There are photographers who shoot to remember. Others shoot to expose. Daesung Lee does both, but adds something rarer: he builds images that force us to imagine what we don’t see, and perhaps what we don’t want to see. Originally from South Korea, he now lives and works in France. His path into photography began early, with a childhood obsession that, over time, turned into a deeply personal and political search for meaning.
“I’ve been interested in photography since I was around 10 years old,” he says. After studying photography at university in Korea and spending a few years working in a commercial studio, producing editorials and advertising, he hit a crisis point. “I began to feel that something was missing—I wanted my work to have more meaning and purpose.”
That search for meaning led him, between 2008 and 2010, to travel through several Asian countries documenting coal mining sites. “My initial interest was environmental. But as I spent more time in those places, I came to understand that the extraction of coal wasn’t just a local issue—it was deeply connected to the global economy. That coal powered factories producing textiles for major brands. It was then Lee began to understand the direct link between environmental degradation and the global systems of production and consumption.
Over time, Lee’s approach evolved and his way of telling stories changed. “I used to work within a more traditional documentary approach. But over time, I often found it challenging to visually express the emotional depth, the core message, or the memory of past events using that method alone. Eventually, I decided to follow my own path. I realized that I didn’t have to adhere to rules created by others—especially when they didn’t serve the story I wanted to tell.”
This shift is clear in his Snow Globe project from 2015. That year, in Paris and on the island of Lesbos, tourism and the arrival of refugees coexisted in stark contrast. “These places existed as both tourist spots and sites of displacement, depending on who was experiencing them.” Out of that contradiction came the idea of transforming traditional tourist snow globes into alternative souvenirs reflecting the memories of refugees rather than tourists. “That contrast made me reflect on how people remember the same place so differently based on their circumstances. This led me to think about the typical souvenirs we see in tourist destinations—like snow globes. I wanted to reinterpret those objects from the perspective of the refugees, and create souvenirs that reflect their memories of these places.”
In The Red Forest, Lee pushes further into fiction, building a narrative around a Ukrainian village, Mikhalinka, and a girl, Kateryna, who receives visions from a forest spirit named Raelcun—an anagram of “nuclear.” “The Red Forest is a visual experiment—a fictional story told using documentary techniques, containing symbolic clues about its true meaning.” The project was inspired by the semiotician Thomas Sebeok, who theorized that the danger of nuclear waste could only be passed on to future civilizations by creating new myths and taboos that would survive language and time.
But Lee doesn’t work only on symbolic levels. In On the Shore of a Vanishing Island, he returns to environmental documentary, but with a more evocative eye. “For this series, I stayed on the island for about a month. On the first day, as I walked along the beach, I was struck by the surreal sight of the coastline slowly being eroded by rising sea levels. The powerful impression of this landscape made me realize that a symbolic approach might be more effective than a purely objective or documentary one. That’s why I began photographing the island’s residents in portrait form, using the changing landscape as a backdrop. After this project, I started to think of photography not just as a tool for documentation, but as a medium to more effectively convey the stories I want to tell.” Those most affected by climate change are often the least responsible for it. “As I mentioned earlier, climate change is a direct consequence of human consumption. The Earth’s entire ecosystem is interconnected. And yet, those who are least responsible for it are often the ones who suffer the most from its effects. I have witnessed the destruction of these people’s lives. They are the subject of my work. I try to reduce my consumption as much as I can, but as someone living in a Westernized society, I know I can never be free from this responsibility.”
Recognition and awards have given Lee confidence but haven’t made his path easy. “When I began receiving recognition and gaining visibility, it helped me believe more deeply in what I do. It gave me the encouragement to keep going and the freedom to experiment with new ideas. But awards don’t necessarily translate into financial stability. To be honest, I often tell my wife, ‘I may not be the best image-maker—but I’m not bad at telling stories through images.’ Selling my work is a separate challenge. I still struggle to secure funding for projects, and I continue to live with an uncertain future. In many ways, I think receiving an award comes down to timing and a bit of luck. I’ve seen so many talented artists and photographers whose work remains under recognized or underestimated. In my own experience, timing played a crucial role. Around 2010, there was a shift happening in photojournalism and documentary photography. The industry was in transition, questioning the very definition of photography in the digital era. That context made space for new approaches. If I had combined documentary and fiction in my work ten years earlier, I don’t think it would have been accepted.”
When it comes to festivals, Lee seeks connection over prestige. “I’m less drawn to festivals that feel too professional or insular. Sometimes, these gatherings become events only for people within the photography world—curators, editors, and artists speaking to one another in a kind of closed loop. But to me, a festival should be something that invites the public in—a space where locals can engage with culture and creativity in a shared experience.” He fondly remembers Getxophoto, in Spain, for its genuine connection to the local community. “It was thoughtfully designed for the local community. Works were exhibited in public spaces—along passageways, in local markets, even on the beach. We were welcomed not just as artists, but as guests, often with home-cooked meals prepared by locals. There was a real exchange—conversations about the work, and reflections on the themes from the perspective of everyday life. That kind of connection is what makes a festival meaningful for me.”
