In Korean culture, the tiger has long stood as a guardian spirit — a fierce yet benevolent protector believed to ward off disasters, plagues, and evil forces. Appearing throughout mythology, folklore, and proverbs, the tiger remains one of the most enduring symbols of bravery and resilience in the Korean imagination–a creature both feared and respected. For ceramic artist Jang Mee-kyung, this age-old symbol has taken on a different life, becoming both a source of inspiration and the central motif of her art. Her tigers bare their teeth, but they also smile—radiating warmth, humor, and playfulness.

Over the past three decades, Jang has devoted herself to ceramics, but it was only after years of exploration that she found her true voice in tiger sculptures. Today, she is widely recognized for her vividly colored tiger figures that merge Korea’s traditional spiritual symbols with a distinctly contemporary energy. Her works draw inspiration from diverse sources of Korean heritage: the stone statues of the zodiac animals at Gyeongbok Palace’s Geunjeongjeon Hall, the intricate dancheong (multicolored decorative patterns on wooden architecture), and kkokdu, the wooden dolls once placed on funeral biers to protect the deceased.

Jang’s relationship with kkokdu was pivotal. Commissioned by the Kokdu Museum in Seoul to create replicas, she spent two years immersed in crafting these wooden figures, which culminated in her first solo exhibition in 2008. The experience deepened her attachment to Korea’s folk traditions and set the stage for her next chapter. By 2010 — fittingly, the Year of the Tiger — she began receiving a flood of requests for ceramic tiger dolls. What began as an experiment quickly grew into her defining artistic path. “The tiger sculptures came to me not by coincidence, but almost as if it were destiny,” she has reflected.

Rooted in shamanistic traditions where tigers were invoked as protectors, Jang Mee-kyung’s ceramic figures are infused with spiritual energy and layered with meaning. Her bold use of obangsaek, the five traditional Korean colors, together with intricate ceramic techniques, evokes the vibrancy of folk paintings and shamanic imagery while reimagining them for a global audience. Though the tiger remains her most celebrated motif, she also creates a wide range of ceramic sculptures that incorporate zodiac animals and symbolic patterns, each piece meticulously hand-painted in collaboration with a team of professional ceramic artists at her studio. Beyond artistry, Jang envisions her tigers as more than cultural symbols: to her, they are protectors and companions that radiate humor, resilience, positivity, and healing energy—universal emblems that speak across boundaries.

Jang’s studio, Kkokdu Ceramics, is located in Seongbuk-dong, a historic neighborhood of Seoul once home to artists, writers, and independence activists. It is here that she continues to shape her tiger figures, while also responding to contemporary events. From the tragedy of the Sewol Ferry disaster to the ‘Candlelight Revolution,’ her sculptures have absorbed the emotions of the times, transforming them into symbols of hope and strength.

In 2025, Jang’s Blue Miso Tiger gained national attention after winning the Grand Prize at the ‘8th Seoul Symbolic Tourism Souvenir Contest’. Netizens were quick to note its resemblance to Derpy, a tiger character in the hit Netflix animation K-Pop Demon Hunters. Her works, including the Bird-and-Tiger and Happy Tiger sculptures, were spotlighted by the National Heritage Promotion Agency as part of the K-Heritage brand in the 10th-anniversary exhibition More Craft, More Modern at The Hyundai Seoul. In addition, Jang’s tiger figures earned national recognition as award-winning creations at the ‘2025 K-Cultural Product Contest’, and have been featured across Korean media such as JTBC and You Quiz on the Block. Her tiger sculptures were also selected as official souvenirs presented to BTS during their fifth anniversary as ‘Seoul’s Honorary Tourism Ambassadors’, further affirming their role as cultural icons. Jang has embraced these responses with delight, seeing them as proof of how Korea’s traditional symbols can be rediscovered and reinterpreted in today’s global imagination.

Now in her fifties, with more than 20 years dedicated to tiger sculptures alone, Jang continues to expand the boundaries of her work. Her tigers — at once playful and powerful — serve as bridges between Korea’s cultural memory and today’s world, reminding us that what is most deeply Korean can also be most universally human.

In light of her recent achievements, I spoke with Jang about the inspirations behind her practice, the balance of humor and power in her tiger figures, and her hopes for how Korean heritage can be reinterpreted for a wider world.

The following are excerpts from a written interview with Jang, conducted via email between July 18 and September 22..

Do you recall the first time you were drawn to art as a child? Could you share any particular objects, images, or surroundings from that time that especially stimulated your imagination and left a lasting impression?

