Interviews with Seungbum Ma

Studio SMA is a multidisciplinary design practice that works across architecture, interior design, furniture, objects, installations, and writing. Rather than treating these as separate disciplines, we see them as different ways of exploring the same ideas and creating meaningful experiences.

Our vision is to make everyday life more meaningful through thoughtful design. We believe that even small interventions—whether a building, a piece of furniture, an object, or a written text—can change the way people perceive and engage with their surroundings. By moving freely between different scales and mediums, we aim to create work that is both conceptually rich and deeply connected to everyday life.

For me, design is the process of bringing together multiple, often conflicting, requirements into a coherent order. It is about finding a solution that not only resolves practical constraints but also creates something greater than the sum of its parts.

Good design should go beyond fulfilling functional needs. It should offer aesthetic value, provoke thought, and create meaningful experiences for people. When design succeeds, it doesn't simply solve a problem—it enriches the way we live, perceive, and connect with the world around us.

I find almost every kind of design fascinating. While architecture and interior design are the fields I feel most at home in, I don't like to limit myself to a single discipline.

What excites me most is the opportunity to explore different types of design and learn from them. Designing furniture, objects, installations, or even writing about design allows me to approach the same questions from different perspectives. Each discipline has its own methods, constraints, and ways of thinking, and those experiences continually enrich my work as a designer.

For me, the medium is less important than the idea behind it. If a project has the potential to improve everyday life or offer a new way of seeing the world, I'm interested in designing it.

One of my greatest design influences is the work of Dieter Rams. I admire the way he brought together numerous functional requirements into a clear and minimal order without sacrificing usability or beauty.

His designs are simple, but never simplistic. They are aesthetically refined, economically efficient, and incredibly intuitive to use. Every detail has a purpose, yet the overall result feels effortless.

What I appreciate most is that his work demonstrates how good design is not about adding more, but about carefully removing the unnecessary until only the essential remains. That philosophy has had a lasting influence on the way I approach my own work across architecture, interiors, furniture, and objects.

The first design I created for a company was a custom stamp for marking books. Rather than treating it as an ordinary office tool, I wanted to turn it into something people could interact with and enjoy.

The stamp was made from machined aluminum, with several triangular forms of different shapes. I also designed a base that allowed these pieces to be arranged in various configurations. Together, they formed a small, ever-changing composition—almost like a miniature village.

What interested me most was the idea that even a simple object could invite creativity and imagination. Instead of designing only for function, I wanted to create an everyday object that people would enjoy using and that could bring a small sense of discovery to their daily routine.

I don't have a single favorite material or technology. What I enjoy most is exploring and experimenting with a wide range of materials, tools, and fabrication methods. I'm equally interested in discovering the possibilities of new technologies and learning from the knowledge embedded in traditional materials and craftsmanship.

don't think there is a particular moment when I suddenly feel creative. In fact, I've never really looked at my work and thought, "That was truly creative." I'm usually more aware of what could have been improved and how much more there is to learn.

For me, creativity isn't a moment of inspiration—it's the result of staying curious, working consistently, and giving my best to every project. I try to approach each challenge with an open mind, enjoy the process, and learn something new along the way.

Rather than chasing originality for its own sake, I focus on making thoughtful decisions and continuously growing through the work itself. I believe creativity emerges naturally from that process.

The first priority is always to satisfy the project's functional requirements. A design must work well before it can become meaningful.

Beyond that, I focus on how those requirements can be integrated into a coherent formal language. I'm interested in transforming practical constraints into a unified design that feels inevitable rather than assembled from separate solutions.

I also think about how a project can create a deeper aesthetic and intellectual presence. Good design should do more than perform its function—it should communicate an idea, evoke an emotional response, and leave a lasting impression. For me, the goal is to create work that possesses both clarity and a sense of aura, where function, form, and meaning become inseparable.

Designing makes me feel truly alive. It can be challenging and frustrating at times, but there is great joy in solving a difficult problem and seeing it realized as a beautiful piece of work.

The most rewarding moment, however, is seeing people appreciate and enjoy the finished design. Knowing that it brings value or happiness to someone's everyday life is what motivates me the most.

When a design is realized, I first reflect on how closely the final result matches the idea I originally imagined. I'm always interested in understanding how much of the conceptual intention has been successfully translated into a physical form.

At the same time, I try to discover the new qualities that emerge through materialization. A built object often has a presence and potential that cannot be fully anticipated in drawings or models, and I enjoy reading and learning from those unexpected possibilities.

