Interview with Kenji Lim: it's easier to live with the work rather than constantly packing it away
Stepping into an artist’s studio feels like entering a world of its own. But what happens when that studio is also a home?
A few weeks ago, we visited Kenji Lim, our High House artist tenant, in the work/live space he’s called home for the past four years—the longest he’s stayed anywhere since his childhood. Since 1972, Acme has been providing work/live support to artists for exactly this reason: to offer them a sense of stability and space to create without the worry of insecure tenancies and London's unpredictable rental market.
Surrounded by Kenji’s “non-human neighbours”—the physical manifestations of his multimedia practice—we explored how the environment shapes his work, the fluid boundaries between art and life, and the importance of timing.
Kenji, what prompted your decision to move into a work/live space?
Before work/live, I was living with my mum. I had done my BA, but then I took a big career break—about 16 years—before starting my MA. When I decided to get back into making work, I had to move back in with my mum and was mostly doing drawing and some painting, working with whatever I could fit on a table.
At that time, I treated my practice like a nine-to-five job. That routine was productive—I was making all these pen-and-ink drawings, and it was just about putting in the hours and working through the process.
Do you mean you literally structured your practice like a nine-to-five job?
Yes, exactly. I approached it in that way—starting at nine, taking a lunch break, and finishing at five. Having that routine was productive because I knew what each piece needed, and as long as I put in the hours, I could complete it.
Then things changed. During my MA at the RCA (Royal College of Art), I was in the studio every day. Ironically, that was the least productive period for me. Looking back, I don’t think I made a single piece of work during that time that I really wanted to put my name on.
Do you think that was because you were going through a period of transition?
That was part of it. But I think it also had to do with the environment—the studios didn’t really work for me. It wasn’t a space where I could just focus and produce work.
After graduating, I shared a small studio with three other people. It was far from home but close to work, so I had to fit my practice around my “money job”. At the same time, I started experimenting with new processes. I didn’t have access to workshops anymore, so I had to adapt—doing more desk work, figuring things out differently.
Then I did a residency in Finland. There, I had a huge studio right next to where I was living. It was freezing cold, but the space was incredible. I was only there for two months, so I knew I had to make the most of it. I’d wake up, grab a coffee, walk straight into the studio, and work all day.
That experience really made me realise how much proximity to my workspace impacts my productivity. That’s why I knew this setup would work for me—I need to be close to my work, without the distraction of a long commute.
That’s interesting. Residencies offer a different kind of work environment, but they also come with restrictions. You might have the space, but you don’t have your usual materials to hand unless you are able to bring them with you. Plus, whatever you create, you have to figure out how to transport it home again.
That’s one reason I haven’t applied for any residencies since being here. I already have a work/live studio—why would I go somewhere else just to get another one? Some London-based residencies offer studio spaces, but then I’d have to commute into the city, which defeats the point for me.
Since moving here, I’ve built up more equipment than I’ve ever had before. So, if I did a residency now, I’d have to figure out how to work without all of it or spend money getting the tools I need again.
"And since being here, my work has evolved dramatically. The timing lined up—moving into this space, starting a new body of work, developing ideas that had begun in Finland and during COVID. My whole way of working changed, my aesthetic changed, and I had to learn new processes. That meant accumulating tools—basic but necessary—to make the work I wanted to create."
Did you know you’d be accumulating so much equipment when moving here, or did that just happen naturally?
It happened naturally over time. After being here for four years, I know that when I leave, I’m going to need a decent-sized studio—just for all the shelving alone.
When I moved in though, it was more of a desperate move. It was the second big lockdown. I had given up my studio in London because it was too far from where I lived, and I ended up making work in my tiny bedroom. Then this opportunity came up, and I jumped on it.
Because I grew up in the countryside and had done residencies in remote areas, I knew location wouldn’t be an issue for me. And since being here, my work has evolved dramatically. The timing lined up—moving into this space, starting a new body of work, developing ideas that had begun in Finland and during COVID. My whole way of working changed, my aesthetic changed, and I had to learn new processes. That meant accumulating tools—basic but necessary—to make the work I wanted to create.
