[INTERVIEW] Korean Animation’s New Wave: The Creative World of Ahn Jae-huun

In recent years, Korean animation has gained remarkable popularity both domestically and internationally. Audiences around the world are discovering new titles like Lost in Starlight and Gill, drawn to their emotional depth, artistic beauty, and unique storytelling. But this global recognition didn’t happen overnight—it is the result of years of dedication by earlier generations of animators who laid the foundation for what Korean animation has become today. One of the most influential figures in this journey is director Ahn Jae-huun, whose work has long combined literary sensitivity with a distinctive artistic voice. As the co-founder of Studio Meditation With a Pencil, Ahn has brought to life animated films such as Green Days, The Shower, and most recently, Gill—each of them deeply rooted in Korean literature and human emotion. His latest film, Gill, tells the quiet yet powerful story of a female diver (haenyeo) from Jeju Island, confronting aging, memory, and the strength of ordinary life. The film premiered at the Annecy International Animation Film Festival in France, where it was met with heartfelt reactions from European audiences. Ahn's presence in France marked a significant cultural moment, where Korean storytelling and animation found deep resonance abroad. Inspired by this growing global appreciation and deeply moved by his storytelling style, I decided to conduct an interview with Ahn Jae-huun to introduce his creative world to a wider audience. In the following conversation, he reflects on his artistic path, the making of Gill, and his thoughts on the role of animation as a medium of memory, poetry, and cultural identity. Let’s begin with the heart of your story.What inspired you to create Gill (Agami)? Was there a personal experience or a specific idea that sparked the concept? I can explain it in two ways. One was the recommendation from a staff member who read the original novel Gill first, and the other was the series of events that had happened to me up to that point. At first, I thought those experiences were simply wounds. However, after reading the original novel, I came to believe that those wounds might have been the very 'gill' that saved me. But creating a theatrical feature-length film is a painful process once the decision is made. From that moment on, it becomes a continuous struggle, and the ones who endure that time with me are the staff. In a situation where it was difficult to easily say, “Let’s make a theatrical film,” it was the staff members who had read the novel in advance who said, “This is a work we absolutely must do—let’s not miss this opportunity.” The moments that lead a person to resolve to keep livingoften stem from the smallest, most trivial things.Conversely, the reasons life becomes difficultalso tend to begin with something just as small.I believe that capturing those small yet decisive moments is what art is.And Gill is a work that holds that power. While creating theatrical animations,I often felt as if I were drowning.But Gill felt like the work that told mewhy I had to return to land—alive. The animation in Gill is visually moving and emotionally rich.What artistic influences or goals shaped the film’s style and mood? I have mostly depicted the landscapes of Korea throughout my work.That process gave me time to develop a deeper perspective on my own roots.However, in Gill, I wanted to shift my gaze. I hoped to find a different painterly texture and a sense of solidityin the landscapes of another country. It is often said that nothing in this world is truly new,but I hoped to discover something new by looking more deeply into another place. I also wanted to incorporate the visual inspiration of classic European cinemainto the medium of animation. Many of your past works focus on quiet emotional storytelling. What core message or emotional experience did you hope viewers would take from Gill? Through the pain of the main characters—who experience difference and alienation—I hoped the audience would reflect on the nature of their own existence.Our ways of loving are often clumsy, and emotions weathered by time cannot always save one another.Through this film, I wanted to offer a moment to consider how people who are hurting might lean on one another to live—and how each of our identities is composed of complex relationships that are not always visible on the surface. Though it is an animation, I hope the film would feel like watching a classic movie—with restrained camera work and a contemplative rhythm—so that each viewer could have a quiet, precious moment alone in front of the screen.And I hoped it would leave behind a lasting sense of emotional fullness. Was there a scene or sequence that was particularly meaningful or difficult to bring to life? It was not easy to portray the scales of Gon. I wanted to preserve the radiant, dazzling atmosphere conveyed in the original novel,while also expressing something unique to Gon—a feeling that cannot be easily