Walk into the West Gallery at M+ in Hong Kong and the room feels like a scene from another time. Silver structures stretch across the floor. Mirrors scatter light across the walls. A skeletal architectural form hangs overhead like the remains of a futuristic city. The space looks like a dream of the future—half built, half broken. This is the world of South Korean artist Lee Bul. The exhibition, Lee Bul: From 1998 to Now, brings together more than 200 works made over the past three decades.
The famously reclusive artist was born in 1964 in Yeongju, a small city in South Korea. Her childhood was shaped by a country under military rule. Her parents were political activists, and the atmosphere of protest and change was never far away. In the decades that followed, South Korea transformed rapidly—from an authoritarian state into a global economic power. Lee grew up watching that transformation. It left a deep mark on her work.
She first became known in the late 1980s and early 1990s for provocative performances and installations that challenged social expectations, especially around the female body. “In one early work she walked through the streets wearing grotesque, soft sculptures attached to her body, confronting passersby with distorted versions of beauty and femininity. Over time, her work moved toward sculpture and large installations,” says M+ artistic director and chief curator Doryun Chong.
The exhibition unfolds in three parts, each opening a different window into her imagination. Large sculptural installations from Lee’s ongoing Mon grand récit series dominate the first part. Made from steel frames, mirrored panels, beads and industrial materials, the works resemble fragments of utopian cities. They glimmer and sparkle under the lights, but they also appear incomplete—as if the dream they represent has already collapsed. Nearby are quieter works on paper from the Perdu and Willing to Be Vulnerable—Velvet series. “These pieces use delicate textures and layered surfaces. Organic shapes sit beside hard geometric forms. Together they suggest a tension between nature and machines,” says Chong.
Then come the sculptures from her Cyborg series. At first they resemble classical statues—smooth limbs and elegant bodies. But something is missing. Arms are cut off. Heads are absent. Surfaces gleam like polished machinery. The figures look human, but also mechanical, as if they belong to a future where the body has merged with technology. Next to them are works from the Anagram series. These sculptures twist together natural shapes and mechanical parts. Some resemble strange creatures. Others look like organic growths made of metal. They blur the line between biology and technology, beauty and mutation.
The final section of the exhibition offers a surprise. Instead of large sculptures, visitors encounter rows of drawings and small models. Nearly 100 sketches and dozens of carefully built maquettes fill the space. “These pieces show how Lee’s ideas take shape. It is a rare chance to see the artist’s thinking before it becomes monumental,” adds Chong.
Seen together, the works reveal the full scale of Bul’s imagination. Her art moves from the intimate scale of drawings to vast architectural structures. Yet the questions running through it remain deeply human. Her work looks at how societies dream about the future—perfect cities, perfect bodies, perfect systems—and why those dreams so often fail. In many ways, Hong Kong forms the perfect setting for this story. Outside the museum, the skyline rises in glass and steel towers. The city itself feels like a vision of the future. Inside the gallery, Bul’s glittering structures echo that ambition—but they also remind us how fragile such visions can be.