Return of the Genius Photographer

“So, you’re participating in the upcoming exhibition for new photographers?”

“Yes,” I nodded in response to Jung Woong’s question.

The results for the exhibition I had applied for a few weeks ago had just been announced today.

Unsurprisingly, I had been accepted.

“Congratulations. This will be a great opportunity for you,” Jung Woong said with a smile.

“And what brings you here? You didn’t come just to share that news, did you?” He leaned on his desk, resting his chin on his hand with a curious expression, signaling that he wanted me to get to the point.

As expected, he was sharp. I had planned to ask him something anyway.

“Yes, actually, I came to ask if you know anything about this exhibition.”

The Korean Emerging Photographers Exhibition was one of the largest charity events for photographers. It had been held annually for many years, even having its own foundation. I thought if anyone knew about it, it would be Jung Woong.

“Hm… the emerging photographers exhibition…” He paused, as if searching through his memories.

After a moment of reflection, he snapped his fingers as something came to mind and began answering.

“That exhibition isn’t just a simple showcase for new photographers.”

His response took me by surprise.

“To be precise, it’s more of an event created by the chairman of Hanseong Group to enjoy photography at his leisure.”

“What?” I stared at him in disbelief.

Jung Woong chuckled at my reaction before calmly continuing.

“Once, the Hanseong Cultural Foundation sought my advice.”

The Hanseong Cultural Foundation? This might turn out to be more informative than I had expected.

“They asked me to suggest efficient ways for the chairman to access high-quality, new works of photography.”

I listened intently, intrigued by where this was going.

“They said it was simply a hobby of Chairman Han’s. He doesn’t have the time to search for great photos every year, so he decided to have the photos come to him instead.”

“So, they created this exhibition for him to enjoy good photography?”

“Exactly. The thinking of someone like a corporate chairman is truly unique. I found it fascinating myself,” he added with a smile.

What he was telling me was essentially the backstory of the exhibition—how it came to be.

I couldn’t help but feel that coming to ask him had been a great decision.

The more information, the better.

“I suggested that they hold exhibitions through photo contests or commissions from photographers. And that’s how it started. I was even invited a few times in the beginning.”

“But now it’s exclusively for new photographers, isn’t it?”

“Somewhere along the way, it changed. Maybe the raw, unrefined energy of the new photographers appealed to them, or maybe it was just a cheaper option—who knows.”

“That’s an interesting shift.”

“I don’t know the full details, but perhaps the company also wanted to project an image of supporting underprivileged, talented photographers. It would make them look like a socially responsible, upstanding company.”

I fell into brief contemplation over his words. They made a lot of sense.

In summary, the exhibition was both a platform to support underprivileged but talented new photographers and a way for Chairman Han Gun-ho, who had a keen interest in photography, to enjoy their work. While the former seemed like a public-facing purpose, the real intent behind the event leaned more toward the latter.

‘So the rumors were true after all.’

I had heard before that this exhibition was organized under the direction of Hanseong Group’s chairman, and now this confirmed it.

If not for Jung Woong’s explanation, I might have doubted the idea that the exhibition was set up solely for the chairman’s personal enjoyment.

How deep was his passion for photography, anyway?

But something didn’t quite add up.

The exhibition concluded with an auction where the best pieces were sold off. So, if the purpose was for Chairman Han’s personal enjoyment, where did the auctioned-off pieces end up?

“Then, is the auction after the exhibition also related to Chairman Han?” I asked Jung Woong, curious.

He nodded, confirming that I had guessed right. “Yes, both the provider and the buyer of the pieces at the auction are, in fact, entities associated with Chairman Han.”

“But if it’s his own exhibition, why go through such a complicated process?”

“The exhibition is for his personal enjoyment, but the auction serves as a way to support photographers.”

“Oh…” I murmured, beginning to grasp the bigger picture.

“The prices set at the auction aren’t just the value of the artwork. They’re an investment in the potential of the artist.”

I finally understood what Jung Woong meant. In essence, this wasn’t just a charity event—it was an all-encompassing support system, from the exhibition to the auction.

It wasn’t just about giving photographers a platform; it was about deep involvement and long-term support. For photographers, this would be a golden opportunity to sell their work at prices higher than their usual market value. And if the photographers gained fame in the future, the value of the pieces owned by Chairman Han would increase, making it a mutually beneficial arrangement.

The sheer scale of the chairman’s hobby was starting to dawn on me.

‘Does that mean I have to consider Chairman Han’s taste when preparing my photos…?’

In any case, I had learned a lot from my conversation with Jung Woong—things I would never have discovered on my own.

I bowed my head in gratitude. “Thank you for the valuable insights. I’ve learned so much.”

“No need to thank me. Anyone in the industry long enough would know these things,” Jung Woong said with a warm smile.

“And if you ever need more help, feel free to ask. I’ll support you in any way I can.”

His offer was tempting. Having someone like Jung Woong by my side would undoubtedly make everything easier, especially since he knew so much about the exhibition.

But…

“No, the information you’ve already provided has been more than enough. I’ll handle the rest on my own,” I replied politely.

I had already received plenty of help. In the end, photography is about pressing the shutter myself, and the challenges ahead were ones I had to face on my own.

“Haha, I figured you’d say that,” Jung Woong chuckled, seemingly having anticipated my response.

“So, what’s your plan now? There’s still plenty of time before the exhibition.”

“There’s a meeting for the participating photographers today. I’m planning to head there.”

“Understood. Well, go ahead then. And remember, if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you again soon.”

With that, I left his studio and made my way to the meeting location.

‘I’m looking forward to this,’ I thought as I walked out.

After Woojin left.

Jung Woong smiled to himself in the now-empty studio, thinking of Woojin.

