You don’t just look at Christine Kim’s art—you wander through it.
At first glance, it’s paper. Cut, layered, sometimes painted. But pause a little longer, and it starts to shift—figures slowly revealing themselves, shadows playing tricks, edges pulling you into a story. Christine Kim, the Korean-Canadian artist based just north of Toronto, has turned paper into something quietly powerful. Something soulful.
Her medium may be simple, but her message never is. Each piece feels like a poem—soft, layered, a little mysterious. She works with drawing, cutting, and collage to explore portraiture in a way that feels both solid and fragile. You’re not just seeing a face; you’re seeing what’s hidden underneath too.
Christine’s creative journey wasn’t loud or flashy. Like many of us, she took the long road—drawing since childhood, going through art school, teaching high school, and eventually finding her way back to her own art. It wasn’t planned. During her Master’s program, she picked up a few tools—some paper, a knife, pencils—and that’s where the spark happened. Paper became her playground.
What makes Christine’s work stand out is how intuitive it feels. She doesn’t rush to stick things down. She builds slowly—starting with the figure, usually drawn from fashion photography, then layering bits and pieces like a chef preparing ingredients. Nothing gets glued until it all feels right. She describes it as a creative puzzle, and honestly, that’s exactly how it looks—like each piece was waiting to find its place.
Her style? Well, even she resists using that word too seriously. Christine believes in exploration over perfection. She tells young artists not to get trapped in the search for “style” too early. Try everything, she says. Play. Make mistakes. Be okay with not knowing exactly where you’re going. “Keep your head down and do the work” is her motto—and it shows.
Behind her intricate art is also a lot of thoughtful craftsmanship. She uses thick Bristol or watercolor paper, cutting machines, craft knives, bone folders, and even some fancy, surgeon-level scissors (yes, they’re as cool as they sound). But what she really leans on is time—time to think, time to play, time to sit with her work until it tells her what it needs.
When it comes to inspiration, Christine collects little wonders like stars in her sky: stained glass shadows, Vermeer’s quiet rooms, Japanese installations, Korean hanji doors from her grandmother’s home. Her work feels like a conversation between those moments and the paper in front of her.
And through all of it, she’s also teaching—literally. Christine spends most of her year in a high school classroom, helping students find their own voices while carving out time to return to her studio during the summers. She’s honest about how hard that balance is. There are stretches when nothing happens. No shows, no commissions. But instead of stressing, she calls those moments a gift—a rare time with no pressure. Just her and her art.
At the heart of it, Christine Kim reminds us that art doesn’t need noise to be powerful. It just needs honesty. Her work doesn’t scream. It breathes.
And if you listen closely, it might just tell you something about yourself, too.
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