A successful design is one that balances care for people, thoughtful problem-solving, and a clear sense of beauty. It should respond to real needs while organizing complex requirements into a coherent and creative order.

For me, good design is not only functional—it should also enrich people's everyday lives through its form, meaning, and experience.

The first impression is the most important to me. A design should immediately communicate a sense of clarity, beauty, and purpose.

Function is essential, but I see it as the starting point rather than the final goal. If a design fulfills its function but lacks aesthetic quality or emotional impact, it feels incomplete. Great design should be both useful and beautiful.

I believe designers have a responsibility to create work that endures. A good design should remain meaningful over time and continue to inspire people, even years after it is made.

Rather than following short-lived trends, designers should aim to create thoughtful and lasting work. Timeless design is not only better for people but also more responsible for society and the environment because it encourages long-term use instead of constant replacement.

I think the boundaries between design disciplines will continue to disappear. Architecture, product design, furniture, digital media, and art will increasingly overlap, leading to new ways of thinking and creating.

At the same time, the gap between design and fabrication will become much smaller. As digital tools and manufacturing technologies continue to advance, designers will be able to move more seamlessly from concept to production. I believe the future designer will not only conceive ideas but also make them—a designer who is, in many ways, also a maker.

My most recent exhibition is the Solid Mirage series, which has been on view at the COOR brand building in Seongsu, Seoul, from September last year through June this year.

My next exhibition will be in November, when I will be participating in the UIA Architects Exhibition. I'm looking forward to presenting new work and continuing to explore the relationship between architecture, objects, and everyday life.

My inspiration comes from architecture, cities, history, and travel. I enjoy observing how places have been shaped over time and how people interact with the built environment in their everyday lives.

I believe creativity is not about inventing something from nothing. It comes from seeing familiar things in unfamiliar ways—re-editing and recombining existing forms, relationships, and ideas to create new meanings. I try to stay curious, and every place I visit or building I experience becomes part of that ongoing process.

At the moment, much of my work explores repeated geometric forms and ordered compositions. These elements allow me to create clarity, rhythm, and a strong sense of structure.

That said, I don't want to be defined by a fixed style. I believe every project has its own context, purpose, and character, and my role as a designer is to find the design language that best fits each situation.

My approach is not to impose a signature style, but to develop the most appropriate solution for every project. For me, good design is about responding to context with clarity, rather than repeating the same visual language.

I live in Seoul, South Korea. One of the strengths of Korean design culture is how quickly it embraces new ideas and technologies. However, trends also change very quickly, and meaningful designs can easily be forgotten.

This is why I'm interested in creating work that is both contemporary and timeless—designs that people can continue to appreciate for years to come.

work closely with companies to balance practical needs with conceptual thinking. As a university professor, I constantly move between academia and professional practice, and I believe each strengthens the other.

My goal is to deliver solutions that are not only technically and commercially successful but also introduce new ideas and meaningful design value.

I believe the best collaborations are built on mutual trust, open dialogue, and shared growth. Companies should look for designers who have a clear philosophy and a unique perspective, while also being open-minded and flexible throughout the process.

A good designer is not simply someone who delivers a service, but a creative partner who can challenge ideas, create synergy, and work toward a shared vision.

My design process begins with understanding the project's requirements and researching relevant references. Once the functional challenges are clear, I explore the conceptual potential of the project—looking for ways to create new meaning rather than simply solving problems.

From there, I develop a formal language that integrates these ideas into a coherent design. I make a series of physical models to study materiality, proportions, and craftsmanship, refining the design through hands-on experimentation.

Finally, I complete detailed drawings and prototypes to prepare the project for production, ensuring that the original concept is translated into a high-quality finished work.

t's difficult to choose just five, but these are some of my favorites.

First is my reinterpretation of Le Corbusier's Grand Confort, created for Magazine C as part of my Op series. I also have a stainless steel table that I designed, which I appreciate for its simplicity and material presence.

Among works by other designers, I particularly admire Jean Prouvé's Standard Chair, a vintage lamp by Mario Botta, and the Tizio lamp. They all combine strong functionality with a timeless formal language, and I continue to find new inspiration in them.

No two days are exactly the same, but I do have a routine. I start my day with breakfast, get ready, and head to my studio. There, I spend my time reading, writing, sketching, and developing ideas for ongoing projects.

If I have classes, I teach at the university. Otherwise, I dedicate most of the day to design work and research. In the evening, I try to exercise, study a new language, and relax by reading manga before going to bed.

Although my schedule changes from day to day, I enjoy balancing professional work with continuous learning and personal interests.

