©Han Sungpil, North Saskathewan River, Crossing, Banff National Park, from Frozen Fire series

The first time I saw Han Sungpil’s work, there was a small crowd leaning over the images in reverential silence. I looked at the photos from the back of the crowd, and saw a multitude of black lines on pristine white paper. When I was able to get closer, I saw that each of the lines was a blackened tree lying on a bed of snow. Sungpil explained that this portfolio, “Frozen Fire,” was taken in the Canadian Rockies in the aftermath of the wildfires. The devastation was horrific, yet seen through Sungpil’s lens, the patterns looked like delicate brushstrokes. The contrast of the ruin with the artistry of Sungpil’s compositions is striking, and makes these images have lasting impact.

Han Sungpil’s work is inspired by the fragile balance between loss and renewal. His love of the Rocky Mountains is one thing that drew Han to immigrate to Canada from his native Korea. He brings an understanding of traditional Korean landscape painting to his current work, “Frozen Fire.” The Eastern philosophy of impermanence is combined with his direct encounters with the aftermath of the Canadian wildfires. He said, “Standing amid the charred remains, I often felt as though the once-mighty forest had never existed. Silence and stillness prevailed, broken only by the slow, patient work of natural regeneration.”

©Han Sungpil, Waterton Lakes National Park, from Frozen Fire series

Han Sungpil is a multidisciplinary visual artist born in Korea and based in Calgary, Canada. Moving across photography, video and installation, his work begins with a single fundamental question: how have the accumulated actions of humanity, across centuries, quietly reshaped the world we inhabit today? His practice explores the intersection of nature, human impact and environmental change, and the awe inspiring majesty of the natural world remains a driving force in both his life and his art.

Instagram: @han_sugpgil

©Han Sungpil, Waterton Lakes National Park, from Frozen Fire series

What drew you to photograph the aftermath of the Canadian fires, and how did you feel when you saw all the damage.

It was March 2020 when I moved to Canada. However, the day after my arrival, the Canadian border was closed due to the COVID-19 pandemic. In a strange land where I knew no one, my activities ground to a halt for over three years, and I had to sustain life merely for survival. This period was a painful time of isolation and vacancy. However, in May 2021, I accidentally encountered massive ecological scars at Waterton Lakes National Park. The Kenow wildfire, which originated in British Columbia in 2017, turned about 40 percent of Waterton Lakes National Park in Alberta to ash and spread across the border to reduce Glacier National Park in Montana, USA, to ash as well. That dystopian landscape felt like a mirror reflecting my lost inner self. However, a sudden heavy snowfall the following morning completely transformed the scenery. Before the landscape where pure white snow settled over black, charred trees, I reencountered the Eastern philosophical notions of emptiness (yeobaek) and impermanence. It was the emptiness of traditional Korean painting and the impermanence of Eastern philosophy. Emptiness is not a vacant space, but a generative void left empty so that new possibilities may emerge; impermanence is not futility, but a cyclical philosophy holding that nothing is fixed forever and destruction is merely a phase of rebirth. The snow-covered land was a void emptied for new life to emerge, which would melt into water in spring to become nourishment for new life, and the sprouts budding beneath the charred trunks demonstrated that destruction is not the end.

©Han Sungpil, Waterton Lakes National Park, from Frozen Fire series

You had mentioned to me that the temperature got to -30 Celsius, and I’d like to know what it was like to work under such extreme temperatures. Did you have issues with your equipment?

In the Canadian Rockies, the temperature sometimes drops below -30 degrees Celsius. However, because I kept walking and hiking for shooting, my body generated heat, so it didn’t feel that cold. I only felt the cold during the 30-odd minutes spent setting up the tripod and shooting. There were no major issues with shooting because I wrapped the camera warmly and kept it well-stored in the camera bag away from the cold air. Additionally, I prepared for emergencies by keeping spare batteries and memory cards warm in my jacket using hand warmers.

©Han Sungpil, Grisette Mountain and Mount Dromore, Jasper National Park, from Frozen Fire series

©Han Sungpil, North Saskatchewan River, Crossing, Banff National Park, from Frozen Fire series

©Han Sungpil, North Saskatchewan River, Crossing, Banff National Park, from Frozen Fire series

How long could you stay outside before needing to warm up?

For shooting, I sometimes stayed in the mountains for 2 days and 1 night, or 3 days and 2 nights. Deep in the Canadian Rockies, there are huts or lodges operated for backcountry skiers and winter mountaineers. Once a shooting schedule was set, I planned a hiking route on the map, booked a remote hut or lodge in advance, hiked for 7 to 9 hours to reach it, and worked while staying there.

©Han Sungpil, Chetamon Mountain, Jasper National Park, from Frozen Fire series

When holding one of your prints, I was struck by tactile nature of the paper, and how that added to the viewing experience. Can you tell us the name of the paper and why you chose it?

I printed this work on Hanji, a traditional Korean paper. Hanji is made through a long process: stripping the bark of paper mulberry, boiling it, beating it, mixing it in water, and scooping it out layer by layer. No step can be rushed. Hanji is the embodiment of an ancient philosophy of patience and devotion, a way of life that reaches completion precisely by not rushing. As the old saying goes, “Paper lasts a thousand years, while silk lasts five hundred years” (紙千年 絹五百), paper made this way withstands the test of time. The decades it takes for a burnt forest to become a forest once again is also time that cannot be rushed.

Hanji is a paper born from trees. I place the image of a burnt tree back onto paper derived from a tree. The memory of the destroyed forest seeps into the fibers of another tree. The intertwined fibers of Hanji resemble the roots and new sprouts reaching out again from under the ashes.

©Han Sungpil, Mount Dromore, Jasper National Park, from Frozen Fire series

©Han Sungpil, Fairmont Jasper Park Lodge, Jasper National Park, from Frozen Fire series

©Han Sungpil, Athabasca Pass, Jasper National Park, from Frozen Fire series

©Han Sungpil, The Whistlers, Trident Range, Jasper National Park, from Frozen Fire series

©Han Sungpil, Marmot Mountain, Trident Range, Jasper National Park, from Frozen Fire series

©Han Sungpil, Roche Bonnehomme, Colin Range, Jasper National Park, from Frozen Fire series

©Han Sungpil, Marmot Mountain, Trident Range, Jasper National Park, from Frozen Fire series