This is definitely from an incel's perspective, and I also realize it's also the ultimate neo-liberal love song, as we sit in a place of peak individualism. It's not the kind of message I'm proud to spread. I don't intend it to be a love song to the self — it's more of an 'I'm stuck with myself' song. If no one wants to fuck you, it's your fault.

Meaning of life?Love and meaningful work.What makes work meaningful?When you apply your unique abilities to something you regard as worthwhile – especially if you know that no one else would have done it in quite the same way.Wait. Can I have 40 more years to work on my answer?

What do you do in your spare time?Hang out with family, walk and hike, play piano, read speculative fiction and popular non-fiction (esp. history, psychology, technology, and cosmology).

L.A. has this amazing Koreatown and the most Korean Americans anywhere in the states. At the same time, the industry that you wanted to break into when you arrived is extremely white. What were your impressions of L.A. when you first got here, and has your relationship to the city changed in any significant way? Koreatown at first became a safe haven for me where you can go to not feel othered. I wasn’t cognizant of [being othered then]. I was aware of me being an Asian actor, but I was not thinking about anything but just working within the system, whatever that meant. I wouldn’t take roles that would be bad as an Asian person, but I was looking to just get work. So you do that on the daily and then you come back, and for some reason you always just keep gravitating toward K-Town. It’s comfortable. Then you start to let it go for a bit. Because you go, “Oh, I don’t need the security blanket of this place.” And then you find it again, where now you’re approaching K-Town not from a place of fear. Rather, now you’re just going there to go eat some bomb food and celebrate your culture. That’s the confidence that you build over time, or you hope to.

What do you feel like that gaze wants you to do? I won’t speak for other Asian American actors, because I don’t know what they’re being offered. But for me, it’s like: nice guy, dependable, supportive, benign. Beige. And as a Korean man, I am not beige. And I felt that when I was over there [shooting Burning].

Do you think of yourself as a heartthrob? Ay-yi-yi. I’m at this interesting point of not rejecting it, because I want to be representative of the idea that anyone can be that and feel that. For that reason, I don’t want to reject it. But definitely I want to reject it. Why? Self-hatred. Maybe when I was young, I wanted that. I was like, “Why not me, why can’t an Asian man be this?” Then you try to find that through systems that aren’t native to you. You’re like, “I know what it means to be hot. It means you work out. It means you drink a ton of milk, so you get huge. It means you’re mean to people. Toxic masculinity.” Then you realize it’s so stupid. Just be comfortable with yourself.

You’ve worked with heavyweights in the Korean film world: Joon-ho Bong on Okja and Chang-dong Lee on Burning. They’ve given you meaty roles, as well as the opportunity to work with art-house auteurs. What do you make of the fact that these opportunities seem to be primarily coming from the Korean side, rather than the American side?  Sometimes it’s tough. I’ll come back from Burning, and I’ll be like, “Will I ever get this experience again? Will I ever feel this free in a character? Will I ever feel like they’re looking to get my best performance? Down to the lighting, the makeup, the boundarylessness that they project on me?” I feel like there’s a mold here in America, that even in my daily walking around I feel subjected to. Someone’s projecting, like, “This is how you’re supposed to fit in this world.” It’s this generic Asian man mold that pervades.

I like to joke that Korean cinema, which is known in part for its intensity of emotion, is 5,000 years of suffering condensed into an art form. Yeah, that’s real.

Yesterday, when you were introducing the movie [at a screening], you called Chang-dong Lee a “film genius.” What draws you to him? He reached out to me through his films first, obviously. Peppermint Candy helped me understand why I have this han [an untranslatable strain of sorrow that makes up a pillar of Korean national identity] in my body that I can’t explain. I couldn’t explain how me being a 5-year-old immigrant in America was filled with so much rage. It wasn’t just the fear of my environment, or being an Asian kid in America. That probably stoked it a little bit, but I didn’t experience war, I didn’t experience trauma. You don’t know where it comes from, but then you watch [the movie] and you go, “Oh my God, there’s a whole level of Korean experience that I’m missing out on.” There was this deeper level that I couldn’t access, and that film helped me get there.

Are you disappointed that American or international audiences won’t get all of the nuances in the dialogue? No, because we’re talking about one layer of this story, and really the human layer is the thing that binds it all together. Do you mean the romantic triangle in the film? I mean the feeling of unrequited loneliness. The feeling that we’re all alone. We can try to put labels on ourselves and try to separate each other, but really, we’re all fucking alone and that’s what it is. And it’s scary, and it sounds terrible, but really, it’s OK.