My advice to young designers is simple: observe more, think more, and stay curious. Even when you encounter the same things every day, keep asking questions and imagine how they could be different.

Most importantly, work with your own hands. Draw, write, build, and experiment. I believe real understanding comes from making, and your own experiences will become the foundation of your ideas and your voice as a designer.

One of the greatest joys of being a designer is that everything in life can become a source of inspiration. Everyday experiences, places, and conversations all have the potential to spark new ideas.

The challenging part is turning those ideas into reality. The process can be stressful, demanding, and sometimes financially uncertain. There are moments of frustration and even sleepless nights.

Despite that, I wouldn't choose another path. The satisfaction of seeing an idea become a meaningful design is something unique. As designers, we experience a sense of joy and fulfillment that few other professions can offer.

My golden rule is that a design must first fulfill its function, but it should never stop there. The final form should also embody conceptual depth and aesthetic value.

I believe good design invites new interpretations. It should not only solve a problem but also encourage people to see, think, and experience something in a new way.

I believe the most important skill for a designer is the ability to organize and express ideas clearly. Designers must listen carefully to the client's needs, but they should also be able to reinterpret those requirements through their own perspective and design language.

A good designer doesn't simply execute a brief—they transform it into something original, meaningful, and well resolved.

My toolbox is a combination of both analog and digital tools. I rely on architecture and art books, sketching, and careful observation to develop ideas. For design development, I use software such as Rhino, SketchUp, and rendering programs to refine and communicate my work.

More than any specific tool, however, I believe that my greatest source of inspiration comes from everyday life. The things I see, hear, and experience each day are an essential part of my creative process.

Time management is one of the most challenging parts of my work. I begin by setting an overall schedule and defining the major milestones of a project. Within that framework, I focus on finding the best solutions without losing sight of the bigger picture.

I don't believe creativity can be rushed, but a clear structure helps me balance exploration with deadlines.

It depends entirely on the project. A building may take six months to a year—or even longer—depending on its scale, while a small object can sometimes be designed in just a day or two.

That said, I rarely think of a design as truly finished. Even after a project is completed, I continue to reflect on it and explore new variations. In that sense, every design remains part of an ongoing process of refinement.

The question I'm asked most often is, "How much will it cost?"—whether it's the design fee or the construction budget.

It's a practical and important question, but I always explain that good design is not simply about cost. It's about creating the greatest possible value within the available budget.

I don't think there has been a single most important project. Every project, regardless of its size, has taught me something valuable. I try to give my best to each one, because every experience contributes to my growth as a designer.

I enjoy architecture-related projects the most because architecture is the foundation of my design practice. Even when I work on furniture, objects, or installations, I approach them with an architectural way of thinking—considering space, proportion, material, and experience.

I prefer working as part of a team, as collaboration often creates better results. However, depending on the project, I also enjoy working independently. I always choose the approach that best serves the design.

The best way to contact me is by email or through Instagram. I'm always happy to hear from people who are interested in collaboration, design, or simply starting a conversation.

I believe that tradition becomes truly alive not when it is merely preserved as a historical form, but when it is reinterpreted through the technologies and discourses of the present. Traditional Korean joinery was originally developed for wood, and translating this technique into acrylic required an entirely different fabrication logic.With wood, components are typically cut using saws or CNC machines, then refined by hand with chisels and sandpaper before being joined together with adhesive and mechanical interlocking. Acrylic, on the other hand, is precisely laser-cut and assembled using a solvent-based adhesive that slightly dissolves the surface, creating a chemical bond between the parts. Because the assembly relies on both physical interlocking and chemical fusion, it demands a much stricter control of tolerances and fabrication precision.At the same time, I wanted to preserve the essential structural intelligence of traditional joinery—its ability to create stability through the relationship between individual components rather than relying solely on external fasteners. By introducing transparent acrylic elements, however, the joinery gains entirely new sensory and visual behaviors. The density of transparency, darkness, and color shifts subtly according to the viewer’s position and the changing conditions of light. The final object not only exists as a structure but also projects its colors into the surrounding space, extending its presence beyond its physical boundaries.In that sense, these optical phenomena are qualities that traditional wooden joinery could never have anticipated, emerging specifically from the encounter between an ancient structural language and a contemporary material.

