Interviews with Flmt Llc
Designer profileDesigner Interview
7 February 2026
My path into art and design was never a straight line. It began with architecture in Korea—learning the disciplines of rigor, structure, and responsibility—but I kept returning to one quiet doubt: buildings become fixed, while people remain in motion. I could design containers, yet I wondered if architecture could ever truly hold perception—how a day feels, how memory shifts, how a room changes when a body enters. That tension became the seed of my practice: not to leave architecture behind, but to keep opening it until it can breathe.
Los Angeles was my decisive turning point. Through postgraduate research at SCI-Arc, I entered a culture where systems, media, and computation are treated as raw materials—where an algorithm is not just a tool, but a form of authorship. Later, as a computational designer at UDI Studio, that curiosity met the hard discipline of making: our questions had to survive the friction of geometry, budgets, and time. Somewhere in that crossing, I stopped thinking of design as a career choice. It became the only honest way I knew to let a question take form.
Today, I work in a self-sustaining loop across practice and education. I lead FLMT as a platform to test ideas against reality, and I teach digital architecture because teaching demands a rare precision—if I cannot explain a system clearly, I do not deserve to use it. MediumCloud grew from this same impulse: an educational archive for “research crumbs” and experiments, kept in plain sight, where the process is as important as the outcome. In the end, I design the way an artist composes: translating invisible structures—data, rules, time—into experiences that feel immediate, human, and alive.
Los Angeles was my decisive turning point. Through postgraduate research at SCI-Arc, I entered a culture where systems, media, and computation are treated as raw materials—where an algorithm is not just a tool, but a form of authorship. Later, as a computational designer at UDI Studio, that curiosity met the hard discipline of making: our questions had to survive the friction of geometry, budgets, and time. Somewhere in that crossing, I stopped thinking of design as a career choice. It became the only honest way I knew to let a question take form.
Today, I work in a self-sustaining loop across practice and education. I lead FLMT as a platform to test ideas against reality, and I teach digital architecture because teaching demands a rare precision—if I cannot explain a system clearly, I do not deserve to use it. MediumCloud grew from this same impulse: an educational archive for “research crumbs” and experiments, kept in plain sight, where the process is as important as the outcome. In the end, I design the way an artist composes: translating invisible structures—data, rules, time—into experiences that feel immediate, human, and alive.
FLMT stands for 'Feel a Moment.' It is both our name and our operating principle: in an era of constant stimulation, the most meaningful luxury is not excess—it is clarity. We design for the moment a person recognizes a space as their own: the exact weight of light on a surface, the silence between materials, and the way circulation becomes intuitive without explanation. That pursuit gives our work an artistic sensitivity, but we run the studio with a distinctly business-minded discipline—because atmosphere only becomes real when it survives the entire process of realization.
FLMT is a multidisciplinary practice working across architecture, interior, and computational design. In our studio, computation is not a visual style; it is a method for making decisions legible—organizing complexity into systems that can be built, maintained, and experienced. We move seamlessly between conceptual authorship and technical accountability, treating both as part of the same design act.
What differentiates FLMT is how we take responsibility for the 'middle zone' where many projects lose their essence: the space between a strong concept and a finished environment. We are fluent in the language of construction—value engineering without diluting intent, material testing, and rigorous site coordination—because this is where design either becomes precise or compromised. Our goal is straightforward: to protect the original narrative while making it buildable and operable. Perception Cafe is a prime example, where spatial storytelling and operational logic had to be perfectly aligned under real-world constraints.
We work best with partners who look beyond a 'nice interior'—clients who care about brand longevity and the lived reality of space. The result we provide is not just a finished environment, but a repeatable method that can scale or evolve without losing its identity. Ultimately, FLMT treats design as translation: translating invisible structures—data, rules, behavior—into environments that feel immediate and quietly unforgettable. We keep the technology silent, using it only to make the human experience speak more clearly.
FLMT is a multidisciplinary practice working across architecture, interior, and computational design. In our studio, computation is not a visual style; it is a method for making decisions legible—organizing complexity into systems that can be built, maintained, and experienced. We move seamlessly between conceptual authorship and technical accountability, treating both as part of the same design act.
What differentiates FLMT is how we take responsibility for the 'middle zone' where many projects lose their essence: the space between a strong concept and a finished environment. We are fluent in the language of construction—value engineering without diluting intent, material testing, and rigorous site coordination—because this is where design either becomes precise or compromised. Our goal is straightforward: to protect the original narrative while making it buildable and operable. Perception Cafe is a prime example, where spatial storytelling and operational logic had to be perfectly aligned under real-world constraints.
