Today we’d like to introduce you to Yeonglee Kim.
Hi Yeonglee, we’d love for you to start by introducing yourself.
I first held a violin when I was just 28 months old. My mother, a pianist, placed a tiny 1/32-sized violin in my hands. I wasn’t trained rigorously in the conventional sense at that age, but music was always a part of my daily life. What I remember most are the quiet afternoons practicing with my mother at the piano. It wasn’t just about the sound, but about being held together in that shared space. That early connection became the foundation of how I understood music.
It was in late elementary school that I began to feel a deeper calling. I remember realizing with a strong sense of clarity that this path truly belonged to me. That conviction led me to prepare for the entrance audition to Seoul Arts High School, which became the beginning of a more focused musical journey. From there, continuing my studies at Seoul National University felt like a natural step forward.
After completing my undergraduate studies, I moved to the United States to explore a broader musical landscape and to develop a deeper artistic voice. At Indiana University, I earned a Performer’s Diploma, a Master’s, and a Doctor of Music degree. I was fortunate to study with truly remarkable mentors, especially the late Kevork Mardirossian and Lee Phillips. Their guidance continues to shape how I approach music, teaching, and even life itself.
Kevork was more than a teacher. He believed in music as a form of truth that was raw, unflinching, and alive. His lessons were rarely about technique alone. They were about honesty, about listening with courage, about not hiding behind control or polish. He challenged me to go deeper into the music and into myself. Those lessons were not always easy, but they were essential. I still hear his voice when I practice, when I teach, and when I perform. His presence lives in how I think, how I play, and how I try to connect with others.
While at IU, I also taught as an Associate Instructor. That experience opened my eyes to how much I care about mentoring others, not only as musicians but as whole people. Teaching has never felt like a side role to me. It is one of the spaces where I continue to grow, reflect, and share.
Over the years, I have performed across Europe, Korea, and the United States, and participated in international competitions. But what has shaped me most are the people I’ve met. Mentors, collaborators, students, and those quiet, often unseen moments of doubt and discovery have all been part of my evolution.
Now I am based in California, dividing my time between performing and teaching. I constantly seek ways to connect the depth of tradition with the openness of experimentation. At the heart of everything I do is a desire to make classical music feel personal, alive, and human. Sometimes that happens through a concert, sometimes through a lesson, and sometimes through something still taking shape. For me, music has always been a way to connect. I think I’m still learning what that means.
I’m sure it wasn’t obstacle-free, but would you say the journey has been fairly smooth so far?
Not at all. I was never an easy student. Just ask my parents or my former teachers. I carried so many questions and so much restlessness, even at a young age. I constantly asked “why,” “what if,” and “is that really true?” That kind of relentless questioning made things difficult during my school years, and I know it caused frustration for the adults around me. But in retrospect, that same curiosity has become one of the most powerful forces in my growth as an artist.
Of course, being in competitive environments was also challenging. The pressure, the comparisons, and the quiet measurements of worth can wear you down. But the deeper struggle for me has always been the nature of art itself. There is no fixed path and no clear standard for what is complete or enough. There is no scoreboard for truth or expression, and living in that uncertainty is incredibly difficult.
You find yourself constantly questioning everything, scanning for something to refine or improve. That kind of mental and emotional intensity can be exhausting. It forces you to stay sharp, often at the expense of rest or ease.
One of the hardest moments came when I lost my mentor, Kevork Mardirossian. He was someone who anchored me. He challenged me with great intensity, but he also made me believe that I could meet that challenge. His absence left a silence I still carry with me. But I try to honor his voice by continuing to do what he taught me. I try to trust myself, especially on stage, and to tell my story honestly.
Even now, with all the doubts and the unfinished edges that come with being an artist, I try to speak through the music. And I hope that in that vulnerability, someone else might hear something true.
As you know, we’re big fans of you and your work. For our readers who might not be as familiar what can you tell them about what you do?
I’m a violinist and educator, and much of my work lives between those two roles. I perform as a soloist and chamber musician, but I also spend a great deal of time teaching and working closely with students. What I enjoy most is helping them grow into their own artistic voices, not just refining their technique.
I often work well with students who are a bit lost, the ones who are searching, unsure, or still figuring out how they fit into music. I understand them because I’ve been there myself. That in-between space, where nothing feels certain yet, is actually full of potential. I try to teach with clarity and care, helping students build not just technique, but a relationship with sound that feels personal and honest. What matters to me is that their playing sounds like them.
One thing I’m proud of is that I’ve stayed close to what matters to me artistically. I don’t try to separate technical skill from emotional meaning. I want the work to be sincere, whether it’s on stage or in the studio. I care about sound, yes, but I care more about what it’s saying.
Playing the violin has always felt like an extension of myself. I grew up with music from such an early age that holding the instrument feels completely natural. It’s how I make sense of the world. So when I play, I’m not trying to deliver something polished or dramatic. I’m letting something familiar speak.
For me, presence on stage comes from focus and sincerity. I don’t think about what I look like when I play. I think about what I’m saying. When I’m truly connected to the music, the energy finds its way across, even without effort or decoration. That kind of quiet intensity is what I trust most.
What has been the most important lesson you’ve learned along your journey?
That you don’t have to have all the answers.
There was a time when I thought I needed to know everything, do everything well, and prove that I could handle any kind of music or situation. But the more I grew, the more I realized that part of being an artist is learning to live with questions.
And within that space of uncertainty, I came to understand something even more important. No one is good at everything. Just as there are pieces of music that come to me with ease and feel completely natural, there are others that remain distant no matter how many times I return to them. That used to feel like failure, but now I see it differently.
What matters is knowing yourself with clarity and honesty. I’ve learned how important it is to recognize what speaks most naturally through me and to let that speak as fully as possible. At the same time, I’ve learned to work with the parts of myself that feel less certain, to shape and carry them in a way that keeps the whole picture honest and complete.
It is not about being perfect. It is about being clear about who you are, making choices that reflect that, and doing the work with sincerity.
Contact Info:
- Website: https://www.yeongleekim.com
- Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/anbiemom
- Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@yeongleekim1470
