Return of the Genius Photographer

It seemed the grandmother was paying her respects to the deceased.

In front of the small grave mound, a pink cloth was spread out, with soju and rice cakes placed on top.

The grandmother held a faded black-and-white photo frame close to her chest, gazing at the grave.

It was as if the grave was her beloved.

The tenderness in her expression was unmistakable.

The scene was so solemn that I found it difficult to approach her.

But the caretaker didn’t seem to feel the same way.

“Hanbok Grandma, could you help us with something?”

The grandmother turned her head toward the caretaker’s voice, tilting it as if to ask what was going on.

“What’s the matter?”

“This person here came for our park’s promotion and was looking for someone who comes here regularly.”

The caretaker explained the situation with a smile.

“This photographer here has a few questions, so could you assist him, Grandma? Oh, and what was your name again, photographer?”

“Hello, I’m Nam Woojin.”

“You…?”

With the caretaker’s introduction, I bowed in greeting.

Only then did the grandmother turn toward me, her eyes widening in recognition.

“Aren’t you the student who helped me on the bus earlier?”

“Nice to see you again, Ma’am.”

I had a feeling it might be her, and as it turns out, the elderly woman I helped on the bus earlier was indeed the same person.

It’s not every day you see someone wearing a hanbok nowadays.

I had felt a bit regretful when we parted ways near the park’s entrance, but to meet her again like this felt oddly heartwarming.

“I had no idea you were a photographer, child.”

The grandmother seemed equally glad, her face lighting up with a warm smile.

“Wait, do you two know each other?” the caretaker asked, puzzled by our familiar exchange.

“Yes, we happened to meet on the way here.”

“Well, that’s perfect. You two can talk then. I’ll be nearby if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

After I answered the caretaker, he gave us some space, allowing me to talk quietly with the grandmother.

“What do you want to know from an old lady like me?”

The caretaker hadn’t lied about her daily visits—the grave where the grandmother stood, unlike others around it, was well-maintained, almost glowing with care.

It made me wonder, who was laid to rest here, for this elderly woman to visit every single day?

I finally asked the question that had been on my mind since I first saw her.

“Whose grave is this?”

“It’s my husband’s grave.”

The grandmother gently stroked the frame in her arms with her wrinkled hands as she answered.

Inside the frame was an old black-and-white photo.

The aged photo, taken who knows when, showed a handsome-faced man.

It wasn’t hard to guess that this was the grandfather who owned this grave.

“Is that him? He was very handsome.”

“My husband? Oh, yes. All the village girls used to follow him around when he was young.”

“When he was young? What kind of person was he?”

The grandmother nodded slightly, her lips curling into that same tender smile she had shown earlier while looking at the grave.

“My husband was the young master of the noble family I worked for as a servant.”

Her voice carried the tone of someone reminiscing about the good old days.

“He was good-looking, tall too. Looking back now, I still wonder what he saw in me that made him follow me around…”

Though the grandmother’s eyes were still fixed on the photo, she seemed to be gazing far beyond it.

Somewhere distant, far away…

“He told me, ‘Let’s run away together and live well.’ But he left this world too soon… Why did he rush off, leaving this beautiful world behind?”

She seemed to be lost in memories of a past she could never chase after.

“Every time I think of my husband, I get so angry, so very angry…”

The grandmother patted her chest as if to relieve the frustration.

Thud― Thud―

Each time her thin, wrinkled hand tapped her chest, I heard a soft ‘thud,’ as if something was dropping away.

Thud― Thud―

The sound echoed softly through the graveyard.

It was as if pieces of the grandmother’s sorrow were falling away with each tap.

Though her words said she was angry at her husband, her expression showed not resentment, but deep longing.

A person you miss so much, it makes you angry.

That’s how I interpreted her words.

“Isn’t it hard for you to come here every day?”

I asked, as if responding to her lament.

If coming to this place brought her so much sorrow, why did she continue to visit, enduring the pain?

Why would she come to a place where she couldn’t even see his face anymore, now reduced to ashes?

I was curious about her heart.

“Of course it’s hard. How could it not be? But do you know what’s truly difficult, young man?”

The grandmother turned the question back to me.

But I didn’t know the answer, so I simply shook my head.

“I’ve been living like this for 10 years now. What’s truly hard is not coming here—it’s going back home and falling asleep alone.”

“I see…”

“When I come here, even if I’m just muttering to myself, it comforts me a little.”

Then, she turned her head to the grave, gently stroking the surface as she continued.

“It must be so lonely for him, lying here all by himself. I’m sure he’s happy when I come to visit…”

A tender smile returned to her face.

“So, while coming here is hard, it’s not something I can say is unbearable.”

Only then did I start to understand the grandmother’s feelings a little.

Most people try to avoid painful or sad memories at all costs.

It’s as if they want to run away before those overwhelming emotions take over.

They push it aside, pretending it never happened, trying to erase it from memory.

But simply trying to forget sad memories isn’t the only way to soothe the heart.

In truth, to truly find peace, no matter how painful or sad the memory is, you have to face it head-on.

For the grandmother, this grave was the one place where she could find solace and confront her sorrow.

After hearing her story, I finally understood what I needed to capture in my photo.

I had a sudden feeling that I would now be able to take a good picture.

“Is that all your questions?”

As I stood silently in deep reflection, the grandmother asked, curious.

I nodded and answered right away.

“Yes. And, Ma’am, may I ask for one more favor? Could I take a picture?”