My parents did not like the fact that I pursued art. However, the traditional Oriental paintings in our home and the figurines displayed in the cabinet gradually drew me in. The sculptures I saw in the Bible also remain with me as beautiful memories.

What led you to choose art as your life’s path? I’d also love to hear how that choice has evolved and developed over time. Despite your family’s initial opposition to attending art school, what gave you the determination to pursue this path to the very end?

On my 10th birthday, neither my parents, my friends, nor any of my family members said ‘happy birthday’ to me. After school, on my way home, I looked up at the sky and thought to myself: What should I do with my life from now on? I was walking that road alone, wondering if I would always have to make every decision in my life by myself. What do I like? What am I good at? Those questions stayed with me as I walked. Just when I felt I might never be able to do anything, I thought, If there is something I can do in the future, perhaps it is drawing.

When I entered middle school at the age of 15, I told my parents that I wanted to study art. As expected, they objected. They believed painters were looked down upon as mere ‘scribblers’ and that artists did not lead respectable lives. Because of this prejudice, they strongly opposed my choice.

Under that stress, I developed alopecia areata. When the doctor eventually asked my parents if anything was causing me stress, they finally relented and allowed me to take art lessons at home. Still, they permitted me to study only design, not painting. I soon realized that design did not suit me, so I decided to apply to the ceramics department instead. There, I majored in ceramics—and fortunately, I discovered I liked ceramics even more than painting, especially the process of creating ceramic sculptures.

What drew you specifically to ceramics as your chosen medium in university, and when did you first begin working with it? How did your time at art school shape your early interests and artistic direction?

Since admission to the ceramics department was through a design-based entrance exam, I studied design in high school. But even then, I felt that neither painting nor design truly suited my personality, and ceramics might be a better fit. Around that time, I watched the film Ghost (released in Korea as Love and Soul), which gave me an almost dreamlike impression of what ceramics could be. It was also a period when ceramic art was beginning to gain wider popularity.

Fortunately, working with clay—feeling it in my hands and shaping it through process—fit my personality well. That connection kept me studying ceramics in university and eventually led me to graduate school.

As an undergraduate, I mostly practiced wheel-throwing. But in graduate school, I shifted my focus toward sculptural work. One day, when my professor asked me to decide on a thesis topic, I began reflecting on what I truly loved. I opened the photo albums I had filled during my undergraduate years with images I had taken in museums, palaces, and even overseas. To my surprise, nearly all of those photos were of sculptures and animal figures.

In that moment, I realized—Ah, this is what I really love. With that clarity, I chose to write my master’s thesis on creating sculptural works in the form of Gwimyeon (demon-face wall hangings). It became one of the most fulfilling and memorable projects of my life.

During your university years, were there any visits to temples, palaces, or museums that left a strong impression on you? Did certain traditional forms or symbols especially resonate with you, and how did engaging with them influence your artistic direction and connection to Korean heritage?

During my undergraduate years, while learning the fundamentals of ceramics, I often visited temples, palaces, and museums simply out of personal enjoyment. Yet as a Christian, those experiences also raised difficult questions for me. Would creating certain forms go against the teaching not to worship idols? What if someone regarded the forms I made as objects of worship? Could my fascination with traditions, patterns, and figures be leading me astray?

Because of these doubts, I spent a long and painful time unable to move forward, only gazing at these forms from a distance. But before I knew it, my hands and heart were already shaping them. Immersed in the act of creation, I experienced an indescribable joy. Beautiful works emerged, pieces that even my professors admired, and when I saw the results myself, I could not hide my excitement. Through this process, I was able to complete my graduate thesis.

From that journey, I realized something about the potters of the past: they worked with complete naturalness. Clay, the wheel, the vessels, the fire, and their craftsmanship all came together in effortless harmony. Do not force the clay. Do not overpower it. Entrust it to the fire. Empty your heart. Of course, reaching this state requires immense time and effort. Even with mastery, one must empty the mind, pay close attention so that no detail goes astray, and repeat the entire process until the results emerge naturally. That immersion is, perhaps, a form of spiritual training. It was then that I felt: this is how Korean culture itself is born.

In your early career after graduation, what kind of ceramic work did you focus on, and how did that shape your understanding of craft and your relationship with the public? Were there works that felt deeply personal to you, even if they didn’t initially resonate with others? How did those experiences influence the direction of your journey as an artist?

After graduation, in order to make a living, I worked on the potter’s wheel, producing and selling tableware. However, I always felt as though it wasn’t truly mine. It didn’t bring me joy, nor did it provide enough income. Those were painful years of wandering. The sculptural works I had created for my thesis did not sell at all to the general public, and I began to feel as though I was sinking deeper and deeper. Even the works I had once loved became unbearable to look at.

