KEYNOTE HIGHLIGHTS
Dot-to-Dot:
Drawing Connections
in Lived Experience through Illustration
Drawing Connections
in Lived Experience through Illustration
The Illustration and Heritage symposium keynote speaker
Yeni Kim shares her approach to participatory research
Yeni Kim shares her approach to participatory research
How can illustration enrich our understanding and engagement with experiences of the past? Through her practice-based research, Yeni Kim explores three distinct contexts: personal family history, the Tamil migrant community in London, and the Jeju female free divers (Jomnyeo). In this interview, Yeni talks about how these projects tackles the themes of home, identity, and intergenerational memory, while also addressing ethical considerations inherent in participatory and visual research.
INTERVIEW
— Your research project tackles very different personal histories and spans across a variety of communities. Could you talk a bit about the differences in methodology and the ways you tackled the ethical side of research in the three areas of your study (personal history, Jomnyeo community, Tamil community in London)?
— My research explores the role of illustration in accessing, understanding, representing, and disseminating lived experience across three distinct case studies—my personal family history, the Tamil migrant community in London, and the Jomnyeo (female diver) community of Jeju Island. These cases emerged both from an intention to test the versatility of illustration and from the inductive, evolving nature of practice-based research. While all three share thematic threads of home, identity, and intergenerational memory, each required a tailored methodological and ethical approach, shaped by my shifting positionality: as insider, outsider, or occupying an in-between space.
In the family history project, I was both researcher and participant, working closely with my mother and grandmother. This insider position enabled intimate access to narratives and materials, grounded in deep emotional proximity. While this closeness offered rich contextual insight, it also introduced ethical complexity. Emotional investment risked blurring the line between shared memory and individual voice. Ethical practice here centred less on formal consent and more on emotional responsibility—negotiating what to reveal, what to withhold, and how to honour generational memory with care. Continuous self-reflection helped ensure the illustrations reflected the authentic voices of participants, rather than being shaped solely by my interpretation.
In the family history project, I was both researcher and participant, working closely with my mother and grandmother. This insider position enabled intimate access to narratives and materials, grounded in deep emotional proximity. While this closeness offered rich contextual insight, it also introduced ethical complexity. Emotional investment risked blurring the line between shared memory and individual voice. Ethical practice here centred less on formal consent and more on emotional responsibility—negotiating what to reveal, what to withhold, and how to honour generational memory with care. Continuous self-reflection helped ensure the illustrations reflected the authentic voices of participants, rather than being shaped solely by my interpretation.
Yeni Kim, Reflective drawing in thinking of family history (2018)
Yeni Kim, Making process video, screen capture (2018)
Transparency, co-creation, ongoing consent, and deep respect for lived experience were central to the process
— In the Tamil migrant case study, I entered as an outsider—unfamiliar with the specific histories of Tamil migration but empathetically connected through shared diasporic experience. Introduced via the Tamil Information Centre, I gradually built trust by attending community meetings and conducting contextual research, including literature review and virtual explorations of Tamil regions. Open-ended interviews prioritised listening over interpretation, and I invited participants to draw while speaking, allowing their visual and verbal expressions to inform the illustrations. Ethical practice was grounded in co-creation and accountability—positioning participants not as research subjects, but as collaborators.
In the Jomnyeo case study, I occupied an in-between position—sharing Korean nationality and language, yet unfamiliar with Jeju’s endangered dialect and maritime traditions. I was acutely aware of the limitations of my perspective, and ethical engagement centred on respect for cultural heritage and intergenerational knowledge. Prior to conducting interviews, I consulted ethnographers and studied aspects of the Jeju dialect and culture to demonstrate cultural awareness and respect. Collaborations with local experts, children, and Jomnyeo themselves through participatory drawing workshops ensured the work was not merely interpretative but also culturally responsive. Participants reviewed how their stories were visualised, and their feedback directly shaped the outcomes.
Across all three projects, my methodology remained flexible, iterative, and dialogic—enabling sensitivity and responsiveness to each context. Illustration functioned not only as a visual output but as a method of inquiry—interpretative by nature, and therefore ethically complex. Transparency, co-creation, ongoing consent, and deep respect for lived experience were central to the process throughout.