“A picture?”

“I’d like to take one of you and your husband together.”

This grandmother had revealed to me the heart of someone who had lost a loved one.

There was no other picture I wanted to take more than this.

“Do as you wish. You listened to this old woman’s ramblings, so what favor couldn’t I grant you?”

The grandmother nodded as if it were no big deal.

Grateful, I smiled and raised my camera.

“Don’t worry about me. Just stay as you are, just like that.”

“Alright.”

The grandmother replied and, just as before, cradled the photo of her husband and gently stroked the grave.

With a tender, loving expression on her face…

Her farewell was love.

No, in truth, all farewells are love.

Because we loved, we part.

And because we parted, we long for one another.

All the pain in between is just another form of love.

So, even the pain of losing him, she had learned to love.

That’s what the grandmother’s entire being was telling me.

All I had to do was capture her story in the photograph.

One by one, I pressed the shutter, ensuring that nothing was left out.

Click—

The soft shutter sound echoed, as if it understood my heart.

Click—

From behind the camera, I captured the grandmother’s heart.

Click—

And with that, the photo I would submit for the exhibition was complete.

***

“Have all the photographers submitted their photos?”

It was already the submission deadline for the exhibition.

Shin Sang-moon, feeling uneasy, asked one of his subordinates.

How busy had they been these past few days?

The phrase “time flies” was especially fitting at moments like this.

He had been so preoccupied with preparing for the exhibition that he hadn’t even had the chance to check if the photographers had submitted their photos on time until now.

Of course, all he needed to do was check the emails and photo files the photographers had sent.

It wasn’t a difficult task, which was why he had left it to his subordinate.

But, as a department head, there was a certain sense of responsibility.

He felt uneasy about not having paid more attention until now.

“Yes, they’ve all submitted their photo files. I’ve also checked them, and there are no issues with any of them.”

“You made sure to check for copyright violations and plagiarism too, right?”

“Of course. Everything was clear.”

Given that the participants were not amateurs or students but rather professionals or those nearly at a professional level, it was rare for issues to arise regarding the photos.

Hearing his subordinate’s confident tone, Shin Sang-moon sighed in relief.

“Good. That’s a relief.”

Feeling a bit more at ease, Shin opened the files to check the photos.

Although his subordinate had already reviewed them, Sang-moon was the type who only trusted what he saw with his own eyes.

“Well then, let’s take a look.”

Sang-moon opened the folder to find the photos neatly organized.

He started scrolling through them slowly, ready to appreciate the work.

However…

“They all feel kind of similar, don’t they?”

Sang-moon spoke with a hint of surprise, turning to his subordinate.

The photos, which he had anticipated to be a fierce competition, felt unexpectedly similar.

“It seems like since everyone submitted five photos, there’s a lot of overlap. Also, the theme might be part of it,” his subordinate added, agreeing with Sang-moon’s observation.

Still, for them to be this similar?

An old woman pulling a cart loaded with cardboards.

Homeless people on the streets.

Children and teens and so on.

Each photo was of high quality, beautiful even, but they all focused on the theme of poverty, making them feel monotonous when viewed together.

Since the exhibition would display the photos as a collection, Sang-moon’s impression was essentially how the exhibition itself would come across.

“Is this the only way they could interpret the theme? It’s too simplistic. Do they think so little of this exhibition?”

At this rate, the exhibition, themed around deficiency, might come across as one about poverty instead.

Annoyed by the photos, Sang-moon clicked his tongue.

“There are still some good works in the mix,” his subordinate said, attempting to soothe Sang-moon’s irritation.

Good photos, huh…

“This one’s not bad.”

While holding back his frustration, Sang-moon scrolled through a few more photos and finally showed some satisfaction.

It was a picture of a man in an awkward suit, sitting on a park bench, his head hung low in despair.

In the man’s hand was a phone displaying a rejection message in small text.

The theme was ambition.

A photo capturing a lack of ambition.

“That one’s from photographer Han Sang-hoon.”

“Wow, as expected from the record holder for most awards. His understanding of the theme is outstanding. He captured it as if the man had lost all ability to dream.”

The rest of Sang-hoon’s photos were equally impressive.

All five skillfully interpreted the theme from different angles.

But then, something caught Sang-moon’s attention.

“Wait, why are there only 21 photos? There should be 25, shouldn’t there?”

There were only 21 photos in the folder.

Each photographer could submit up to five photos, and with five participants, there should have been 25 in total.

“Don’t tell me… Did someone submit fewer photos?”

“Ah, yes. There’s one person who only submitted a single photo for the exhibition.”

“What?”

Sang-moon was baffled by his subordinate’s response.

He couldn’t understand it.

While the number of photos wasn’t strictly enforced, every participant so far had submitted the maximum of five.

In Sang-moon’s mind, that was the reasonable thing to do.

Why would anyone send just one photo when this was a prime opportunity to showcase themselves?

Did they have immense confidence or were they just that audacious?

“Who was it?”

With his tone slightly raised in disbelief, Sang-moon asked.

Sensing his mood, the subordinate answered cautiously.

“Uh… It was photographer Nam Woojin.”

“What kind of photo did he take?”

“If you scroll to the next one, you’ll see it.”

What kind of photo could have been worth submitting just one?

Curious, Sang-moon quickly scrolled to the next image, half ignoring his subordinate’s explanation.

And at that moment…

“Wow…”

A gasp of admiration escaped his lips.