The courage to take on the exhibition through his own efforts alone—it was bold and incredibly captivating.

He couldn’t stop smiling at the thought.

As someone who had attended the Korean Emerging Photographers Exhibition several times, he knew just how intense the competition among photographers could be.

It wasn’t unusual for photographers to receive help from their studios or mentors to stand out.

Though he hadn’t explicitly mentioned it, Woojin must know this too.

‘And yet, he turned down the help.’

The fact that he insisted on doing it all by himself.

Whether it was confidence or mere recklessness, Woojin’s approach was far from ordinary.

But Jung Woong, who had watched Woojin from close by, knew one thing.

That Woojin was always someone who kept his word.

There was still a long way to go until the exhibition.

And Jung Woong was already excited to see the photos Woojin would produce.

*****

Hanseong Cultural Foundation Meeting Room

Sang-hoon arrived early for the meeting and took a moment to observe his surroundings.

Despite having plenty of time before the meeting officially started, the room already had a few photographers besides him.

Judging by their expressions, filled with a mix of tension and excitement, they too must have been selected for this exhibition.

‘Is this my seat?’

A large rectangular table dominated the center of the room. As Sang-hoon approached, he spotted a name tag with his name on it, confirming his seat. It seemed they had arranged the seating in advance.

Like the others, he took his place and greeted the people around him.

“Hello.”

“Oh, hello.”

The greetings were exchanged awkwardly, but the tension in the room remained thick and unbroken.

‘It makes sense,’ Sang-hoon thought as he sat quietly, lost in his thoughts.

This was the first meeting since the exhibition participants had been selected, and today was when the theme would be revealed. It was also the first opportunity to see the other selected photographers in person.

In that context, it was no wonder everyone felt nervous. After all, they were competitors.

Only five photographers had been chosen out of countless applicants, all after passing a rigorous selection process. Just being selected for such a high-profile exhibition was an incredible achievement, but none of the attendees seemed satisfied with that alone.

While simply participating could bring recognition and future opportunities, their real goal was to have their work featured in the auction. A piece selected for auction guaranteed a multimillion-won payout, along with a surge in fame and job offers.

However, only one work stood out and was chosen for the auction at each exhibition. So, the photographers in the room were essentially competing against each other for that coveted spot.

Even though the room was quiet, it was clear that everyone was silently sizing up their competition.

And among them, the most attention was on Woojin.

He was the youngest recipient of the Seoul Photography Competition Grand Prize.

The disciple of renowned photographer Jung Woong.

A contracted photographer for VOTUS.

Named “Rookie of the Year” by Monthly Photography magazine.

At only a high school student, Woojin’s exceptional talent had already made waves in the industry, and his name was well-known.

Out of everyone in the room, he was undoubtedly the most famous.

‘I didn’t expect to see him so soon,’ Sang-hoon thought, eyeing the empty seat across from him, reserved for Woojin.

This was the person who had given Sang-hoon his first taste of defeat. He had waited eagerly for another chance to meet Woojin. Sang-hoon had entered every photography competition he could, hoping to encounter him again, but to no avail.

Finally, today, that long-awaited meeting would happen.

‘This time, I’ll win… I will take better photos than him, no matter what.’

Looking at Woojin’s name tag, Sang-hoon felt a surge of competitive spirit.

Just then, someone broke the silence.

“So, is Nam Woojin planning to be late? This isn’t an everyday opportunity, and yet he’s being so lax about it…”

When Sang-hoon turned toward the voice, he saw the name tag that read Lee Myungseop.

Lee Myungseop was a photographer known for his travel photography, and his displeasure toward Woojin was clear in his tone.

“Must be because he’s so young…”

He muttered under his breath, sneering at Woojin’s absence.

As Woojin’s fame grew, so did the number of skeptics. His youth, combined with the attention he had received since his debut, led some to question the legitimacy of his success. It seemed that Lee Myungseop was one of those doubters.

Just as others in the room began to take notice of Myungseop’s words, Sang-hoon intervened, unable to hide his annoyance.

“He’s not even late yet. No need to boast about being early,” Sang-hoon replied, his tone sharp.

“And it’s in poor taste to talk about someone who isn’t here, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I was just concerned. It’s not great to keep everyone waiting, is it?” Myungseop replied, clearly flustered by Sang-hoon’s unexpected retort.

“You can say that if he actually ends up being late.”

Caught off guard, Myungseop awkwardly cleared his throat. It seemed he hadn’t expected a confrontation.

“Ahem! I was just worried, that’s all. No need to get worked up. Let’s just see when he arrives.”

Not wanting to escalate the situation, Myungseop mumbled an excuse and avoided Sang-hoon’s gaze.

Sang-hoon smirked and turned his attention back to Woojin’s empty seat. There were always people like Myungseop—those who couldn’t stand the success of others and tried to bring them down. They acted as if criticizing others somehow elevated their own worth.

Just like his father…

The thought made Sang-hoon chuckle.

But…

‘Could he actually be late?’

As the meeting time drew closer and Woojin had yet to arrive, Sang-hoon couldn’t help but feel anxious. Myungseop, on the other hand, looked increasingly smug, glancing at Sang-hoon with a triumphant expression. Sang-hoon kept checking the clock, growing more uneasy by the second.

‘What if he really is late?’

The more he thought about it, the more he regretted speaking up earlier. If Woojin didn’t show up on time, Sang-hoon would have nothing to say for himself.

‘Please don’t be late…’

As Sang-hoon silently prayed, the sound of the door opening broke the tension.

Creak—

“Hello, I’m Nam Woojin.”

Woojin walked in just in time, greeting everyone.

“Thank goodness,” Sang-hoon muttered, relieved, as he greeted Woojin with a wide smile.