.
For instance, in my recent video work, Going Home, I reflect on marriage from a deeply personal and cultural place. The Korean word for marriage, 혼인 (honin), literally means ‘going to the in-law’s home’. That linguistic framing opened a portal for me to examine generational experiences of marriage — my mother’s traditional, patriarchal life, and my own recent queer marriage. The work includes layered voice recordings from my mom, my partner, myself, and my hypnotherapist. These voices collapse time and space, offering a multidimensional reflection on womanhood, family, and choice.
Art gives form to these possibilities. It allows me to offer an alternative mythology — one that doesn’t erase or silence, but remembers, heals, and reimagines. Through Leymusoom, I’m not just critiquing dominant narratives, I’m building new ones. And that, to me, is the radical potential of art.
Religion is a complex and powerful concept, and its traditional interpretation can lead one to imagine it as an indoctrinating area in which guidelines are set and must be followed with blind faith. However, Leymusoom is a space with clear foundations, but where women are invited to develop their feelings and embrace feminism freely. In its early days, how were these criteria defined? How did you assure its separation from this classic conception of religion?
In the beginning, Leymusoom wasn’t really meant to be a religion, it started as a personal response to all the misogyny and patriarchy I had internalised growing up in Korea. When I was at UC Berkeley for my MFA, I had the chance to meet many anthropologists, and that really shifted how I understood my own upbringing. I was raised in a strict Catholic household where questioning, especially authority, just wasn’t allowed. Later, I realised I had unconsciously carried those patriarchal values into my personal and professional life. It hit me that I wasn’t just born into Catholicism, I was also born into patriarchy and misogyny.
So Leymusoom began as a way to liberate myself by converting my life into a queer and feminist one. I wanted to reclaim my story by framing patriarchy and misogyny in Korea as a kind of religion — one I was expected to follow without question.
But then something unexpected happened: people started asking how they could ‘convert’ to Leymusoom. That’s when I realised it had become something bigger. I started thinking of it as a religion, but on our own terms. Unlike traditional religions that demand blind faith, Leymusoom is open-ended and shaped by each practitioner’s life and history. It’s a living, breathing space, more like a constellation than a doctrine.
So Leymusoom began as a way to liberate myself by converting my life into a queer and feminist one. I wanted to reclaim my story by framing patriarchy and misogyny in Korea as a kind of religion — one I was expected to follow without question.
But then something unexpected happened: people started asking how they could ‘convert’ to Leymusoom. That’s when I realised it had become something bigger. I started thinking of it as a religion, but on our own terms. Unlike traditional religions that demand blind faith, Leymusoom is open-ended and shaped by each practitioner’s life and history. It’s a living, breathing space, more like a constellation than a doctrine.
In addition to Catholicism, you mentioned exploring Korean shamanism. In its purest definition, it employs a connection between the real world and the intangible-spiritual. How has this influenced the creation of the artistic concept?
Korean shamanism truly opened my eyes to a more embodied approach to spirituality — one rooted in ritual and interwoven with everyday life. Unlike the patriarchal and hierarchical systems I grew up with, it taught me that spiritual power can be intimate, feminine, and communal. It’s not just about belief; it’s about living that truth through your body and relationships.
Korean shamans call themselves manshin, meaning ‘ten thousand spirits’, and share endearing titles like mother of god, father of god, or baby shaman with one another. This nurturing ecosystem, a genuine matriarchal network, has profoundly influenced my work. Today, I see my practice as a series of digital rituals: transformative spaces where my body becomes a shrine and technology reactivates ancestral memory in new, radical ways.
Korean shamans call themselves manshin, meaning ‘ten thousand spirits’, and share endearing titles like mother of god, father of god, or baby shaman with one another. This nurturing ecosystem, a genuine matriarchal network, has profoundly influenced my work. Today, I see my practice as a series of digital rituals: transformative spaces where my body becomes a shrine and technology reactivates ancestral memory in new, radical ways.
What’s the reasoning behind the decision of creating it as some sort of entity between a snake and a human being?
I’ve always been captivated by the snake’s transformative power: its ability to shed its old skin and emerge renewed, embodying both danger and healing. My work weaves together the divergent narratives of Korean shamanism and Catholic Genesis. In Catholicism, the snake and the woman are cast as the culprits for our expulsion from paradise, encapsulating the notion that ‘knowledge is dangerous’. This idea struck a deep chord with me in Korea, where challenging ingrained misogynistic norms often felt fraught with peril.
Conversely, Korean shamanism honours these symbols as emblems of a matriarchal, nurturing spirituality. For example, the 풍이족 – believed to be descendants of the female creator Mago – embrace the imagery of the snake and the female form to express resilience and transformation. By envisioning Leymusoom as a hybrid of snake and human, I aim to capture that fluidity and the power of continual transformation.
Conversely, Korean shamanism honours these symbols as emblems of a matriarchal, nurturing spirituality. For example, the 풍이족 – believed to be descendants of the female creator Mago – embrace the imagery of the snake and the female form to express resilience and transformation. By envisioning Leymusoom as a hybrid of snake and human, I aim to capture that fluidity and the power of continual transformation.
“Technology is my shamanic tool. It allows me to visualise our spiritual interactions and give form to the visions I receive.”
Leymusoom includes, as well, a common celebration, a collective praxis. What, then, are the boundaries between the purely personal and the universal experiences all women identify with? How does Leymusoom work and care for this through art?
I don’t see a clear boundary between the personal and the universal. When I perform a ritual for my great-grandmother or share her story, it often reverberates beyond my own lineage. Others recognise pieces of their own histories, their own matriarchs. Leymusoom is meant to hold that space where intimate memory becomes a shared reflection, and one’s story opens the door to many.
It has not only created a present in which women can liberate themselves, but has also established a new narrative for those of the past, to give them a life they could not enjoy. How does the reinterpretation of a past that did not really exist in this way help in the telling of their stories? How can memories be re-documented through art?
I think speculative memory is a powerful form of truth-telling. Just because something didn’t ‘happen’ in the documented sense doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Reimagining the past allows me to give voice to my female ancestors whose lives were left out of history and offer them presence, dignity, and joy through remembrance and reinvention. By imagining alternative lives for them, I’m not just expanding what the past could have been; I’m making space for it to be felt, seen, and realised in the present.
How has it evolved since its creation in 2017? What does the future hold?
The future of Leymusoom is fluid, collaborative, and always in motion — an ever-evolving practice meant to grow beyond me and take on new forms through others. As more people find resonance with its rituals and philosophies, I envision it becoming a shared cultural and spiritual space — one that continues to challenge dominant narratives, honour ancestral memory, and open up transformative possibilities for healing and reinvention. I’m excited to see how it unfolds and where others will take it.