To support my family, I wandered through the mountains and fields gathering wild greens for side dishes. Sometimes I cooked with pumpkins and vegetables that elderly women in the neighborhood left for us, and other times I lived off leftover side dishes from church for a week. It felt as though there was nowhere lower to fall.

It was at that time that an acquaintance approached me with a suggestion: ‘Could you introduce someone who can make kokdu (traditional wooden funeral figurines)?’ That chance encounter became the starting point for a rediscovery in my artistic journey.

How did the opportunity with the Kokdu Museum come about, and what was it like to immerse yourself in creating kkokdu? What about working with kkokdu rekindled your connection to your artistic roots?

A friend of mine was partly involved with the Kokdu Museum and was asking around to see if anyone could make kokdu samples. At that time, I was at a standstill, with all my work completely halted, so I thought, Why not give it a try? While working on the sample, I began to feel once again the joy and excitement I had experienced during my graduate school days while creating my thesis works.

Since I had already rented a gallery space in 2008 for a solo exhibition, the kokdu sample naturally developed into a new body of sculptural work. Unlike before, I began adding color to the sculptures, and it felt as though the pieces were being reborn. Finding this process much more enjoyable, I opened the solo exhibition without hesitation.

Was there a particular experience that helped you reconnect with the kind of work you truly wanted to create? How did that shift influence the direction your art started to take from that point onward?

Even before my first solo exhibition opened, calls began coming in from across the country to the gallery inquiring about the prices of my works. Before long, every piece was sold out, and I even began receiving commissions. This was an incredible turning point in my life — a moment that gave me true confidence in the path I had chosen.

When did the tiger first become a central part of your artistic language? What initially drew you to this motif, and how has your relationship with it evolved—from a symbol rooted in Korean tradition to a more universal figure in your recent works?

After my solo exhibition, many of my sculptural works were sold successfully and received much love. Yet I felt regret that there were not many diverse tiger sculptures representing Korea, which made me want to create an elegant tiger. Still, I wondered, In such a difficult economy, would people really buy high-end tiger sculptures?

So, at first, I created more affordable tigers along with other zodiac animals, distributing them through competitions to museum and palace shops. These tigers, produced through intensive labor with the help of a small team of artists working together, gradually gained recognition and became beloved by the public. It was work that demanded an enormous amount of labor and perseverance.

In parallel, through solo exhibitions and art fairs, I began to develop works that were not just products but true artworks carrying messages. Drawing inspiration from the way our ancestors expressed tigers with humor and satire, I created pieces reflecting personal experiences or even satirizing social issues. This approach, rooted in haehak—humorous wit—allowed the tiger to become a living mirror of human nature and society.

Haehak refers to humorously satirical expressions that use tigers to depict or exaggerate events and people in daily life. For example, I would create a tiger that reflects the characteristics of someone who influenced my life, or design a pattern that satirizes major social issues through the image of a tiger. This was a natural progression.

Since ancient times, our ancestors have used the tiger to express duality and reflect on life. Continuing that tradition, I see the tiger not only as a cultural emblem but also as a timeless figure that embodies the spirit of our times.

Your work draws inspiration from dancheong, the stone statues of Gyeongbok Palace, and kkokdu. How do you weave these diverse traditional elements together in a single piece? How has your engagement with Korean spiritual symbols and protective figures shaped the personality of your sculptures? In particular, what role does the tiger, as a holy or protective spirit, play in how you craft its form and expression?

My works are expressed in ways that are thoroughly my own, shaped by personal taste and intuition. Statues, dancheong patterns, and kkokdu dolls—objects that once had very different purposes in their own eras—come together and are reborn in new forms. I always want them to feel somewhat familiar and recognizable, so that viewers do not feel resistance when encountering them.This was not something I calculated in advance; rather, I believe it was the result of my whole body and heart naturally flowing into and merging with the work. The fact that this came through so organically also means that I had spent countless hours refining myself through relentless practice and craftsmanship.

In many ways, Korean shamanism is the spirit that has shaped today’s Korea. The wishes for family prosperity, good health, and protection from negative forces are all embodied in the tiger sculptures. Sometimes the tiger appears fierce, other times it is expressed with humorous satire, and at times its power is conveyed through the five traditional colors (obangsaek), symbols of vital energy. Each variation reflects the tiger’s role as both protector and mirror of human life.

Could you walk us through the materials and sculpting techniques you use when beginning a new piece? Do you follow a consistent method, or does it vary with each work? What role does experimentation play in shaping your forms and surfaces?