In the Jomnyeo case study, I occupied an in-between position—sharing Korean nationality and language, yet unfamiliar with Jeju’s endangered dialect and maritime traditions. I was acutely aware of the limitations of my perspective, and ethical engagement centred on respect for cultural heritage and intergenerational knowledge. Prior to conducting interviews, I consulted ethnographers and studied aspects of the Jeju dialect and culture to demonstrate cultural awareness and respect. Collaborations with local experts, children, and Jomnyeo themselves through participatory drawing workshops ensured the work was not merely interpretative but also culturally responsive. Participants reviewed how their stories were visualised, and their feedback directly shaped the outcomes.
Across all three projects, my methodology remained flexible, iterative, and dialogic—enabling sensitivity and responsiveness to each context. Illustration functioned not only as a visual output but as a method of inquiry—interpretative by nature, and therefore ethically complex. Transparency, co-creation, ongoing consent, and deep respect for lived experience were central to the process throughout.
Yeni's project about Jomnyeo community of Jeju Island
Fieldwork drawings from Jeju Island (2020), a pattern created for the picturebook (2020), and the Badangbat (2020) picturebook.
— Illustration, with its emphasis on individual voice of an illustrator, can encounter a challenge when working through collaborative drawing – especially, when the project talks about other people’s experiences and the collaboration implies drawings made by people who are not illustrators. How do you approach these challenges in your collaborations?
— Illustration inherently carries the personal voice and interpretive lens of the illustrator. However, in the context of lived experience research—where collaboration, co-authorship, and ethical engagement are central—this voice must remain open to negotiation. I approached this tension not as a limitation, but as an opportunity to expand the role of illustration: from a solitary act of representation to a shared act of meaning-making.
At the heart of this approach is the concept of the visual listener. I see my role not simply as someone who illustrates for participants, but as someone who illustrates with them—listening visually, interpreting responsively, and co-constructing meaning through drawing. This shift in mindset enabled me to treat illustration as a dialogic space, where the boundaries between author and collaborator were intentionally blurred.
In both the Tamil and Jomnyeo case studies, I employed live drawing during interviews. Participants narrated their experiences while I sketched in real time. These sessions often sparked feedback loops: participants would suggest changes, clarify meanings, or even contribute their own lines. This transformed drawing into a relational and iterative process, grounded in co-presence, trust, and shared authorship.
Crucially, I also invited participants—many of whom were not trained artists—to create their own drawings. In the Tamil community exhibition and Jeju children’s workshops, these drawings were treated not as supplementary or amateur artefacts but as equally meaningful contributions. I refrained from aestheticising or correcting them, embracing their expressiveness and emotional clarity. This approach challenged conventional hierarchies of "professional" illustration and welcomed visual plurality—recognising that diverse styles and perspectives can coexist within a shared narrative.
When curating the final outputs, I maintained clear attribution while allowing different voices to visually interact. Sometimes my illustrations and participant drawings were displayed side by side; in other instances, they were layered into composite images that echoed each other—forming a visual dialogue. This strategy preserved individual voices while building a collective narrative space that honoured multiplicity.
Ultimately, collaborative drawing in my research became not just a methodological tool, but an ethical gesture. It foregrounded participants’ agency, respected their authorship, and extended illustration’s potential as a participatory, culturally responsive research practice. In doing so, it redefined illustration not merely as a final product, but as an active process of negotiation, dialogue, and shared meaning-making.
At the heart of this approach is the concept of the visual listener. I see my role not simply as someone who illustrates for participants, but as someone who illustrates with them—listening visually, interpreting responsively, and co-constructing meaning through drawing. This shift in mindset enabled me to treat illustration as a dialogic space, where the boundaries between author and collaborator were intentionally blurred.
In both the Tamil and Jomnyeo case studies, I employed live drawing during interviews. Participants narrated their experiences while I sketched in real time. These sessions often sparked feedback loops: participants would suggest changes, clarify meanings, or even contribute their own lines. This transformed drawing into a relational and iterative process, grounded in co-presence, trust, and shared authorship.