We work best with partners who look beyond a 'nice interior'—clients who care about brand longevity and the lived reality of space. The result we provide is not just a finished environment, but a repeatable method that can scale or evolve without losing its identity. Ultimately, FLMT treats design as translation: translating invisible structures—data, rules, behavior—into environments that feel immediate and quietly unforgettable. We keep the technology silent, using it only to make the human experience speak more clearly.
To me, design is the high-resolution calibration of human experience. It is not decoration; it is the rigorous act of proving that a question can survive the friction of reality. I often think of it as a bridge between the infinite freedom of code and the stubborn limits of matter, where intent must become measurable, buildable, and repeatable.
In my practice, design is a form of technical accountability. We live within complex systems—data, networks, regulations, budgets—and my responsibility is to master those forces so they never overpower the human moment. I use computational logic not to perform complexity, but to distill it: to find a structure that feels intuitive, quiet, and precise.
At its best, design makes technology silent so that experience can speak—through light, proportion, texture, sound, and time. If my earlier work was a 'license to question,' then design is the physical evidence that those questions were worth asking. It is how I stay awake in a world of clichés, translating the invisible rules of our era into spaces that people can feel immediately—and remember without effort.
In my practice, design is a form of technical accountability. We live within complex systems—data, networks, regulations, budgets—and my responsibility is to master those forces so they never overpower the human moment. I use computational logic not to perform complexity, but to distill it: to find a structure that feels intuitive, quiet, and precise.
At its best, design makes technology silent so that experience can speak—through light, proportion, texture, sound, and time. If my earlier work was a 'license to question,' then design is the physical evidence that those questions were worth asking. It is how I stay awake in a world of clichés, translating the invisible rules of our era into spaces that people can feel immediately—and remember without effort.
I am most drawn to projects where the 'atmosphere' is not a decoration, but the core performance of the space—projects where an idea must be felt, not explained. I like work that treats perception as a material: light, reflection, refraction, time, movement, and the subtle shifts that occur when a body enters a room. These are the projects that demand both artistic authorship and business-grade precision, because the moment only becomes believable when it can be repeated every day under real-world conditions.
This is why I gravitate toward flagship environments and immersive interiors—spaces that carry a brand’s philosophy without relying on signage or spectacle. They require an unusually tight alignment between concept, detailing, and supervision; even the smallest mismatch in tolerance or sequence can collapse the intended experience. For me, the most rewarding work is where poetry is engineered: when the emotional reading of a space is supported by a quiet, rigorous logic that remains invisible to the visitor.
A definitive example is our project Linear Envelopes, a flagship space for BONOMONG in Itaewon, Seoul. The central ambition was to translate the essence of a forest—trees and sunlight—into architectural phenomena. We built a 'glass forest' and a trail of light where layered objects catch daylight and release it as optical caustics—a living pattern of sun that shifts through time. Rather than representing nature as a static image, we created conditions for it to reappear as an event: a choreography of reflections and moving light. I find the tension between the intangible and the measurable in such projects deeply energizing. It forces design to become accountable—an artwork that must operate. In the end, these are the works I love: spaces that are quietly technical, unmistakably sensory, and built to sustain a human moment with absolute clarity.
This is why I gravitate toward flagship environments and immersive interiors—spaces that carry a brand’s philosophy without relying on signage or spectacle. They require an unusually tight alignment between concept, detailing, and supervision; even the smallest mismatch in tolerance or sequence can collapse the intended experience. For me, the most rewarding work is where poetry is engineered: when the emotional reading of a space is supported by a quiet, rigorous logic that remains invisible to the visitor.
A definitive example is our project Linear Envelopes, a flagship space for BONOMONG in Itaewon, Seoul. The central ambition was to translate the essence of a forest—trees and sunlight—into architectural phenomena. We built a 'glass forest' and a trail of light where layered objects catch daylight and release it as optical caustics—a living pattern of sun that shifts through time. Rather than representing nature as a static image, we created conditions for it to reappear as an event: a choreography of reflections and moving light. I find the tension between the intangible and the measurable in such projects deeply energizing. It forces design to become accountable—an artwork that must operate. In the end, these are the works I love: spaces that are quietly technical, unmistakably sensory, and built to sustain a human moment with absolute clarity.
One of my most personal projects is our Samseong-dong business facility in Seoul, because it captures what I believe design must do at its highest level: remain bold, yet behave with restraint. The project began with a difficult question—how can a contemporary workplace assert its identity without becoming visual noise to the city?