But living here does require self-sufficiency. It’s isolating, especially without a car.
It sounds like your practice expanded out of curiosity and necessity. Did it feel that way to you?
Yes and no. While it has been a process of growth, it’s also been slow, with a lot of resistance—resistance to spending money, frustration with learning new skills, and struggling with techniques.
It’s exciting in a way, but it’s not like I love every part of it. For example, I hate using a sewing machine, but I have to because it’s necessary for the work. Especially with faux fur—it keeps breaking the machine because it’s not meant for that.
Would you say that all your tools and materials have their own designated corners or nooks?
I don’t move things around much, so they tend to be added onto rather than relocated. But that’s not necessarily because something has to stay in a certain place. For example, this big piece is either here or in my room because I like to keep that end of the studio clear for documentation. I try not to clutter it too much.
I do have work stored in boxes as well. I haven’t had many studio visits, and that’s one of the challenges of being out here. Some people seem to manage it, but I haven’t had many. And when you put stuff away in boxes, it just kind of disappears. Honestly, it’s easier to live with the work rather than constantly packing it away.
"There’s this feeling of everything being interconnected. Being surrounded by all this work in my studio helps me figure out how to tie everything together."
It’s another danger of not having enough space—when your practice becomes more nomadic, you can even forget the existence of certain works.
Yeah, I guess for some artists, it’s fine to finish a piece, store it, and move on. They catalogue it, know where it is, and can pull it out when needed. But for me, my work isn’t hierarchical—it doesn’t follow a strict timeline of development. It’s all part of world-building, essentially. When I show my work, I don’t mind mixing older pieces with new ones. The idea is to build an ecosystem rather than a linear progression.
Speaking of the ecosystem you're building, you refer to your practice as “non-human domestic”. Was the domestic element always present, or did it develop from living in close proximity to your work?
I think it’s less about living near the work and more about how this “world-building” operates. This world I’m creating—it’s not about representing another world but rather thinking about how things interact without direct human influence. That said, I use a lot of human language and philosophy, so everything still operates in a highly anthropomorphic way.
For example, in my first window show during COVID, I was building a “set-like” environment. As a viewer, you recognise familiar elements, but their purpose is ambiguous. Does something have an aesthetic function, or does it occupy the space with agency? The term “non-human domestic” is about imagining what objects would look like if they were designed for something non-human. Like, what would a teacup be for the weather? Do I even need to call it a teacup? It’s about avoiding fixed meanings.
I think there’s a challenge in contemporary art when work doesn’t directly address issues in a straightforward way. People ask, “What is this about?” when really, it’s about many things—othering, agency, perception. The work isn’t necessarily for the viewer, but I’m inviting them to engage with it.
Which means you’re inviting interaction.
Exactly. And it’s about stepping outside our usual concepts—trying to see from a perspective beyond human experience.
Do you think being around your work changes the way you perceive it?
Absolutely. Like that big sculpture—it’s been around for almost a year. Seeing it every day made me realise it wasn’t done. When I first made it, I thought, “Oh God, now I have to live with this!” But that forced reflection helped.
I have taken a break from painting for a while, but now I’m starting to get back into it. There’s this feeling of everything being interconnected. Being surrounded by all this work in my studio helps me figure out how to tie everything together.
It’s fascinating how you have things sitting around for ages before figuring out how to use them. I think being in this space helps with that—it’s not just about ignoring things but having everything around you all the time. In a way, you live with these objects, and they become part of your life.
That’s exactly it. For example, take a cup. If it’s in your home, in a way, it has its own life. Jane Bennett talks about things having agency, and I think that applies here. Ceramics are made from clay, which comes from the earth, and there’s a history to it. So, what if everything around us is alive in some way, just like in Beauty and the Beast where objects come to life? What if that was simply how things are? There’s this cycle, with some objects becoming decorative and others having characters or purpose. It’s like everything around me is looking at me, interacting with me in some way.
