Sung-mi Kim and Korea's Hand-Sewn Legacy
Sung-mi Kim's sensitive thread
In Seoul, Sung-mi Kim has been pursuing a work of rare rigor for over fifteen years, combining ancient techniques with a deeply personal sensibility. Trained in carpentry during her studies, she then learned sewing in Japan, where she lived for three years before returning to Korea to study with a teacher specializing in traditional Korean techniques.
Her approach is not systematic: each creation is born from a careful encounter with a fabric. Sung-mi scours markets in search of forgotten materials, treasures generally spun and woven by elderly women who perpetuate ancestral traditions, rare pieces of ramie ( mosi ), Korean hemp and cotton, which she chooses one by one. She never works in series. Each piece of fabric, generally quite small, calls for a shape, each variation of texture or color opens a possibility. She dyes her fabrics herself, always with natural processes, such as calligraphy ink to obtain subtle grays that evoke mountains under the mist, or indigo for bluish tones.
Her sewing, entirely handmade, is based on ancient knowledge, all the nuances of which she explores with gestures rooted in the contemporary: invisible assembly methods, quilting techniques such as nubi , the demanding art of pojagi patchwork, flexible construction without a fixed template. In her hands, tradition is neither decorative nor fixed. It becomes a language underlined by details that are not: frayed edges to better reveal the textile fiber, additions of contrasting threads or small embroideries that highlight a seam, of infinite poetry. Sung-mi's unique pieces are contemplated and do good to our cluttered souls, they recall the pleasure of simply beautiful things.
The invisible thread of everyday life
For centuries, sewing was an act as banal as it was essential in the lives of Korean women. It was not a profession, nor even a craft in the strict sense, but an inner, invisible practice that structured the rhythm of the days. In every home, women sewed. To create, but also to prolong: clothing, blankets, household objects. The gesture was daily, rigorous, discreet. It was learned very early, often from childhood, inside the gyubang, the space reserved for women in traditional Korean architecture.
Sewing was an essential part of a woman's education. One threaded the needle after washing one's hands, one prepared one's space, and one sat upright. Nothing was left to chance. The straight stitch served as the basis, but countless variations existed: felled seams, fine topstitching, invisible hems. It wasn't the ornament that mattered, but the precision of the gesture. Successful sewing had to be regular, supple, and durable. It reflected the seriousness of the person who executed it.
A feminine virtue in the Confucian order
In traditional Korean society, largely shaped by Confucianism, each individual had a specific role to play in maintaining the balance of the home. For women, confined to the domestic sphere, sewing was as much a moral duty as a practical need. It was one of the essential virtues: knowing how to sew, mend, and assemble meant actively participating in the well-being of the inner world. The precision of the stitch, the restraint of the forms, the sobriety of the finishes reflected an ideal. In women's manuals written at the end of the Joseon period, sewing was presented as a silent art of care, discretion, and self-discipline. A way of doing, but above all, a way of being.
Clothes born in the home
Most everyday clothing was made at home from locally woven fabrics. The hanbok , in its very structure, lent itself to domestic sewing: it was composed of flat pieces, sewn at right angles, without complex cuts. Women made skirts, jackets, shirts, trousers, aprons, belts, but also underwear and socks ( beoseon ), whose delicate curves required great skill.
Each type of garment required special attention: the seams had to withstand the test of time, move with the wearer, and remain light on the skin. The choice of fabric varied according to the seasons: ramie and hemp for summer, cotton for the mid-seasons, wadding for winter. Sewing was done by hand, without a machine, with great precision. Clothing was not a place of expression, but an extension of the body and domestic life.
Natural fibers and vegetable dyes
Even before sewing, women spun and wove plant fibers themselves. In the countryside, it was not uncommon for the same family to cultivate ramie ( mosi ), hemp, or cotton. After harvesting, the fibers were prepared by hand, spun on a small spinning wheel, and then woven on a horizontal loom. This work required patience, skill, and coordination. Each step, from spinning to beating, influenced the texture and strength of the fabric. Discover the rare and precious Hansan ramie, listed by UNESCO as an intangible heritage of humanity, in our article to read here .
Once woven, the fabric was washed, stretched, beaten, and then dyed using natural pigments. Walnut husk produced a soft brown, bark and roots produced beiges or discreet yellows, and indigo produced deep blues. These colors, always slightly irregular, reflected an empirical knowledge of nature, passed down from generation to generation. The cut was then chosen based on the fabric's drape, thickness, and suppleness. The textile dictated the sewing, not the other way around.
Everyday objects and specific techniques
Korean sewing wasn't limited to clothing. It extended to all household items. Women made sachets for incense or medicinal herbs, linen covers, seed bags, comb or needle cases. Each object, even the most modest, received meticulous attention. The seams were clean, solid, and unadorned. The gesture was always measured, with a concern for economy and quiet elegance.
Two iconic techniques illustrate this approach: nubi , a hand-sewn quilting of tightly packed parallel lines used for winter jackets, blankets, or protections; and bojagi , a square assembly of textile scraps used to wrap or cover objects. The former required absolute concentration, with each stitch having to follow the previous one exactly. The latter embodied a refined form of reuse: nothing was wasted, everything was transformed. These two techniques, now emblematic, were once inseparable from everyday life.
Master seamstresses and knowledge passed down
While all women sewed, some achieved a recognized level of excellence. They were called chimseonjang , masters of sewing. These women, often called upon for ceremonial attire or the clothes of the nobility, mastered complex techniques: hidden seams, perfect finishes, invisible adjustments. Their knowledge was not written down, but transmitted orally, through gestures. Today, some of them enjoy the status of Living Human Treasure, thus protecting a fragile tradition, which otherwise might have disappeared.
Workshops in Seoul, Andong, and Naju perpetuate this knowledge. They still teach the art of tracing a pattern onto living fabric, of assembling without waste, of extending without forcing. These ancient gestures are now considered a heritage, not because they belong to the past, but because they outline a different relationship with clothing and materials.
A textile memory that is still alive
Although sewing is no longer central to Korean domestic life, its gestures have not disappeared. Pojagi is experiencing a resurgence of interest in contemporary textile circles. Nubi inspires designers sensitive to the notions of slowness and sustainability. Some women continue to sew, not to perpetuate a frozen tradition, but to maintain a relationship with fabric based on restraint, attention, and precision. Sung-mi Kim, through her delicate and precious work, while perfectly anchored in a contemporary vision, wonderfully perpetuates this rich heritage.
All photos © Atelier Ikiwa. They were taken in Sung-mi's studio in Seoul ♡