The materials of each era play a crucial role in the conception and creation of my work. They open up possibilities for freer expression or lead to entirely different ways of shaping a form. When I begin a new piece, I first consider the material itself—its texture, weight, and responsiveness—and let that guide the early stages of shaping. Sometimes I work traditionally with clay, forming and carving by hand or on the wheel, while at other times I experiment with surface treatments, pigments, or structural techniques to create unexpected results.

Today, however, we are at a crossroads where many clays and materials are disappearing or being reinvented due to environmental changes. This reality keeps my attention sharp. Securing stable access to the right materials has become one of my greatest challenges, but I also see it as an opportunity: just as each era has its own spirit, it is often the materials of that era that carry and express that spirit most vividly.

How did you develop your distinctive technique of mixing clay types and using oxidized steel with oak ash in enamel? What effect were you hoping to achieve?

The development of new types of clay has opened up possibilities that once felt out of reach—especially for creating large-scale sculptures that would have been difficult to achieve with traditional clays alone. From early on, I was drawn to experimenting with materials, and in my undergraduate years I began working with iron oxide and oak ash as the basis for glazes.

This choice is deeply rooted in Korean tradition. Celadon gained its signature bluish tone from iron oxide, while Buncheong ware of the late Joseon period often used oak ash in its glazes—materials that have long been essential to Korean ceramics. Following this lineage, I explored how these traditional materials might be adapted for contemporary sculptural work, and developed glazes using iron oxide. Today, when I paint with modern ceramic pigments and then fire them at 1,220°C, the iron-oxide glaze interacts with the pigments, sometimes producing slightly altered colors. The same applies to glazes made with oak ash. Although modern pigments are used, during high-temperature firing, the glaze and pigments react with each other, resulting in either entirely new colors or subtly transformed ones.

Through these repeated experiments with oak ash glazes and ceramic pigments, my goal was to discover the ideal proportions that capture the palette and feeling of dancheong, the multicolored decorative patterns that adorn Korea’s wooden architecture. On the surface of my sculptures, the painted elements must appear vivid and distinct without gloss, covering the surface sometimes in a rough texture, sometimes in a soft one. Most importantly, the surface had to resemble the warmth of wood rather than the gloss of porcelain. During firing, the oak ash glaze, in particular, revealed its own natural essence, as though it were returning to something timeless.

What does the process of giving “spirit” or life to each tiger look like for you—does it begin with a concept or take shape as you work? Your tigers often bare their teeth, yet their mood feels playful or gentle. How do you strike that balance between strength and friendliness in their expression? And what does humor mean to you in art, especially in figures that have traditionally been symbols of power?

Breathing life or energy into a work is a process that begins months or even days before the actual creation. I gather and accumulate that energy in advance, and then on the chosen day, I devote myself entirely to channeling it into the work. I combine years of collected references, infuse them with the spirit of the times, envision the piece in my mind, sketch it on paper, decide on its scale, and prepare the clay. Then I carefully choose the day to begin, focusing all of my energy as I step into the act of creation. It is like a storm—powerful yet delicate—requiring complete immersion. I cannot be interrupted, nor can I meet anyone during that time. Clay is highly sensitive to air, wind, weather, and humidity.  Sometimes the work unfolds exactly as I envisioned, and other times it takes on a life of its own in my hands.

In Korean tradition, the tiger has long symbolized authority and power. Yet common people often used the image of the tiger to express human duality, as well as to reflect on life and death, often with a touch of humor. I carry this spirit into my own work. I often merge the tiger with the forms of familiar animals that live alongside us, softening its fierceness with touches of foolishness, refinement, gentleness, or play. Above all, I give my tigers a smile. The brightly smiling tiger radiates positive energy. Through the tiger, I wish to banish darkness and bring healing energy into the light, keeping such a tiger close to us.  I think this reflects a deeply Korean sensibility—rooted in shamanistic belief—that even the most powerful beings should live close to us, not far away.

You use obangsaek, the five traditional Korean colors, in vivid combinations. What does each color mean to you in the context of your sculptures? What inspires the colors and patterns you give your works?

As a child, I wore a saekdong jeogori—a traditional jacket with colorful stripes imbued with the five colors—and I loved it. In my parents’ living room, there is still a family portrait where every member is dressed in saekdong jeogori. For me, those five colors carry joyful memories, the warmth of family, and a sense of protection for the future. In that photo, every one of us is smiling brightly, surrounded by the energy of obangsaek.

That same energy lives in my sculptures. Each color carries its own spirit:

• Red conveys the vigorous abundance of life.
   
