Studio Visit: Elaborate Helmets, BTS and Reimagined Uniforms With Sung Hwan Bobby Park

In a small, ceramics-filled studio on the Onehunga grounds of Auckland Studio Potters, steam rises from an ochre teapot beside a pair of hand-built mugs and a cluster of Kinder Buenos. Vase-like vessels, vividly painted with large eyeballs, seem to be keeping watch. Artist Sung Hwan Bobby Park pours two cups of green tea and nods to the students in the adjacent building who are sitting at their pottery wheels. He recalls that his first pottery class was in that very room.

Born in South Korea, Park moved to New Zealand with his family in 2000 when he was 10 years old. He went on to study design at Auckland University of Technology (AUT), which had been a compromise between his childhood dream of being an artist and his parent’s desire for stability, he says. In his final year of uni, he saw the pottery class advertised on Facebook and, liking the idea of trying something new, he enrolled. His tutor, clay artist Carla Ruka, showed students the basics of coiling – a hand-building technique for pots and vessels – before letting the class create whatever they wanted.

“Working with ceramics was critical,” says Park. “It helped me find my creative voice … allowing me the freedom to create or think of things on my own, without someone telling me what I needed to make.” He completed his design degree, but then pursued the artist route.

He enjoys being based at Auckland Studio Potters, where it all began. The centre – a constellation of buildings, kiln sheds and bisque storage (that is, pottery awaiting glazing) – is home to a rich community of makers and artists. Park’s workspace is one of a few small, standalone studios reserved for artists in residence, with glass doors that concertina and give the studio an indoor-outdoor atmosphere.

“You get to meet everyone here,” he says, smiling. “All these superstars: Peter Lange, Peter Collis, Rachel Carter, Carla Ruka.” These are some of New Zealand’s most acclaimed and sought-after ceramicists, all of whom have tutored at the studio. A potter pops their head through the door to tell Park that the kiln is ready for him.

Park says he admires the way clay “listens to you and your movements,” rolling his thumb over an imaginary creation in the palm of his hand as he does so, “and yet, it has a life of its own.”

Transformation is central to his practice – turning a material often overlooked into something celebrated and purposeful. For his final project at AUT, for example, he took large sheets of vulcanised rubber and fed them into what he describes as "an industrial-strength pasta machine”. He then weaved those rubber ribbons into floor mats and baskets.

“A lot of the time, my ideas are cloud-shapes in my head. Putting those thoughts into a structure helps me to understand my experiences.”

When people ask what kind of art he makes, Park hesitates to call himself a “sculptor”. Instead, he describes his current projects, which include work with ceramics, digital drawing and embroidery.

One of those projects is his ongoing B.T.M series. Short for “bangtan mo” or “bulletproof helmets”, B.T.M is a collection of ceramic helmets that reflect his time in the military, a service that is compulsory for all South Korean men. Park returned to South Korea to do his service in 2012 and finished in 2014.

In 2018, Park learned that the South Korean military had set up fake profiles on dating apps to entrap gay personnel. (Korean military law prohibits sexual activity between military personnel of the same sex.) Those caught were subject to homophobic interrogation and a non-expungable charge, impacting their access to health and civic services.

"I followed that case very closely, and it got me thinking about my own time in the military,” says Park. “I never spoke about my homosexuality with anybody; I had to lie about it because I didn't want to go to jail … If I told anyone about this aspect of myself, that sense of protection and identity would shatter. My bulletproof helmet was essentially as fragile as these ceramic ones."

Each ceramic helmet features an insignia of the three letters in the series title. It alludes to the iconic South Korean K-pop band BTS (which Park adores) and the abbreviation of “bottom” often used in queer culture. The helmet motif unifies his practice, linking the utilitarian shapes of earlier helmets he created with the flamboyance of more recent additions, which are covered in colourful patterns, artificial hair, protruding eyes and almost cartoonish paintings of faces.

Each evolution nods to its traditional form but rejects its intended function as protective wear. Over time, the helmets have become a canvas for exploring identity – his queer identity – and, in his words, the experience of “not giving a fuck”. He admits that they retain their status as symbols of an institution, but he’s reclaiming that territory.

Pinned to the window of his studio are a collection of “hyungbae” or mandarin squares, embroidered badges depicting a mystical animal surrounded by clouds and symbols of prosperity, such as waves and mushrooms. Traditionally, hyungbae were worn by the Chinese imperial court and affiliated courts throughout Korea, Japan and Vietnam to indicate rank.

For a recent show at Auckland Studio Potters, Park exhibited his contemporary interpretation of a hyungbae on a hanbok (a traditional Korean men’s garment) made by Christchurch designer Steven Park.

“I’m starting to think about my queer identity as a gay man, what it means to be me today and what the gay community needs for [its] prosperity,” he says. His badge proudly displays a unicorn with flaming hooves flying over the Auckland cityscape. Raining down from the clouds are PrEP pills, a medicine that reduces the chance of an HIV infection.

“Everything I make is part of a uniform,” Park says. While no one has worn these helmets or robes, they represent his idea of a different kind of army to that he himself experienced. One that “fights for individuality instead of erasing individuality.”

By placing this marker of identity in the centre of a distinctively royal garment, he portrays queer experiences with dignity. "This adornment essentially elevates a person's queerness, and I find that very motivating to keep my practice going.”

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