Lee also brings this spirit into commercial projects. When Magnum Photos invited him to participate in the Self 07 project for Saint Laurent, he seized the chance to present an authorial work. It was during the pandemic; cities were quiet, and nature seemed to awaken. “It was a meaningful opportunity for me to explore what a commercial collaboration could be, beyond simple branding. They asked me to submit a proposal, and I naturally turned to the themes that have long fascinated me—nature and the environment. At the time, the world was still in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic. During the long months of confinement, we collectively witnessed something extraordinary: as human activity slowed down, nature seemed to reawaken. It felt as though there was a hidden universe—one that reveals itself only when we pause, when we stop interfering. This led me to a profound realization: I had never truly seen nature untouched by human presence. I began to imagine the Earth before we arrived—before any trace of our existence had altered the landscape. From that idea, I created a project titled Parallel Universe. It’s a visual exploration of a world that exists alongside ours, yet remains invisible—revealed only in our absence.”
He doesn’t have, nor does he seek, a fixed style. “It depends on project. I choose daylight moment to photograph portraits in consistent mood and composition for each project. But I do not have consistent aesthetic for image as my visual identity.” When he talks about his influences, he doesn’t mention other photographers. “For me, the most important starting point was understanding who I am: what I like, what I don’t, what I’m good at, and what I struggle with.” After moving to France, he became more aware of how much his cultural background shaped the way he perceived and told stories. He realized he had a strong imagination, but also a deep commitment to social issues. “Eventually, I decided to bring those two aspects together—to merge imagination with reality. When I started working this way, people often asked me, ‘Is it documentary or fiction?’ There seemed to be a strong desire, especially in the West, to categorize, to define things clearly. But for me, those boundaries didn’t matter. I wasn’t interested in fitting my work into a specific genre. I simply wanted to tell stories through photography.”
One question has always followed him: what does it mean to live, knowing our time is limited? “I often find myself contemplating death. The unexpected loss of friends—whether through accidents or illness—has profoundly reshaped the way I think about life. None of us chose to be born; we were simply brought into existence. And yet, once we are here, we are compelled to live. What’s more, our lives are inevitably finite. This is something we cannot escape or deny. At times, we chase after things not because they stem from our true desires, but because we are swept up by the momentum of the times—by trends, cultural expectations, or the collective atmosphere. Whether or not those pursuits hold any real meaning for us becomes secondary.”
Lee reflects on the weight of choices, on authenticity, on the pressure of time. “I believe, is to express a deep yearning: the desire to live one’s life purely according to one’s own will and intention. This yearning becomes even more intense when we realize how finite our time truly is. Death, in a paradoxical way, gives life its value. The word ‘life’ carries meaning only while we are alive. In the vast cosmos, we are no more than a speck of dust—fleeting, insignificant. That’s why, when I hear people talk about success or human greatness, I often find such notions strangely hollow. Perhaps, in the end, we are nothing. But even so, I want to make this brief span of time truly mine. To live it fully, and to live it truthfully.”
Right now, he’s working on two new projects. The first is deeply personal, focusing on his mother—a 76-year-old woman who grew up in a conservative society. When he asked her, “If you were to be born again in your next life, what would you like to be?’ Her answer was, “I don’t want to be born again.” From that answer came the desire to tell a generational story full of silence and lack of freedom. “Many women of her generation in Korea—and across Asia—have endured extremely difficult lives. They have faced systemic discrimination, domestic violence, and a lack of agency over their own identities. Their lives have often been defined not as individuals, but as wives and mothers. With this project, I want to explore that silent history through the lens of my own mother’s life.”
The second project was sparked by textile waste. Visiting an organization that collects used clothes, Lee noticed how many garments, still in perfect condition, end up discarded. He began collaborating with a young fashion designer to create a visual mise-en-scène with those discarded clothes. “We are developing visual concepts and drawings for a mise-en-scène using these discarded garments.”
To those who want to tell stories of the climate crisis through photography, he offers a blunt piece of advice.“One of my concerns is that environmental issues have become something of a trend. Everyone wants to talk about them now—but the real problem is that we just talk about that instead of action. Raising awareness has become a comfortable substitute for taking real action. Photography, unfortunately, cannot change this reality. It’s frustrating to admit, but it’s the truth. Images can provoke thought, spark conversation, maybe even shift perspectives—but they don’t automatically lead to meaningful change. That gap between awareness and action is something I think about a lot.”
I thank Daesung Lee for his depth, honesty, and clarity in sharing his work and vision. To explore his projects: www.daesunglee.com
Mariantonia Cambareri