• Blue represents the birth and growth of life.
   
• Yellow symbolizes the foundation of wealth and prosperity.
   
• White holds mystery and sacredness.
   
• Black embodies strength and sophistication.

Together, these colors create harmony. Where there is lack, I bring in the energy of the missing color. Where I want to emphasize, I let a color shine more strongly. My hope is that this energy not only animates my sculptures, but also brings viewers joy, vitality, and healing. For me, choosing these colors is not simply a stylistic decision—it is my way of conveying the powerful, life-giving energy at the heart of Korean culture.

In recent works, you’ve woven in elements of people’s daily lives and emotions. What led you to begin blending human stories with tiger figures? Are there themes or ideas that have become more important to you in your recent pieces? Have your works changed in any way in response to recent events or the world around you? Could you share how a particular event, like the Covid-19 pandemic, inspired certain visual motifs or meanings in your work?

The reason I began combining human stories with tigers goes back to the ancient Dangun myth. Along with this, the tiger tales passed down through folklore and the tiger stories in children’s books always lived in my heart and imagination. Yet the most extraordinary experience came when, during pregnancy, I dreamt of a tiger and later gave birth to a son. That was truly remarkable. I kept asking myself: Why did I dream of a tiger? Why did its interpretation align so perfectly with my own life? Even now, I still cannot explain it in a way that others could fully understand.

For me, as a Korean artist, weaving human stories into the tiger was a completely natural phenomenon. Later, with the pandemic and the broader changes in our environment, the patterns I embedded within the tiger became expressions of the spirit of the times.

Your sculptures are deeply rooted in Korean tradition, yet you’ve spoken about a desire to open them up to the wider world. In that balance between the local and the universal, do you see your work as continuing Korean artistic traditions, reinterpreting them, or creating something entirely new? What kind of universality do you hope your sculptures carry?

Wasn’t it once said that “the most Korean is also the most universal”? The universal emotions we share as human beings are war and peace, the environment, and love. I believe I am simply expressing these through Korean motifs.

There is also a saying that has always struck me as a profound truth and continues to guide me: Kim Gu’s vision of a beautiful country built upon the power of a noble culture.

How do you think viewers respond to your works—do they often see something different from what you intended? What do you hope your work offers to those who encounter it, regardless of their background or familiarity with your references? Are there new ideas, themes, or forms you find yourself drawn to as you look toward the future?

I don’t think the idea that each viewer interprets differently applies only to my tiger works—it is true of all art. People see what they want to see. As an artist, my role is simply to yield a little, to add a touch of my own expression, and then to present the work to the world. In the end, it is always the audience who completes the work and gives it its final meaning.

There is one dream I have long carried with me. Like Gaudí’s architecture, I would love to create a Korean landmark—something grand and enduring—adorned with tigers and the vibrant obangsaek colors.

Recently, your Blue Miso Tiger received wide attention after winning the grand prize at the ‘Seoul Symbolic Tourism Souvenir Contest,’ and it was also introduced through JTBC broadcasts and the National Heritage Promotion Agency. Interestingly, some online responses noted its resemblance to a character from the recently released animation K-Pop Demon Hunters. How did you view these reactions, and what do you think about the trend of reinterpreting traditional symbols in modern popular culture?

Didn’t someone once say that great artists steal? I find it fascinating how the exchange of inspiration can lead to such astonishing works. What amazes me most is that Koreans are suddenly embracing and cherishing traditions that have always been within them..

From an artist’s perspective, it feels both natural and deeply gratifying that the traditions I have long loved are now shining so brightly and being appreciated across the world. Why do I call it “natural”? Perhaps because I know well the countless efforts and hardships that went into preserving this beauty. These traditions, often unnoticed, were quietly sustained without interruption. With that knowledge, I feel nothing but immense gratitude toward everyone who now celebrates and treasures them as they rise anew through popular culture.

After years of engaging with the tiger as a central motif, what continues to excite or challenge you most in your creative process today? Do you feel your work speaks to a specific cultural identity, or do you see it evolving into broader, more universal themes? Where do you imagine your sculptures heading next—artistically, thematically, or even spiritually?

The source of excitement and the drive to take on challenges comes from within myself. When I gain clarity about what I truly want, desire, and love, I can begin to envision and shape the future accordingly. Whether rooted in a particular culture or material, if we can discover a common ground that fosters empathy and connection among people, then I believe it’s best to leave the direction open to imagination.

If there is one thing I especially wish to try, it would be creating an installation work, sculpture infused with stories, integrated into architecture. That is where I see new possibilities unfolding.