Beki Song: Sculpting Worlds in Clay, Plaster, and Hair

Beki Song is a Korean artist based in New York, NY . She graduated from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 2021 with a Bachelor of Fine Arts and a Master’s degree at Parsons, the New School for Design in 2024. In 2022, Song had her debut solo show in Seoul and has participated in group exhibitions since 2020. Song’s work explores the themes of infinite and unconditional love, as well as its opposites—darkness, lack, and distortion. She sculpts life-like beings using materials such as clay, plaster, and synthetic hair, creating spaces for them to inhabit. While acknowledging that these creatures may evoke discomfort, she embraces every aspect of them, using her work to explore the relationship between creator and created.

Can you tell us about your journey as an artist? How did it all begin?

I started with painting. It felt natural. I studied it, I stayed with it for a long time. I liked working on a flat surface, playing with color, making emotions into images. But at some point… it just didn’t feel like enough anymore. Like, the things I was feeling didn’t fit on something flat. They wanted to spill over. Then I saw a work by David Altmejd, and it just hit something in me. It was weird and kind of alive, and I loved it. I already liked soft things, toys, strange little figures—so I started trying stuff. One sculpture led to another, and suddenly I was making these small beings, and then giving them worlds to live in. It felt comforting. Like I was building a place for something inside me to exist. Now I can’t stop. Sculpture and installation feel like home. Painting is still there, but now it’s more like a memory of where I began.

What themes or ideas do you explore in your work?

It’s always been love. But not the soft, pretty kind. More like—love that doesn’t make sense. Being human is kind of messy. We love, and we want to be loved, but it doesn’t always go well. Sometimes love turns into fear, or obsession, or shame. Sometimes we get hurt by it, even when we wanted it. So I try to bring all that into the work. I make beings that are a little strange, sometimes kind of ugly. But I still care for them. Maybe because I see parts of myself in them. They’re distorted, but fragile. A little broken, but still trying. That’s what love feels like to me sometimes. Not perfect. But still real.

Who or what inspires you the most as an artist?

I keep coming back to Where the Wild Things Are. That story’s been in my head since I was little. And the story of the Prodigal Son too—how someone just waits for you, no matter what. That kind of love. I think I don’t really get it. Not yet. Sometimes I wonder—what is perfect love anyway? The kind that doesn’t leave, doesn’t need anything back. Maybe that’s what a parent gives. Maybe it’s something only God can give. I don’t know. I want to believe it’s real. I want to feel it. But most of the time, I just... don’t. So I make things. Creatures, little beings, that come from that not-knowing. From the wanting. They want love so badly. But they’re also scared of it. They’re lonely. They want to be seen, but they also hide. They judge themselves. I think they’re just like me. Sometimes I feel like there’s a small version of me inside—something hungry and unsure and full of questions. That’s where the sculptures come from. Maybe by making them, I’m not trying to answer anything. I’m just staying close to the question.

What has been the most challenging aspect of your artistic journey so far?

Honestly? Just being honest. Sometimes I start a piece thinking I’m being true to a feeling, and halfway through I realize… it got too clean. Too safe. Like I made something just to look good, not to feel something. And when that happens, I have to start over. And materials don’t always behave. Plaster dries weird, hair falls off, stuff breaks. I get frustrated, yeah—but I also think that’s part of it. That not-being-in-control. When something unexpected happens, it opens up new space. Sometimes the accidents feel more honest than the plan.

What are your long-term goals as an artist?

To be honest, the word “goal” still feels kind of big to me. I don’t really think in terms of “achievements” as an artist. More than anything, I just want to keep making. For as long as I can, without stopping. I want to keep creating these sculptural beings, and slowly build out the world they live in. One day, I hope their world can grow big enough to fill an entire exhibition space. A space where all the stories I’ve imagined can come together and breathe. And maybe, someday, my work can be something someone remembers. Not because it’s famous or anything like that, but because someone saw one of my creatures and thought, “That feels like me,” or “I know that feeling.” That kind of connection—that’s the kind of meaning I’d like to last.

How do you see the role of art in society today?

I think art gives space to things we can’t explain. There are so many feelings that just… don’t fit into words. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m feeling until I see something that shows it. I think art can do that. It makes the invisible visible. It makes space for stuff that’s quiet, or weird, or hidden. Also, I think art gives us a place to rest. Not just physically, but emotionally. I build little environments for my sculptures, but maybe I’m building them for myself too. A place to breathe, even if just for a moment.

What do you hope people feel or take away when they view your art?

I hope they feel… something. I don’t need it to be one specific emotion. But just a little shift. My sculptures aren’t pretty in a traditional way. Some of them are strange. Some are a little gross. But I still want people to look at them and feel a kind of softness. Or maybe discomfort that turns into recognition. I think we all carry little soft places inside us. Some people hide them really well. But when we see something vulnerable—something odd but honest—it opens up a door. If my work can do that, even just a crack, I think that’s enough.