revealed. As I contemplated how to visually capture that brilliance,a line from a Korean poem came to mind: “On a dazzlingly blue day.”Just like that line, I hoped the audience would feel that sense of brilliance—of being dazzled. A particularly difficult moment was when Gon leaves home near the end of the film.I struggled to find the right way to depict that moment. Eventually, I chose the act of running to convey that emotion.We run to escape, to return, to release emotions,and sometimes to cross boundaries.In that way, running became a vessel for Gon’s emotional expression. What part of the production process did you enjoy the most—and what was the most challenging? One of the most enjoyable parts of the process was the cheerfulness of the staff. As artists and creators, they tend to be introverted and quiet by nature.Yet even during the most difficult stretches of work, the closeness, humor, and wit that emerged among them gave us the strength to carry on. Although the characters and illustrations in the film may feel sorrowful,the grasses growing around our studio changed with the seasons, offering us new thoughts and reflections. The most challenging part was the character designs.My interpretation of “beauty” differed from that of the staff.I leaned toward a kind of beauty grounded in everyday life,while the staff proposed a more visually aesthetic interpretation. In the end, we decided that even the vessel holding sorrow in this animationshould be rendered beautifully.That’s how we came to the character designs you see now. The title Gill (also known as Agami) is quite symbolic. Could you explain the meaning behind the name and how it connects to the film’s story or themes? In this work, “gill” is not merely a physiological organ—it serves as a metaphor for a way of being, a marker of otherness, and a symbol of personal identity. In the story, the gill is something the protagonist, Gon, physically possesses.But it also functions as a wound of existence—a sign of what sets him apart from the world. Gon was given a body he did not choose. A body with a gill. To him, the gill is both a scar and a stigma.It represents the existential question, “Who am I?”And yet, it is with this very gill that he lives. At first glance, others see it as a wound.But paradoxically, the gill is also what allows Gon to survive—what lets him rise from the water and return to life. What we often label as alienation or pain may, in the end, be a quiet pursuit of love. How do you balance visual storytelling with emotional subtlety? Do you focus more on mood or narrative when directing animation? First, is the story. Second, is the story. A drawing without a story is just a doodle—maybe an occasional illustration, at best. Sometimes the image comes first, before the story is fully formed.But even then, it’s because that single image carries a piece of the story,enough to make us long for its completion. A story I want to see through to the end.A story I can believe in myself, before anyone else.A story I need to share with the audience.A story I’m desperate to bring to life through drawing. In the end, what matters most—is the story. Congratulations on Gill being selected for the Annecy International Animation Film Festival. How did it feel to have your work showcased on such a prestigious international stage? A film festival is a profoundly meaningful moment—a time when people who love animation take the time to come to a theaterand experience a film together in the same space. We are deeply grateful to the Annecy International Animation Festivalfor giving us such a precious opportunity. This time, I was especially happy to visit the festival like a journeytogether with the staff who participated in the production—to share stories, and to see the expressions of the audience firsthand. These are the kinds of moments that, for those of us who create animation,become one of our deepest joys—another kind of emotional milestone we carry with us. What was the audience reaction at Annecy like? Were there any moments, comments, or discussions that were especially meaningful for you? Gill is by no means an easy film. But one of the joys of cinema is that this film offers viewers moments that are deeply personal and contemplative. Some of the staff even heard the sound of quiet crying from the audience. That was the moment the film truly came alive—when it became something that belonged to its viewers. What remains most vivid are responses like:“The lyrical quality, symbolism, and immersion through the flow of water were overwhelming,”and,“Every scene in Gill felt like it was telling a story about life.” How important are global festivals like Annecy for Korean animation? Do you feel they open new doors for Korean creators? A film festival is not like the Olympics, where only the final result matters. If even one person walks away with a film that becomes deeply meaningful to them,the festival has already done something remarkable. The selection of our films by the Annecy International Animation Festivalwas covered in