Ms. Youngsun, even after several decades as a celebrated landscape architect, apparently you are still very involved with each project, sketching your designs and planting elements by hand. Why is that tactile quality important for your practice?
I sketch by hand to feel the volume, color, and scale. I spread out the drawings and look at them from different angles as I work. There is a world of difference between a design based on firsthand experience; planting things yourself, caring for them, and observing how they survive over the course of a year or more, and one that isn’t. Plus, if you just leave it to others, I’ve seen far too many cases where everything gets planted in a straight line.
I read one article about your work that described you moving a single small stone from one area to another. The details are clearly important to you.
Of course. There are many different ways to place stones, and for each project, I try to find the most natural approach by considering their function, purpose, and relationship to the surrounding environment. Traditionally, the way Korean ancestors used stones in gardens differed from that of China and Japan. In China, large stones were often brought from the sea or lakes and erected to represent landscapes described in poetry. Japan, too, developed its own methods of using stones. In Korea, stones were historically used only where truly necessary. On steep slopes, they were arranged into neat yet natural-looking terraces. In palaces, stones were carefully shaped and refined, while in private homes, more natural stones were used, reflecting a hierarchy and clear principles in their application. Above all, because the Korean land is rich in rocks and stones, when a beautiful rock is found on site, it is essential to bring out its inherent beauty in its place.
“We create a landscape as if it had originally existed there. This approach allows nature to grow and flourish in its most beautiful form by itself. The mountains are my textbook.”
The Dutch landscape designer Piet Oudolf described that kind of thoughtfulness as “creating an atmosphere” on a site.
For me, it’s more about helping an environment come to life on its own — one that harmonizes with the surrounding landscape and the purpose of the place, that brings the design concept to life, that can be sustained by itself, and that remains attractive without constant human intervention.
It’s interesting that you mention self-sustainability. How do you ensure that when you work with living organisms that are changing all the time?
It’s important to understand the conditions of the land where these organisms will live. Conducting a thorough analysis of the characteristics of the vegetation and the site conditions is crucial, as we create a landscape as if it had originally existed there. This approach allows nature to grow and flourish in its most beautiful form by itself. The mountains are my textbook.
I can imagine that this is especially true when you work on a restoration project, like Seonyudo Park which transformed an old water purification plant into a green cultural space.
When we first visited Seonyudo Water Purification Plant, the three-dimensional spatial sensation given by the reinforced concrete structures excited us greatly. We felt it was a place that could embody the aesthetics of Korean gardens, which emphasize a sequence of encountering different landscapes step by step. This beauty is not so much a specific formal element as it is inherent in the experience itself. While other proposals submitted to the competition referred to the period when the site was known as “Seonyubong” before the Japanese colonial era, we aimed to fully reveal the layers of time embodied in this space by embracing the history of the industrial facility itself. Above all, considering the original function of the water purification facility, we created a park where water from the Han River circulates and is purified through aquatic plants—highlighting the importance of water in the urban environment.
Time sounds like a crucial element in your thinking as an architect.
Time is everything for a landscape architect. It’s the most important factor. What matters is not just the present moment of design, but the ability to anticipate what will happen in five, 10, or even 20 years.
How is it for you to return to sites you’ve designed and see them in their different seasons and time periods?
Oh, I ask the flowers and trees how they’ve been, as if checking in on old friends. There are of course sometimes places that have been altered in ways that feel artificial, contrary to the original intent. In such moments, I can only pat my chest in resignation. There are hopes I had, but sometimes things turn out beyond my control. For example, in projects such as national parks or large-scale green spaces, landscape architecture naturally takes priority. However, there have been many instances where architecture tries to take the lead, sidelining landscape.
Apparently in Korea, landscape architecture has historically been considered secondary to architecture.
Yes, during the early stages of landscape architecture’s institutionalization, government policies helped bring it into the spotlight. Today, even though there are young professionals eager to work in this field, there are fewer major projects to take on. The perception is changing, however, in large part thanks to film and exhibitions… The roles landscape architecture has played have varied according to the era. In the 1970s, it was responsible for building urban infrastructure such as highways and restoring cultural heritage to establish national identity. In the 1980s, it focused on creating large venues and parks for hosting international events. Since the 1990s, the emphasis shifted to developing various leisure facilities in culture, sports, tourism, and education. When Heewon was first unveiled in 1997, it became a pivotal moment for people to seriously recognize that a modern garden could embody traditional Korean values.
And how does this field fit in today?
Well, recently, the role has increasingly demanded the conservation and regeneration of nature. The Earth is in crisis. Natural landscapes are being destroyed, bird habitats are vanishing — and yet, despite knowing the urgency, we continue to build apartment blocks as if nothing matters. This must stop. The planet is not ours alone to use and discard. We must put an end to reckless development. Roads are paving over everything, and strange, ungrounded architectural forms are taking over. There is no longer a place for birds to rest, no fish in the waters, even wetlands are disappearing. Preserving biodiversity is something we must do for future generations. We have no choice but to fight, with everything we have, to change direction.
“I still remember planting flowers with my father and watering them together, and the hibiscus tree in our front yard appears in my dreams from time to time...”
Has it always been a dream for you to fight for and work with the natural world around you?
My grandfather actually left a deep impression on me in this way. He had an orchard in Gyeongsan called Chilam Farm, named after the seven large rocks that surrounded it. One of those rocks sat near a well, and I remember my grandfather planting lilies in a hollow carved into its surface. That memory inspired a short story I wrote, which went on to win a literary contest. Actually, when I was young, everyone thought I would become a poet, but I vaguely wanted to become someone who creates gardens and parks, but there was no academic program for that. I ended up working as a journalist. By the 1970s, Korea’s mountainous terrain had been severely degraded due to colonial rule, the Korean War, and poverty that led to deforestation. At that time, President Park Chung-hee gave a directive to restore the nation’s green spaces. He institutionalized support for the field by allocating a portion of the national budget to landscape architecture and founding graduate programs for environmental studies at universities.
So you were finally able to study your passion?
Yes, I was one of the first students to benefit from this system! But I was the oldest in the class, older even than some of the professors. Our cohort included graduates from architecture, agriculture, and the arts, but few had actually worked hands-on with the land. I had learned how to cultivate plants from my father, and when major projects came in, I was often able to take the lead and work closely with professors to carry them out — even if I wasn’t the best at drawing plans.
Was your father an inspiration for your life’s work, too?
My father was a teacher at a Christian school, and our family lived in faculty housing with a spacious yard. Each time he changed jobs — seven or eight times in total, he created a new garden from scratch. Remarkably, no two gardens were ever the same. Even now, as a landscape architect myself, I often find myself sketching while recalling those gardens. It amazes me that, despite the fact that we didn’t have much, sometimes not even enough to eat, I still remember planting flowers with my father and watering them together, and the hibiscus tree in our front yard appears in my dreams from time to time.