LINA CHOI

Lina Choi, portrait by Alex Espuny.

Lina Choi is a Montreal-based artist originally from South Korea. She holds an MA in Sculpture from the Royal College of Art in London, UK. Her artistic research explores bodies of water through sound, focusing on aural imagery and embodied listening. She creates immersive, meditative experiences through performance, installation, and audio composition. She has been selected for a CALQ-funded international exchange programme for sound research in Spain, where she presented a new performance at the Eufònic Festival. She also has an upcoming solo exhibition at L’Ecart Lieu D’ Art Actuel in Rouyn-Noranda, QC, Canada, in 2025.

In 2024, her CALQ-funded solo exhibition was presented at Produit Rien in Montreal. Her work has also been presented across Canada including The Music Gallery, DAÏMÔN / Axenéo7, OBORO, RIPA, Centre Clark, DARE-DARE, and Sporobole. She participated in an artist residency at Incheon Art Platform in South Korea in 2021.

LUCIJA ŠUTEJ: You initially studied at the Royal College of Arts (London) and immersed yourself within the field of Sculpture - I would be curious to hear of your transition and inquiry into sound, specifically watery bodies. 

LINA CHOI: I wanna do something new, was my motto as I moved from Seoul to study in London. I wanted to experience new things in my life and to try something that I’d never done before.

I always worked in installations and approaching sound through introduction courses and sound studios at the RCA was new to me. Looking back, it was very simple - trying something new, and then I just fell in love with sound. Very quickly, I moved from studios to field recordings. 

LŠ: And how did your engagement with water come into play?

LC: My work always partially had water elements to it. In London, when my interest in sound began, I bought this little handy recorder. And recording water and the river felt like a natural continuation. I didn’t realize how much I liked water. 

And then during the COVID period, I would often visit my partner’s family’s cottage in Canada. There’s a beautiful lake right in front of it. In the summer, we swam, paddle-boarded, or kayaked, and in the winter, we walked on the ice. I had my recorder with me throughout all the seasons. I used in-ear binaural microphones to record while paddle-boarding, and in winter, I made a hole in the ice to capture sounds using hydrophones.

As I got more into field recording, I started exploring lakes and streams around Quebec, especially the St. Lawrence River, which runs through numerous major cities and towns before reaching the Gulf and the ocean.

Later, I took part in various artist residencies that gave me the chance to be close to the water, like Est-Nord-Est in Saint-Jean-Port-Joli, where I visited St. Lawrence every day at different times. Depending on the weather, time of day, and tides, I heard everything from powerful crashing waves to peaceful drips. Sometimes, when the river was very calm, there was barely any sound at all.

I also did a residency at the Daïmôn Centre in Gatineau, from late winter into early spring. There, I witnessed the incredible flow of melting and broken ice in the river, and nearby, a frozen lake holding complete silence.

Field Recording at the Family Cottage during Covid.

Field Recording at the Family Cottage.

Field Recording (day 1 and 2) at record freezing temperatures.

LŠ: In your artistic statement you write of specific books that influenced you, such as Bodies of Water by Astrida Neimanis. I was wondering what questions it left you with—how it impacted your research direction?

LH: That book was, I think, the beginning of my research about water. Before the book, I saw water as just an element. Bodies of Water opened a way of thinking about water as something connected to the body and memory, especially the time before we were born, inside our mother’s body. Through this, I try to explore emotions, connection, and how we relate to nature in a more sensitive and personal way.

Water isn’t something we control or are privileged over—we are water, made of water. So this book inspires me because I’m working on a project about the relationship between maternal water and natural water. I want to explore our deep connection with water—why we desire to be near it, listen to it, and feel relaxed by it. It comes as mentioned before, from our prenatal time in the womb. 

I had an exhibition (Nous continuons à couler dans un corps aqueux/ en.  We Keep Flowing in Watery Body) in August where I recreated a womb with sounds of natural water (rivers, lakes). I think it resembles what we heard in the womb. The water in our mother’s body comes from nature—she drinks it, and it cycles. That’s why I’m interested in this theory.

LŠ: It would be great to hear more about your current research— you mentioned how different communities respond differently to water. 

LH: Oh, yes! In soundwalk workshops, for example, we go to the waterside, listen, and then share experiences. People express different things—relaxation, fear, and disasters. With one constant thing: water.

LŠ: Feels like your practice evolved from external (natural waters) to inward (maternal connection). How have your questions changed?

LH: Oh! I never thought of that. Yes! Before, it was external water; now, it is internal. But the core question is the same: Why do we love water? It just takes different paths.