multiple media outlets and drew attention from government officials.That alone helped spark wider recognition. Cinema is, by its nature, a commercial medium. But thanks to Annecy’s recognition of works like Green Days: Dinosaur and I,The Shaman Sorceress, and Gill,we were able to create a piece of history—something that goes beyond mere content. Have you noticed differences in how Korean and international audiences respond to your films? Do viewers interpret the emotional layers of Gill differently? Korean audiences are familiar with the original story,so they tend to receive the film’s narrative structure, pacing,and emotional depth more naturally. I believe the way each person watches Gill is what truly brings the film to life. Through Gill, they are reminded once again that “life is something we must swim through,”and they experience it as a film shaped by its distinct art style and animation. How do you feel the reputation of Korean animation has changed in the last decade? Is the global industry paying more attention now? Animation is both an art form and a cultural practice that requires accumulation.But Korea has not had enough time to build a diverse and sustained body of work. Talented Korean animators continue to work on projects in Japan, Hollywood, and for platforms like Netflix,finding satisfaction as professionals.In recent years, we’ve also seen a steady increase in production requests from China. I believe Korea is fulfilling its role as a strong production base.But telling stories that are truly our own is still not an easy task. The works we’ll create going forward will face a different kind of competition in order to receive investment. Still, the films we’ve made so far are being screened all over the world.With different hues and different philosophies,our studio will continue to share stories that are uniquely ours. You’ve directed many beloved works before. How was Gill different from your previous projects—in theme, tone, or production? The production environment changed significantly. Until The Shaman Sorceress, we used both pencil and paper alongside digital tools.But starting with Gill, the entire staff transitioned to 100% digital production. Fortunately, I’ve still been able to direct using traditional pencil and paper. In Korea, securing investment for animation continues to be extremely difficult.A lack of funding often results in longer production schedules,which then makes it even harder to attract future investment—an unfortunate cycle that repeats itself. With Gill, we made a focused effort to break that cycleby significantly reducing the production timeline. That achievement was made possible by the strength of the production systems our studio has developed over time. Do you tend to work closely with your animation team on the smallest details, or do you allow more interpretive freedom? What’s your style as a director? I take ample time to reflect and try to anticipate the range of perspectives my staff might have, preparing accordingly. I read books, study the work of great painters, and read beautiful poetry to better understand the world—always striving to break free from my own biases. Based on those efforts, I first listen carefully to the thoughts and opinions of the staff, and only then do I provide concrete direction. By “concrete,” I mean something that’s been considered more deeply than anyone else on the team—direction the staff can fully understand and accept. If I feel I haven’t met that standard, I go back to the beginning and rethink everything. I also try to maintain a cheerful attitude whenever I can.My ideal working relationship is one where the staff don’t feel the need to monitor my emotions, and can focus entirely on the work and the project itself. Your stories often avoid flashy spectacle and instead focus on reflection and silence. What attracts you to that kind of narrative rhythm in animation? When I was young, my dream was to be a poet.That dream has shaped the way I look at people and the world. It’s true that a film’s immersive power can be heightened with a generous budget and richly layered scenes.But the environment I work in doesn’t allow for that kind of scale. Within those limitations, what I can do best is communicate.If I can’t offer someone gold or jewels to express my feelings,then—like writing poetry or growing flowers—I find other ways to connect. In a way, that’s also how I’ve come to see my life more clearly. Everyone feels loneliness when they’re alone.And because of that loneliness, we often wish time would pass more quickly.In Korea, many people watch films with their phones in hand, in brief, fragmented moments. I believe that truly great direction has the power to engage the audience in quiet dialogue—even when built on reflection and silence. That’s where I hope to arrive. What continues to inspire you to tell stories through animation, rather than live action or other formats? Contemplation. In live-action filmmaking, there are often moments where decisions must be made on the spot,and it’s difficult to