Crucially, I also invited participants—many of whom were not trained artists—to create their own drawings. In the Tamil community exhibition and Jeju children’s workshops, these drawings were treated not as supplementary or amateur artefacts but as equally meaningful contributions. I refrained from aestheticising or correcting them, embracing their expressiveness and emotional clarity. This approach challenged conventional hierarchies of "professional" illustration and welcomed visual plurality—recognising that diverse styles and perspectives can coexist within a shared narrative.
When curating the final outputs, I maintained clear attribution while allowing different voices to visually interact. Sometimes my illustrations and participant drawings were displayed side by side; in other instances, they were layered into composite images that echoed each other—forming a visual dialogue. This strategy preserved individual voices while building a collective narrative space that honoured multiplicity.
Ultimately, collaborative drawing in my research became not just a methodological tool, but an ethical gesture. It foregrounded participants’ agency, respected their authorship, and extended illustration’s potential as a participatory, culturally responsive research practice. In doing so, it redefined illustration not merely as a final product, but as an active process of negotiation, dialogue, and shared meaning-making.
Mother and daughter in conversation while reading 'Badangbat' (2020)
Illustration reshaped our understanding of [personal] experiences by making them visible, touchable, and open to reflection
— In the project about the personal family history, how would you say the process and the result changed the way you think about lived experiences – for yourself and for the participants of the project?
— Reshaping lived experience through illustration was not merely a matter of translating memory into image—it was a process of re-encountering stories I believed I already knew. Illustration became a way of deepening my relationship with the past, revealing emotional nuances that verbal narratives had overlooked: silences, gestures, and recurring motifs that emerged through the act of drawing.
For me, it was a journey of self-realisation. The final embroidered artwork and accompanying video were more than creative outcomes—they embodied an evolving understanding of my intergenerational ties. I came to see lived experience not as a single thread passed down, but as a tapestry continually woven through the lives of my mother and grandmother: a legacy of resilience, sacrifice, and shared memory. Family history emerged not as a fixed inheritance, but as a collaborative act—an evolving narrative shaped by reflection and reinterpretation.
For my mother and grandmother, the process was equally transformative. Seeing their stories materialised—particularly through textile—offered a form of recognition beyond language. The slow, tactile nature of embroidery gave weight to their memories, validating them through time, care, and presence. What had once been private recollection became a shared, tangible artefact—both intimate and public.
Ultimately, illustration reshaped our understanding of these experiences by making them visible, touchable, and open to reflection. The stories remained theirs, yet were shared and reactivated through visual engagement. Illustration, in this sense, became not just a representational tool, but a way of thinking and feeling across generations—transforming memory into dialogue and presence.
— Reshaping lived experience through illustration was not merely a matter of translating memory into image—it was a process of re-encountering stories I believed I already knew. Illustration became a way of deepening my relationship with the past, revealing emotional nuances that verbal narratives had overlooked: silences, gestures, and recurring motifs that emerged through the act of drawing.
For me, it was a journey of self-realisation. The final embroidered artwork and accompanying video were more than creative outcomes—they embodied an evolving understanding of my intergenerational ties. I came to see lived experience not as a single thread passed down, but as a tapestry continually woven through the lives of my mother and grandmother: a legacy of resilience, sacrifice, and shared memory. Family history emerged not as a fixed inheritance, but as a collaborative act—an evolving narrative shaped by reflection and reinterpretation.
For my mother and grandmother, the process was equally transformative. Seeing their stories materialised—particularly through textile—offered a form of recognition beyond language. The slow, tactile nature of embroidery gave weight to their memories, validating them through time, care, and presence. What had once been private recollection became a shared, tangible artefact—both intimate and public.
Ultimately, illustration reshaped our understanding of these experiences by making them visible, touchable, and open to reflection. The stories remained theirs, yet were shared and reactivated through visual engagement. Illustration, in this sense, became not just a representational tool, but a way of thinking and feeling across generations—transforming memory into dialogue and presence.