The whole movie is about the tension between three people, just like a ghost story at certain points. And in the middle, there’s this chilly sequence where they just hang out during the magic hour. How did you approach the structure of the film and how did you shoot this particular sequence? _________________   After the dance scene, something had to change. That’s what I felt, and the audience can feel that we’re heading to another road as well. The scene itself is in the middle, storyline-wise, and also it’s a quarter of the film. A lot of people think of it as a thriller that it’s mostly about finding Hae-mi’s whereabouts, but we’re not doing that: we’re doing something that’s more about what she was looking for and who she really is. We wanted to shoot the dancing scene after sunset, and so that we could emphasize the boundaries between darkness and lightning, as well as the mixture of reality and surrealistic reality. And when you look at the set, you can see the Korean flag which reflects Korean politics, you can see a dirt, the grass and nature elements, where on the other side you can even see cars passing by. So it’s a mixture of all kinds of life around us, in the scene, and in here Hae-mi is looking for the meaning of life. She is dancing with great hunger. We tried to film that scene without any artificial light. Also, I wanted that scene to show the freedom which she’s getting through and the spontaneity she’s also getting through. That’s the most important thing I wanted to capture in the scene.

The Binding of Edmund McMillen

SIGGRAPH: Share your top three technology tools. CC: I hate technology! But if you’re trying to make something pretty in this medium, there’s no avoiding it

SIGGRAPH: What is the best advice you would give someone starting out in animation? CC: Draw. Carry a sketchbook (or a tablet) and draw (or paint!) every chance you get. Make observations from the world around you, from photo or video reference, from artists you admire. Most importantly, don’t just observe, but put those observations down on paper in visual form. Make a habit of it. The things you learn that way will stay with you forever. And that knowledge will be useful no matter what medium you end up working in.

A: Anything else you’d like to say or tell the new comers and/or the community? L: Mmh, I know how it feels to be limited by your own lack of skills and today’s tools are taking away a little bit of that barrier. And the more the software helps you to get rid of the technical problems of representation, the more creative you can be. While the tool is the same, it’s very fun to see that everybody has its own take to how to use Quill. It wasn’t at first, but now I see more and more people having their own style. It’s so refreshing. I follow the group and what is going on with a lot of attention.

A: Hello Lip, please tell us a bit more about you. What is your background? Did you study visual arts?   L: Not really [laughs]. My parents forced me to have a very classical education. I studied Latin and ancient Greek in high school. But when I was 18, I realized that I enjoy to visualize my ideas and thoughts. So I went to the University and studied advertising. I was heading toward more of a copywriting agency type of occupation until I felt the need to carry my ideas until completion. I was tired of giving them away too soon because I found my stories never really turned out the way they should be. Since the softwares got easier and more accessible, I managed to find the right moment to jump in and learn the technical skills to do it on my own.

Where did you study and what were some of your first jobs? I actually have a degree in Economics from Colorado College. This was pursued at the behest of my father and after bartending for a year in London after I graduated, I went to the Vancouver Film School and took their course in Multimedia. My first jobs were all menial labor: I worked sorting packages at a Greyhound station, cleaning recycled bottles at a brewery and erected party tents. After VFS, I moved to New York and freelanced as a web designer/flash animator for a bit before I helped found heavy.com with two of the guys I had been freelancing for. That lasted for about five years before I started Buck with my partners in 2003.

open education advocate

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clip of a father in South Korea commenting on the removal of once-President Park Geun-hye, only to be interrupted on live TV by his kids breaking into his home office.

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As far as receiving forgiveness from you–sometimes I still don’t know how to take it because I haven’t totally forgiven myself yet. It’s something that I’m learning from you – I won’t say that I have learned yet – because it’s still a process that I’m going through.

n. I wanted to know if you were in the same mindset of what I remembered from court, where I wanted to go over and hurt you. But you were not that 16-year-old. You were a grown man. I shared with you about my son.

There was a culture then, almost a requirement, that one needed to build platforms and contexts (social or political) to support one’s thesis, and then material practice would follow. These issues were pressing, because by this time I had begun to teach at Cooper Union. I was negotiating between promoting a rigorous painting model and a new context—conversations with students and colleagues about contemporary art issues and institutional critique. So it was a very complicated time for me as an educator, to figure out how to insist on a conversation about painting rigor in relation to contemporary art. I continued to go the way that I needed to with my own work, both protecting it from the institutional framework and furthering my ideas about painting in school and in the studio—it was a tough, amazing time.

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