The Op.2-3 Trophy emerged not only from an extensive study of acrylic in all its optical variations—transparent, translucent, opaque, colored, and tinted—but also through a broader exploration using a range of materials, including paper, wood, aluminum, and 3D-printed prototypes. Each material study became a way of testing not only the form itself but also the structural logic, fabrication methods, and sensory qualities that the final object could embody.I believe that designing an object and translating that design into a physical material are not two separate stages of the same process. The act of materialization is, in itself, a new design project. The same structural system can generate completely different experiences depending on the material, fabrication technique, and scale through which it is realized.For designers working across product design and architecture, the lesson is perhaps to treat materials not simply as a means of executing a predetermined idea, but as active participants in the design process. A willingness to question, investigate, and experiment with the inherent properties and limitations of a material is essential. In many ways, it is through this dialogue between an abstract system and a specific material that unexpected forms, new sensory experiences, and new possibilities for design can emerge.

There is a saying that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. I believe the Op.2-3 Trophy was recognized not simply because it fulfilled individual criteria such as originality, aesthetics, material exploration, or cultural sensitivity, but because these different qualities were integrated into a coherent language that created a resonance greater than each element alone.I have always been interested in the subtle tension between the universality and specificity of architectural language. Viewed within a Korean cultural context, this work can be understood through the tradition of jjamatchum (traditional Korean joinery) and its structural logic. From the perspective of contemporary art, however, it may also be read as part of the lineage of minimalist sculpture. From an architectural point of view, it is ultimately composed of fundamental structural elements—columns, beams, and horizontal planes—that exist as a universal language across cultures and time.What interested me was not choosing between these interpretations but allowing them to coexist within a single object. I wanted to crystallize these multiple layers of meaning into a clear and compelling physical form. I believe this capacity to be simultaneously specific and universal is what allowed the work to communicate with an international jury and suggests that architectural language, at its best, can transcend cultural boundaries while still carrying the identity of its origin.

Looking back, it is difficult to identify a single failure as the most instructive one. Every experiment and rejection was an essential part of the learning process, and I actually found great value in confronting the limitations of each material.With metal, for example, I experienced how laser cutting could create rough edges and slight thermal deformation, making it difficult to achieve the level of precision required for such a small-scale interlocking structure. Discussions with metal fabrication specialists also taught me the practical limitations of realizing this level of complexity within a limited budget and scale.Wood and rigid paper revealed the limitations of material thickness in relation to structural strength and deformation. A certain physical thickness was necessary for the components to maintain stability, which conflicted with the delicacy and visual lightness I was pursuing. On the other hand, 3D printing allowed me to produce the structure as a single piece, but in doing so it lost the material aura and the poetic quality that emerges when individual components physically meet and interlock.Even after choosing acrylic, the process continued. Transparent, opaque, colored, and tinted acrylic each produced entirely different visual results. I learned that achieving the right offset and tolerance for an interlocking system was not something that could be determined only through digital drawings; it had to be discovered through repeated physical testing with the actual material and fabrication method.Ultimately, the most important lesson from this project was that structural precision and sensory effect are inseparable. A difference of only a fraction of a millimeter can determine not only whether the components assemble correctly, but also how light passes through them, how layers of material visually overlap, and how the object is ultimately perceived.

For this project, it was important not to rely solely on digital renderings or drawings but to experience the sensory effects created by real materials at their actual scale. Therefore, we produced a series of 1:1 mock-ups using different materials and fabrication methods, allowing us to physically touch and visually evaluate the atmosphere, presence, and qualities each material could produce.In particular, for the final acrylic studies, we created multiple prototypes with different levels of transparency, opacity, colors, and tinting methods. We observed how each variation reflected, transmitted, and transformed light under both natural and artificial lighting conditions, carefully evaluating the different densities of color, shadow, and atmosphere they created within the surrounding space.The final decision was not based on a single measurable criterion, but on whether the trophy could reveal a rich range of expressions depending on the viewer’s position, the time of day, and changing lighting conditions. We approached prototyping not merely as a process of verification, but as a design tool for discovering unexpected possibilities embedded within each material.This collaborative process with Euijung Sung and Eunbin Lim was built around continuous dialogue between concept, material experimentation, and physical observation. Through repeated testing and discussion, we refined the balance between structural clarity and optical ambiguity until the object could function not only as a trophy but also as a small architectural instrument that activates the space around it.