Yeni Kim, Mother’s Daughter’s Daughter (2018) – Embroidery on restructured shirts, 100×60 cm
To balance authenticity with abstraction, I created visuals that reflected the emotional tone of each participant—sometimes literally, by incorporating their voices and ambient sounds into the video, and other times metaphorically, through symbolic or expressive imagery.
— Could you talk a bit more about your work with the Tamil community in London – how did this project begin and what were the impacts or the feedback from the community?
— The project began somewhat serendipitously. As my research extended toward exploring the lived experiences of communities, I was introduced to the Tamil Information Centre (TIC) through a research network at Kingston University—a reminder that openly sharing one’s research interests can lead to meaningful collaborations.
At the time, TIC was preparing an exhibition titled Tamils of Lanka: A Timeless Heritage, intended to reflect on the long-term impact of the Sri Lankan Civil War while celebrating the resilience and cultural identity of the Tamil diaspora. Invited to contribute, I proposed an illustrated response to diasporic lived experience, with a particular focus on the evolving notion of home.
Based on interviews with members of the Tamil community, I developed a series of illustrations and a video installation exploring themes such as nostalgia, displacement, absence, resilience, collective strength, and the enduring imprint of war. To balance authenticity with abstraction, I created visuals that reflected the emotional tone of each participant—sometimes literally, by incorporating their voices and ambient sounds into the video, and other times metaphorically, through symbolic or expressive imagery. The resulting work blended soundscape, visual research, and drawing into an immersive narrative experience.
The exhibition took place in a local community centre—not in a formal gallery—which allowed for direct, unfiltered responses from the community. The feedback—particularly from participants and older generations—was deeply moving. The space became one of reflection and intergenerational dialogue. One particularly poignant moment involved a woman in her seventies who cried upon seeing the illustrations. Her daughter, who had grown up in the UK and only heard fragments of her mother’s history, joined her in tears. They later shared that the exhibition helped them connect more deeply, bridging a gap between memory and lived understanding.
For many participants, seeing their stories visualised brought a profound sense of recognition and pride. Several expressed surprise that their everyday lives—often considered too ordinary or unremarkable—had become the focus of artistic interpretation. Others asked whether I had visited Sri Lanka, noting how emotionally accurate the illustrations felt despite their abstract, non-literal style. These responses affirmed that illustration, even when interpretive, can access emotional truths and offer meaningful recognition.
Ultimately, the project exceeded my expectations. It demonstrated the power of illustration not only as a storytelling method, but as a catalyst for memory, empathy, and cultural connection—transforming personal narratives into shared spaces of reflection and collective understanding.
— The project began somewhat serendipitously. As my research extended toward exploring the lived experiences of communities, I was introduced to the Tamil Information Centre (TIC) through a research network at Kingston University—a reminder that openly sharing one’s research interests can lead to meaningful collaborations.
At the time, TIC was preparing an exhibition titled Tamils of Lanka: A Timeless Heritage, intended to reflect on the long-term impact of the Sri Lankan Civil War while celebrating the resilience and cultural identity of the Tamil diaspora. Invited to contribute, I proposed an illustrated response to diasporic lived experience, with a particular focus on the evolving notion of home.
Based on interviews with members of the Tamil community, I developed a series of illustrations and a video installation exploring themes such as nostalgia, displacement, absence, resilience, collective strength, and the enduring imprint of war. To balance authenticity with abstraction, I created visuals that reflected the emotional tone of each participant—sometimes literally, by incorporating their voices and ambient sounds into the video, and other times metaphorically, through symbolic or expressive imagery. The resulting work blended soundscape, visual research, and drawing into an immersive narrative experience.
The exhibition took place in a local community centre—not in a formal gallery—which allowed for direct, unfiltered responses from the community. The feedback—particularly from participants and older generations—was deeply moving. The space became one of reflection and intergenerational dialogue. One particularly poignant moment involved a woman in her seventies who cried upon seeing the illustrations. Her daughter, who had grown up in the UK and only heard fragments of her mother’s history, joined her in tears. They later shared that the exhibition helped them connect more deeply, bridging a gap between memory and lived understanding.