The site sits in a sensitive condition, bordered by residential edges on two sides. That reality became the project’s ethics. Instead of treating the façade as a cosmetic statement, we developed it as a calibrated envelope—a gradient system that negotiates privacy, daylight, and presence. As the building approaches the neighboring homes, the logic tightens: openings become more controlled and the surface shifts from expression to protection. In other words, the architecture doesn’t simply 'show itself'; it learns when to soften.
I call this quality 'urban etiquette'—the ability of a building to participate in the city without dominating it. What I love most is that this project proves empathy can be engineered. Every fold and aperture is a measured response to context, not a stylistic signature. The result is a kind of quiet armor: a structure that performs as a business facility while shielding the everyday lives next to it. It is evidence that an architectural idea can be precise and contemporary while remaining deeply considerate. For me, that is the most enduring form of beauty: not what demands attention, but what earns trust over time.
The site sits in a sensitive condition, bordered by residential edges on two sides. That reality became the project’s ethics. Instead of treating the façade as a cosmetic statement, we developed it as a calibrated envelope—a gradient system that negotiates privacy, daylight, and presence. As the building approaches the neighboring homes, the logic tightens: openings become more controlled and the surface shifts from expression to protection. In other words, the architecture doesn’t simply 'show itself'; it learns when to soften.
I call this quality 'urban etiquette'—the ability of a building to participate in the city without dominating it. What I love most is that this project proves empathy can be engineered. Every fold and aperture is a measured response to context, not a stylistic signature. The result is a kind of quiet armor: a structure that performs as a business facility while shielding the everyday lives next to it. It is evidence that an architectural idea can be precise and contemporary while remaining deeply considerate. For me, that is the most enduring form of beauty: not what demands attention, but what earns trust over time.
The first thing I designed for a company was a computational envelope and façade system while working at UDI Studio in Los Angeles. It was my first real encounter with design as high-stakes authorship under constraint—where an idea is only as good as its ability to hold up against cost, fabrication logic, coordination, and schedule. My role was to translate an intent that began as pure geometry into a system that could actually be built: rationalizing curvature into producible families, establishing tolerance rules, and delivering outputs that could move cleanly from screen to shop to site.
That experience shaped how I lead design today. I don’t use computation as a visual signature; I use it as a precision instrument that protects the atmosphere. The goal is not complexity, but inevitability: a space that feels effortless because the logic underneath is disciplined. In that sense, my 'first' wasn't just a façade—it was the moment design became executive accountability, where every aesthetic decision had to justify itself in performance, time, and money.
If you’re asking about the first work under my own studio, FLMT (Filament LLC)—which I founded in June 2018—it wasn’t a commissioned project. It was a small pavilion proposal for a public park; a project we pursued out of conviction, almost like a private manifesto made public. We treated it as a concentrated experiment in perception: how light lands, how proportion holds silence, and how a simple structure can carry a distinct emotional temperature. That pavilion set the trajectory of my practice—from distilled spatial gestures to flagship environments where a brand must be felt without explanation.
Today, FLMT operates at the intersection of authorship and delivery. We are a practice built around design implementation and supervision—supported by a digital pipeline that makes decisions traceable and buildable. We use computational methods not to showcase technology, but to keep the human experience consistent. In the end, my earliest 'firsts' taught me the principle I still work by: the most successful technology is the one that stays quiet—so the space can speak.
That experience shaped how I lead design today. I don’t use computation as a visual signature; I use it as a precision instrument that protects the atmosphere. The goal is not complexity, but inevitability: a space that feels effortless because the logic underneath is disciplined. In that sense, my 'first' wasn't just a façade—it was the moment design became executive accountability, where every aesthetic decision had to justify itself in performance, time, and money.
If you’re asking about the first work under my own studio, FLMT (Filament LLC)—which I founded in June 2018—it wasn’t a commissioned project. It was a small pavilion proposal for a public park; a project we pursued out of conviction, almost like a private manifesto made public. We treated it as a concentrated experiment in perception: how light lands, how proportion holds silence, and how a simple structure can carry a distinct emotional temperature. That pavilion set the trajectory of my practice—from distilled spatial gestures to flagship environments where a brand must be felt without explanation.
Today, FLMT operates at the intersection of authorship and delivery. We are a practice built around design implementation and supervision—supported by a digital pipeline that makes decisions traceable and buildable. We use computational methods not to showcase technology, but to keep the human experience consistent. In the end, my earliest 'firsts' taught me the principle I still work by: the most successful technology is the one that stays quiet—so the space can speak.