Peformance, Daïmôn, 2024. Photo by John Healey.

Performace view, Est-Nord-Est, 2023. Photo by Ania Mokrzycka.

Performace view, Est-Nord-Est, 2023. Photo by Ania Mokrzycka.

Performace at Festival Grenache, 2024. Photo by Paysages studio.

LŠ: How has your equipment changed?

LH: I used to use many objects, now fewer. Always hydrophones. Glass bowls for visuals. In Spain, I fell for terracotta—it sounds like a body.

Eufònic Festival, Performance with Terracotta, 2025. Photo by Àlex Espuny.

LŠ: I am quite curious - what was your most challenging recording to date and why? 

LC: Definitely, winter in Quebec. It was at the riverbank of the Prairies River, which runs through the Montreal area. The recording was part of a project for The Ice Follies Biennial, an outdoor public art festival that takes place on frozen Lake Nipissing in North Bay, Canada. I was supposed to travel to North Bay (it’s about a 7–8 hour drive north of Montreal!) to join a frozen lake sound recording workshop with NAISA. But I got sick and couldn’t make the trip.

So instead, I went to the river here in Montreal to capture the sounds of frozen water. I used those recordings to create a short soundscape called Murmuring Beneath. It was January, the coldest month here, and while most of the river was completely frozen, the spot I chose was near a dam, so there was still a current. Pieces of ice were floating and bumping into each other.

I went there twice in the end. On the first day, it was freezing. I think I stayed for two hours, and my feet were almost frozen. I was still sick too, so honestly, it was kind of intense! But on the second day, the weather was milder, and the ice started melting. Luckily, my hydrophone managed to capture a bit of that gentle melting sound.

Field Recording, Gatineau, Residency at Daïmôn, 2024.

LŠ: And how does technology shape your methodology?

LH: It’s been a very evolutionary process. I started just using a small voice recorder and tiny speakers. Then I discovered hydrophones, which opened up the underwater world to me, and that really changed my practice. It even shifted my focus toward performance. Hydrophones are still one of my main tools—for performance, installation, and composition—pretty much everything I do.

Later, I came across binaural microphones, which gave me a whole new perspective. They're stereo microphones designed to capture sound the way we naturally hear it, so the result feels three-dimensional. I use in-ear binaural mics, meaning I wear them in each ear while recording. One of the pieces I made this way is called Under the Waves II. When you listen to it with headphones, the sound moves around your head—it feels incredibly real. 

I presented that piece through a regular programme at DARE-DARE, an artist-run centre in Montreal. They have a small, cosy park where people can scan a QR code and listen to the soundscape through their headphones or devices. It was my first time trying something virtual like that.

Different types of microphones, speakers, motors, or sensors really open up new possibilities. They help expand my work into directions I hadn’t expected—and that’s really exciting for me.

LŠ: In your work, you poetically merge natural and artificial waters. I am thinking of the work Waterscape. What lessons emerge from these unions for you? 

LH: Waterscape is a sound installation made up of small motor-driven objects that create watery sounds—like drips, flows, and gentle splashes. Even though the sounds are produced by machines, they feel surprisingly organic, like a stream or soft rainfall. I’m really interested in how technology can mimic nature, and how sound can bring out memories or sensations in the body.

The sound was amplified using hydrophones and loudspeakers, which made the experience even more immersive. People were curious about how it worked and also drawn to the visual side, but more than that, many ended up sitting or lying down, just taking time to relax and listen. It was summertime, so the atmosphere felt easy and peaceful. People stayed, rested, and let the watery sounds wash over them.

Detail of Installation Waterscape, photo by Peter Litherland.

Installation Waterscape, photo by Peter Litherland.

LŠ: Do you ever think of active collaboration with scientists?

LH: Yes! A scientist who studies water said underwater sounds were beautiful. I think it would be a new perspective.

 I have an idea I’d love to explore in the future with an engineer. For my project, Water Keeps Flowing in a Watery Body, I’m imagining a “womb room” that people can enter to re-experience that forgotten time inside the mother’s body. Even though we don’t consciously remember it, I think the feeling still lives somewhere in us.

In the future, I’d love to integrate a breathing sensor that picks up the visitor’s breath and uses it to affect the sound in the room. Depending on how fast or slow they’re breathing, the sound could shift from something calm and gentle to something more intense and energetic. Or maybe the room itself could “breathe” with them, reacting physically to their breath. (If the structure of the womb-room is flexible?)

I think this kind of interaction could create a deeper sense of intimacy, a personal connection between our body and the larger, maternal body.