How do you navigate being constantly ‘seen’ by your work? Do the boundaries between work and life ever get blurred?
It’s not just about space; it’s about time. You go through periods where it’s all about the work, and then periods where it’s not at all—but you’re still surrounded by it, which can make you feel guilty for not working. You feel like you should be working, but you can’t quite get going because there’s no separate space to mentally switch into work mode. It takes a lot of self-discipline to manage that.
But then, because you have literally 24 hours to work, I sometimes feel like I’m not working hard enough—even if I’ve actually done eight hours in a day. It just feels like I’ve spent all day watching YouTube. But in reality, a lot of my work involves processes that take time, like curing. So, for example, if something needs twelve hours between steps, rather than commuting back and forth to check on it, I can just do a step, leave it, go do something else, and then come back to it. It’s more flexible that way.
"This has been the longest I’ve lived anywhere besides my childhood home, so in a way, it’s the most settled I’ve ever been. And honestly, the relief of not constantly worrying about rent, credit scores, or affordability was huge."
I do wonder how much more time is gained when you’re not tracking it on a schedule.
When you need to get loads done, you can get loads done. But I was also thinking about the idea of overproduction. I could just keep making work endlessly, but that means using a lot of materials—and for what purpose if it’s not being shown? So, it’s about learning to turn the tap on and off, to plan rather than just constantly produce.
I guess we’re also wondering about the ideal length for something like this. There’s no perfect answer—it’s different for everyone. But maybe you also need an endpoint? Like, if this was open-ended, would that be a good thing?
For me, having a deadline is important. This has been the longest I’ve lived anywhere besides my childhood home, so in a way, it’s the most settled I’ve ever been. And honestly, the relief of not constantly worrying about rent, credit scores, or affordability was huge. The thought of going back into that world is terrifying—especially now, with rent prices doubling since I moved in.
So, in a way, it’s good that this has a set timeline. If it were indefinite, I might stagnate. At least with a deadline, I have to figure out the next step. I don’t have specific plans yet, but I have different ideas. I think I’d like to be somewhere more populated, not necessarily London, but somewhere with more connection.
So ideally, if you had the choice, would you want a separate studio and home?
I’d love another work/live space. It works well for me—it keeps things simple. And I don’t mind being surrounded by my work all the time. Sure, sometimes I’d love to switch off, but overall, I don’t mind. Living with your work just means your personal space gets squeezed into corners, but that happens in house shares too.
When I think about time coming to an end—about what I wanted and what I got out of it, and what I want for the future—I realise that this space has become more than just a place to work. It’s become a home. I’ve never had this much stuff before or this kind of space. It’s sort of grown around me, and now I have to think about how to replicate that somewhere else.
Kenji Lim is a British artist based in Essex and born in Singapore. He works through sculpture, video, digital collage, installation, and painting, to produce objects, animations, and images that operate both individually, and collectively as installation and assembly. Lim’s work reflects and refracts the experience of landscape and the natural world through the prisms of culture, myth, philosophy, and the metaphysical; returning the gaze of Western cultural norms through the eyes of other-than-human actors. Part ecological, part Fraggle Rock, he navigates alternative modes of seeing and understanding the world and its inhabitants.
Lim studied Sculpture at the Royal College of Art, London (MA - 2017-2019); and the Ruskin School of Art, Oxford University (BFA - 1999-2002). He is currently an Acme Work/Live Artist at High House in Purfleet, Essex. Recent exhibitions include Something Quickening at Panrucker Gallery, London; Spend Time Not Thinking About Tomorrow at IMT, London; Tourist at Galerie Reinthaler, Vienna; and Perishing Thirst at Quench Gallery, Margate.
Acme has been providing work/live support to artists in London since our inception in 1972. Our work/live studios offer artists a period of respite from insecure tenancies, overinflated rental charges and the lack of care and trust experienced by many in London’s private rental system. We have recently reshaped our work/live programme to better respond to artists’ needs and provide stable, yet flexible, tenancies that encourage professional development and are allocated as fairly as possible.