Grand Interview
13 June 2026 · Perception Cafe
The 'Shading tree' installation was a strategic design response to the physical constraints of the site, which had a ceiling height of less than 2.5 meters—lower than the average commercial space. Our primary rule was to prevent the space from feeling cramped or oppressive. Through a data-driven process, we utilized undulating wooden slats to create a sense of visual depth and upward movement, effectively tricking the eye into perceiving a more expansive volume. Emotionally, this organic fluidity provides an elegant sanctuary of tranquility that stands in stark contrast to the rigid, fast-paced urban grid outside. While the foundation is rooted in complex computational logic, the result is a purely sensorial experience, transforming the cafe into a place where the atmosphere feels as natural and light as resting under the canopy of a great tree.
The inspiration for the centralized open-preparation zone lies in our desire to celebrate the 'theatricality of craftsmanship.' While the dramatic ceiling installation initially captures a visitor's attention upon entry, their focus gradually shifts toward the human element at the heart of the space: the barista. We designed this layout so that the 'barista's aura' radiates throughout the entire cafe, ensuring that even those seated at the peripheral tables—not just those at the bar—feel a profound connection to the craft. As customers settle into their seats after ordering, they often find themselves mesmerized by the barista’s meticulous movements; every precise gesture becomes a performance of dedication. This transparency dismantles the traditional barrier between creator and consumer, turning the sensory experience of coffee preparation into a shared ritual that can be perceived and appreciated from every corner of the room.
In my dual role as an educator and a practitioner, I always emphasize to my students that cutting-edge technology is merely a form of 'information.' The true essence of design lies in how an architect perceives, interprets, and ultimately masters that information to craft their own unique aesthetic language. I am guided by the profound words of Frank Lloyd Wright: 'The Machine is the architect’s tool – whether he likes it or not. Unless he masters it, the Machine has mastered him.' > Although more than a century has passed since Wright shared this insight, his warning remains strikingly relevant in 2026. Despite the leap from industrial machines to advanced digital algorithms, the core challenge remains the same: the architect must remain the master of the tool. At FLMT, we refused to let technology dictate the design. Instead, we mastered these digital tools to translate complex information through our own lens, navigating site-specific constraints to create a space that feels authentically human. Our philosophy is that technology should be the invisible scaffolding supporting a warm, sensory experience—ensuring that the 'machine' serves the human spirit, turning cold data into a poetic invitation for the local community.
The design of the 'Shading Tree' ceiling was a computational solution to a critical acoustic challenge. With an open kitchen and expansive glass surfaces, the site was prone to high reverberation. To address this, we focused on the principle of 'Acoustic Slat Absorption.' We divided the space into three zones centered around the barista's workspace and conducted simulations to determine the optimal depth of the plywood slats. Our strategy was to create a 'Sound Trapping' geometry; by adjusting the narrow and deep gaps between the slats, we allowed sound waves to enter the structure, where they would undergo multiple reflections and dissipate their energy. This effectively shortened the 'sound journey' and reduced the Reverberation Time. The simulation results, which optimized these acoustic voids, naturally converged into organic, wave-like patterns. We embraced this as our aesthetic language, ensuring the final form was a literal manifestation of acoustic comfort. In this project, 'form follows sound,' resulting in a space where the visual drama is balanced by a quiet, serene auditory environment.
The brand name 'Perception' is deeply rooted in the architectural philosophy of Peter Zumthor, specifically his inquiry in Atmospheres: 'What moved me?' We wanted the space to be more than a visual object; it was a deliberate effort to translate the client's vision of emotional resonance into a physical reality. The varying volumes of the 'Shading Tree' ceiling act as a vessel for this inquiry. As visitors move through the space, their perception is not static but a shifting dialogue with the environment. Depending on the time of day and their chosen vantage point, they might be moved by the heavy, warm mass of the wood or the ethereal play of light and shadow filtering through the slats. By rejecting a singular perspective, we created an 'atmospheric' space where the 'Perception' of the architecture is inextricably linked to the visitor's own emotional state. We designed it so that the final answer to 'What moved me?' remains unique to every individual who steps inside.
To support over 500kg of plywood within a constrained ceiling height of less than 2.5 meters, we faced a critical architectural dilemma. Traditional secondary support systems, such as bulky hangers or horizontal beams, were entirely counterproductive; they would have lowered the ceiling further, exacerbating the spatial confinement without offering any real structural benefit in such a tight vertical clearance. Instead, we engineered a sophisticated Wooden Truss system reinterpreted through digital fabrication. Each of the hundreds of plywood slats was CNC-machined with a high-precision interlocking slot-and-tab mechanism, allowing the individual components to function as a cohesive, self-supporting lattice. Through rigorous computational structural analysis, we identified the specific critical points where the load was most concentrated and implemented targeted reinforcement in those areas. By strategically reinforcing these stress points while distributing the remaining weight across the entire ceiling plane, we eliminated the need for any additional, space-consuming supports. This allowed us to achieve a remarkable 'visual lightness'—ensuring that the 'Shading Tree' serves as its own structure while preserving every millimeter of available height.