For many participants, seeing their stories visualised brought a profound sense of recognition and pride. Several expressed surprise that their everyday lives—often considered too ordinary or unremarkable—had become the focus of artistic interpretation. Others asked whether I had visited Sri Lanka, noting how emotionally accurate the illustrations felt despite their abstract, non-literal style. These responses affirmed that illustration, even when interpretive, can access emotional truths and offer meaningful recognition.
Ultimately, the project exceeded my expectations. It demonstrated the power of illustration not only as a storytelling method, but as a catalyst for memory, empathy, and cultural connection—transforming personal narratives into shared spaces of reflection and collective understanding.
Yeni’s project for Tamil Migrants in London
The Home of Tamil (2019) – Digital illustrations
— Across these three projects, you chose very different mediums and contexts – from textiles/embroidery to books. Could you talk a bit about your choices in this regard?
— I selected distinct mediums for each case study not for aesthetic variety, but as intentional, conceptual responses to the emotional, cultural, and communicative demands of each context. Each format emerged through sustained reflection on how best to honour and engage with the lived experience being explored.
For the family history project, I turned to textiles and embroidery. The slow, tactile act of stitching became a metaphor for intergenerational memory, domestic labour, and the quiet resilience of the women in my family. Embroidering stories onto shirts created an intimate, physical archive—something to be touched as well as seen. This medium blurred the boundary between personal and public memory, echoing how family histories are worn, carried, and passed down through generations.
In the Tamil community project, I adopted a multimodal approach, combining illustrations with an audio-visual installation. While maintaining my artistic voice, I prioritised accessibility, ensuring the visuals spoke directly to diverse audiences. Prints, fragmented narratives, and ambient soundscapes formed a non-linear, immersive environment—one that mirrored the fluidity of memory itself. Here, illustration functioned as testimony, dialogue, and cultural bridge—evoking emotional resonance and encouraging intergenerational exchange.
For the family history project, I turned to textiles and embroidery. The slow, tactile act of stitching became a metaphor for intergenerational memory, domestic labour, and the quiet resilience of the women in my family. Embroidering stories onto shirts created an intimate, physical archive—something to be touched as well as seen. This medium blurred the boundary between personal and public memory, echoing how family histories are worn, carried, and passed down through generations.
In the Tamil community project, I adopted a multimodal approach, combining illustrations with an audio-visual installation. While maintaining my artistic voice, I prioritised accessibility, ensuring the visuals spoke directly to diverse audiences. Prints, fragmented narratives, and ambient soundscapes formed a non-linear, immersive environment—one that mirrored the fluidity of memory itself. Here, illustration functioned as testimony, dialogue, and cultural bridge—evoking emotional resonance and encouraging intergenerational exchange.
Yeni Kim, The Home of Tamil (2019) – Projection mapping installation
Audience engagement at the exhibition Tamils of Lanka (2019)
— For the Jomnyeo case study, I created a picture book accompanied by a multisensory exhibition. Engaging with an endangered language and a disappearing cultural practice, I selected a format that could reach both elders and children—crucial for sustaining intergenerational transmission. The book incorporated elements of Jejueo and featured children’s drawings from participatory workshops, creating a shared space for reflection and learning. Its scale, colour palette, and compositional rhythm were designed to echo the landscape and atmosphere of Jeju Island. Exhibited alongside video interviews with Jomnyeo, ethnographers, and recordings from the workshops, the book became part of a broader participatory strategy for cultural preservation—sensory, accessible, and community-rooted.
Across all three projects, I considered not only what to draw, but how the medium itself could carry and extend meaning. These material choices positioned illustration not merely as a representational tool, but as a method of engagement—tactile, affective, and ethically attuned. The variation in form reflects illustration’s unique versatility as a research method: capable of adapting to context, amplifying emotion, and rendering lived experience not only visible, but deeply felt.
Across all three projects, I considered not only what to draw, but how the medium itself could carry and extend meaning. These material choices positioned illustration not merely as a representational tool, but as a method of engagement—tactile, affective, and ethically attuned. The variation in form reflects illustration’s unique versatility as a research method: capable of adapting to context, amplifying emotion, and rendering lived experience not only visible, but deeply felt.
Exhibition view, Tamnarok: The Record of Tamna (2020)