In fact, the Op.2-3 Trophy can be understood as a miniature version of the broader Op series, an ongoing body of work in which I investigate the universal language of architecture—columns, beams, and planes—by placing these familiar elements into unfamiliar relationships and contexts.The Op series has been studied through a wide range of materials, including wood, acrylic, veneer, and stainless steel, and continues to evolve across many different scales and typologies, from chairs, lighting, handles, tables, and bookshelves to architectural spaces and buildings.This trophy project was particularly meaningful because it allowed us to investigate structural relationships, joinery, material behavior, and the sensory effects of light and color at an intimate, hand-held scale. The knowledge gained through these experiments will become an important foundation as the Op series expands into new materials and larger architectural applications.I do not believe that an architectural language should be confined to a single scale or function. A structural idea becomes much richer when it can move from a small object held in the hand to furniture that engages the body, and eventually to architecture that surrounds and inhabits our lives. Through this movement across scales, we can discover both the universality of a structural language and the unique qualities that emerge at each scale.Moving forward, Studio SMA will continue to develop the Op series by exploring the formal, structural, and sensory possibilities of this language through new materials, new scales, and new forms.

I think one aspect of the Op.2-3 Trophy that has not been fully communicated publicly is that the project was not only about designing a form, but about discovering how that form could be translated into reality. Within a limited timeframe and budget, adapting an architectural language originally developed at the scale of buildings into a hand-held object was a significant challenge.As an architect, this project also became an opportunity for me to learn from fields that I had not previously engaged with deeply, including metal craftsmanship, furniture making, and small-scale object fabrication. It reinforced my belief that the boundaries between design disciplines are increasingly dissolving. With the advancement of technology, the distance that once existed between design and production is being compressed and reorganized, allowing designers to engage much more directly with materials, fabrication processes, and craftsmanship.Seoul, in particular, provides a unique environment for this kind of experimental collaboration. The city has highly concentrated networks of skilled makers: metal and machine workshops in Euljiro, traditional metal craftspeople in Jongno, and acrylic fabrication industries around Yeongdeungpo. This ecosystem allows designers to communicate and collaborate with specialists rapidly, achieving a remarkably high level of craftsmanship with relatively accessible resources.I believe an important question for contemporary design is not only how we create new forms, but how we establish new models of collaboration between designers, makers, technologies, and local production cultures. In this sense, the Op.2-3 Trophy is more than a commemorative object; it is also a small-scale experiment in how an architect can engage with materials, craftspeople, and emerging modes of production.

I have been continuously exploring the idea of perspective throughout my work. When designing an object, I am interested in creating something that does not exist as a single fixed image, but rather reveals itself differently depending on the viewer’s position and movement, the surrounding environment, and the passage of time.In that sense, it was a very intentional decision for the Op.2-3 Trophy to function as a temporally active object. It was designed so that reflections, transparency, color density, and projected shadows continuously change according to the direction of light, the weather, the position of a window, and the viewer’s perspective. I believe these changes are not merely visual effects, but a way for the object to establish a unique relationship with each space and moment in which it exists.The moment a design is completed, it leaves the hands of the designer and begins to develop its own narrative through its encounters with people and environments. I believe this is true regardless of scale—whether it is architecture or a small object. What ultimately matters is the ongoing dialogue between the user and the designed object.Rather than imposing a single, definitive interpretation, I hope my work allows for a broad range of readings and responds with different expressions depending on the emotions, circumstances, and experiences of the person encountering it. Studio SMA aims to create works that make everyday moments more meaningful, and I believe the Op.2-3 Trophy is a small but clear manifestation of that philosophy.

I approached the Op.2-3 Trophy as if I were designing a small piece of architecture. In architecture, the work does not end with the creation of a form; it is equally important to consider how the building will be assembled, constructed, and maintained as a stable entity. The same principle applied to this trophy.During the laser-cutting process, acrylic components become extremely delicate because they are shaped with precise interlocking details and thin profiles. However, once the individual parts are assembled, they become stronger through their mutual dependence, combining both mechanical interlocking and chemical bonding to form a more stable whole. In many ways, this resembles architecture, where individual structural elements rely on one another to create a unified and resilient system.As the design evolved from an initial sketch into a 3D model and finally into full-scale physical mock-ups, countless decisions had to be made regarding thickness, joinery, tolerances, fabrication methods, and the atmospheric qualities produced by the material. One of the most important lessons for me was realizing that these were not merely technical problems to solve after the design was complete—they were fundamental components of the design itself.The compressed two-month timeline required rigorous scheduling, but also a flexible approach to collaboration. Each fabricator and craftsperson—from metal workers to acrylic specialists—brought different methods, constraints, and languages of making. Through this dialogue, the design continuously evolved and improved.Ultimately, this project taught me that meaningful design is not about creating a complete idea first and then finding a way to manufacture it. The process of making must be considered from the very beginning of the design inquiry. Since this project, I have begun approaching new works by simultaneously thinking about form, material limitations, fabrication processes, assembly methods, and even the unexpected possibilities that can emerge through making itself.