Most cafe designs adhere to an 'unwritten law' of rigid zoning—fixed areas for solo laptops or specific group sizes—which often dictates how people must behave within the space. At Perception, we challenged this norm by implementing a strategy of 'Perimeter Fixation versus Internal Fluidity.' We fixed only the edges with long, built-in benches that follow the windows and walls, while leaving the central floor flexible with movable furniture. This layout directs the visitor's gaze toward the barista’s work zone, creating a 'tidiness without walls' where all activities are concentrated into a single, unified atmosphere. We approached this design with a cautious respect for the inquiry posed in Peter Zumthor’s Atmospheres: 'What moved me?' Our goal was not to claim the realization of a philosophy, but to delicately move closer to those fleeting moments of resonance. Ultimately, this design reflects a 'mindset of preparation'—an intentional effort to ensure that every element within the space is poised to be fully perceived. Whether it is the aroma of our house-roasted coffee, the texture of a handmade dessert, or the play of light on wood, we prepared the space so that even the smallest detail has the opportunity to move the visitor’s soul.
The core challenge in Perception Cafe was to prevent high-tech innovation from feeling cold or clinical. Many visitors, upon seeing the 'Shading Tree,' often ask in wonder: 'How could carpenters refine wood so precisely by hand?' This reaction is the ultimate validation of our fusion approach. While we utilized advanced computational design to calculate the 0.5-ton structural load and the complex, non-standard curves of the hundreds of slats, we ensured that the technology remained a 'silent facilitator' rather than a visible protagonist.The innovation lies in the digital logic that manages complexity, but the welcoming atmosphere stems from the humanistic aesthetics we deliberately preserved. We treated the CNC-cut plywood not as a industrial byproduct, but as a living material that requires the tactile wisdom of a master craftsman to truly breathe. By focusing on the 'human touch'—the meticulous sanding, the warm finish, and the organic alignment of the grain—we bridged the gap between the precision of the machine and the soul of the artisan. In Perception Cafe, technology and craft are not in conflict; they are fused into a singular, human-centered experience where the 'machine-made' becomes invisible, leaving only a sense of profound warmth and dedicated care for the visitor.
Our research was driven by a fundamental question: how can we push the tectonic limits of timber to create a performative, immaterial atmosphere? We viewed wood not merely as a static finish, but as a dynamic medium capable of storing carbon and modulating sensory data. This necessitated a rigorous research phase where we utilized computational optimization to maximize the material’s potential.We conducted extensive acoustic simulations to determine how the varying depths of the plywood slats could serve as a 'sound trap,' effectively converting a dense, 500kg material into an immaterial silence. By treating the wood as a series of functional voids rather than solid masses, we were able to achieve a 'biophilic' lightness—recreating the experience of standing under a forest canopy where light and sound are delicately filtered. Our choice of digital fabrication was a professional necessity to ensure the structural integrity of this complex 3D lattice while minimizing material waste, honoring the sustainability of timber. In this project, the technology was the essential research tool that allowed us to master the material’s physical properties, ultimately dissolving the heavy timber into a poetic, immaterial experience of tranquility and shadow.
Perception Cafe stands as a definitive milestone that validated FLMT's core mission: to open the boundaries of conventional practice through a fresh, exploratory approach to design with cutting-edge technologies. This project proved that data and computational processes are at their most powerful when they serve as a medium for human-centered resonance. Since its completion, our studio has moved beyond viewing innovation and comfort as opposing forces. We now approach every project by asking how technology can facilitate a deeper, more 'personal and private' emotional experience for the visitor.It has also profoundly reinforced my dual path as an architect and educator. Whether lecturing on digital architecture at Ajou University or Dankook University, I use this project to prove to my students that the future of design lies not in showcasing the machine, but in mastering it to elevate the human spirit. Perception Cafe remains a constant reminder for FLMT that even the most complex digital algorithm must ultimately result in a space where someone can peacefully lose themselves in thought over a cup of coffee. It taught us that when we master the tool, we don't just build structures—we gain the conviction that a truly well-crafted space possesses the inherent power to move the human soul.