control everything that appears within the frame. By contrast, nothing in animation is captured by accident.Everything must be created piece by piece—in that sense, animation is the purest form of creation. It gives us the time to stay in dialogue—with the protagonist, the backgrounds, and the props—gradually shaping the story.I think that space for reflection is what allows us to truly connect with the audience,and it’s one of the things I find most meaningful about animation. Of course, we tend to speak most passionately about what we know best,so perhaps I’m simply highlighting the strengths of animation. Still, I believe it’s the profession that best suits my personality and way of thinking. What advice would you give to young Korean animators or storytellers who wish to share personal or emotionally complex stories? Even for directors already working in the field,opportunities to tell stories through animation are not easily given. In baseball, among all those who’ve worked hard as pitchers,very few record even a single win in the professional leagues.And just one win—that alone is something truly remarkable. For that one chance, I believe we must keep gaining experience,writing every day, and meeting the world. A film is something that’s created—so it is, by nature, fiction.But that fiction must be one I can believe in myself. Even if the life within is made up,the story must feel as though it’s truly alive and breathing somewhere.Only then will the audience want to follow it. I hope you keep writing your stories consistently,and through that, not just in animation but in many different forms,practice sharing your work and listening to the responses it receives. As a creator, how do you define a ‘successful’ animation project? Is it about emotional connection, recognition, or something else? Because animation is content produced through investment,an evaluation of whether it is “successful” inevitably tends to revolve around commercial results. But even those outcomes aren't achieved through effort alone—they often arise from a convergence of coincidence and inevitability,sometimes beyond what human effort can control. So then, what can a creator reach by their own ability? I believe it’s the audience’s heart.Not just the number of viewers,but the depth of the emotional response. If public recognition is what popular artists seek,then receiving that recognition already feels like success. There’s something else that’s just as important:not being ashamed of myself. When I’m seated in the theater among the audience,what matters is not feeling embarrassed in front of them.And that feeling is unmistakable. Are there any new stories, themes, or artistic forms you're excited to explore in your next projects? Can you share anything upcoming? Because opportunities to create theatrical animated features are so rare,I try not to place too much hope too quickly on the next project. I simply wait for something to move again—for a quiet stirring to rise once more from within. Right now, with AI and many other changes,the creative environment is undergoing a time of great transformation. Even so, I hope to complete a work that carries meaning through the touch of human hands,and that delivers emotion through story— no matter how long it may take. That project is A Thousand Years Together,which was selected for the MIFA Pitching program at the Annecy International Animation Festival. Finally, what kind of legacy do you hope Gill (Agami) will leave—not only for you, but for the future of Korean animation? I like the word legacy.It asks: What do we leave behind in culture?As cinema shifted from film to digital,it became common to shoot with multiple cameras and assemble scenes in editing.But in that process, spontaneity sometimes gave way to calculation—with tightly composed shots and controlled lighting that can lose emotional warmth. With Gill, I wanted each scene to be crafted with care and precision—like the deliberate choices of classical filmmakers.My hope is that this invites deeper dialogue with the audience. I know the road to release won’t be easy.But like a film movement of its own,I hope Gill finds its way into the world—a journey not unlike a life that must swim to stay alive. This interview was conducted via email from June 18 to June 27, 2025. Conclusion Korean animation, once a niche art form, is now capturing hearts around the world thanks to the passion and vision of creators like Ahn Jae-huun. His deeply poetic films, rooted in Korean culture and literature, remind us that animation is not just entertainment but a powerful medium for storytelling and cultural preservation. With Gill and other works, Ahn invites global audiences to experience the quiet strength of everyday lives, bridging cultures through universal emotions. As Korean animation continues to grow on the international stage, artists like Ahn Jae-huun are leading the way—illuminating the profound beauty of human stories beneath the surface. [INTERVIEW] Korean Animation’s New Wave: The Creative World of Ahn Jae-huun