Return of the Genius Photographer

It was hard to tell how many days had already passed, but the exhibition was progressing smoothly. The participants chosen for the exhibition were, after all, individuals who had already made names for themselves in their respective fields. People had certain expectations about the photos they would showcase, and perhaps that was why the exhibition hall was bustling with visitors every day.

‘There are more people than I expected.’

Standing in the middle of the exhibition hall, I watched the attendees.

It wasn’t as grand as Jung Woong’s exhibition, but there were definitely more people than I had anticipated.

Moreover, among them were industry insiders and sponsors of the foundation who had come to see the promising newcomers.

They were conversing with the photographers who had submitted their works.

And I wasn’t an exception.

“I was truly impressed by your photos, Photographer Nam Woojin.”

“Do you have any future shooting plans? If you’re open to it, perhaps we could…”

“What’s your secret to capturing such incredible photos at such a young age?”

People who had somehow recognized me approached and asked questions.

Accepting the business cards they offered, I gave a light smile.

‘They say being a photographer comes with its own set of social challenges…’

I’ve said it before, but the photography industry is smaller than one might think.

Rumors spread quickly, and once a photographer’s reputation is established in the industry, it’s hard to change it.

That’s why you need to be cautious about how you present yourself at such events.

Especially for someone like me, still relatively new to the industry without a fully cemented reputation.

No matter how exceptional my career may be, it’s the same.

If anything, I have to be even more careful.

Where there’s light, shadows inevitably follow.

There might be people who try to drag me down…

Though, of course, I have no intention of letting that happen.

‘Maybe that’s why Jung Woong avoids doing anything outside of his solo work.’

However, for me, it was a good thing.

It was a chance to meet various people, gain new opportunities, and leave a lasting impression.

You never know what today’s connections might lead to.

After collecting quite a few business cards, I started to feel a bit weary, so I decided to step outside for some fresh air.

‘Huh? Is that…?’

In a small resting area set up behind the exhibition hall.

As I searched for a bench to sit on, I noticed someone who had arrived before me.

“Ah… hello.”

It was Han Sang-hoon.

The person I first met at the Seoul competition, who was now also participating in this exhibition.

When our eyes met, he greeted me calmly.

I bowed my head slightly and greeted him back.

And then, silence.

Seeing him reminded me of the way he looked at me during the Seoul competition.

Those eyes that seemed to glare at me as if he was angry.

I distinctly remembered him as a man with a fierce look in his eyes.

But for some reason, his current demeanor felt quite different from back then.

“Hey, do you want a smoke?”

“Sorry?”

Sang-hoon suddenly broke the silence and spoke to me.

“Oh, right. You’re in high school.”

“Yeah, that’s right…”

And then, silence again.

Sang-hoon fidgeted as if he was about to pull out a cigarette, but hesitated, as if there was something he wanted to say.

“Uh… um… I saw your photo. It was great again this time.”

After struggling with his words for a while, he finally spoke, scratching the back of his head, perhaps out of embarrassment.

“Thank you. I thought your photos were also very impressive, Sang-hoon.”

Upon hearing Woojin’s response, Sang-hoon nodded slightly before falling back into silence.

He held the unlit cigarette between his lips, lost in thought.

‘I feel relieved.’

To Woojin, it was likely just a simple, polite compliment.

But for Sang-hoon, it had taken a great deal of resolve to say it.

For someone with such strong pride, acknowledging someone else’s work was incredibly difficult.

Yet, it was something he had to do.

He had to break away from his father.

When had he realized that his inability to acknowledge others was just like his father’s?

Probably around the time of the Seoul competition…

That was likely when it hit him.

When he first saw Woojin’s photos, he didn’t want to acknowledge them.

He had been on the elite path that his father had laid out for him, basking in its glory.

He had even harbored the immature belief that there could be no one better than him.

But that belief had crumbled easily in the face of Woojin’s photos.

And at the same time, he realized something.

The path his father had paved was not the only way to success.

It was just one of the countless paths available.

After the Seoul competition, overwhelmed with anger at himself, Sang-hoon participated in every competition he could find.

He entered them all, regardless of region or timing, with the hope of encountering Woojin again.

And also because he doubted his own abilities.

He entered competitions relentlessly.

He piled up awards this way.

And then, he met Woojin again.

This time, he was sure he could win…

But the moment he saw Woojin’s photo at the exhibition, Sang-hoon realized once again just how vast the gap was between them.

He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it during the Seoul competition, but now, it was undeniable.

Even though he had poured everything into his submission for the exhibition, he still hadn’t reached Woojin’s level.

The young man with clipped wings.

That was himself.

And yet, oddly enough, he felt relieved.

He had given his best, but he lost, so he could accept it gracefully.

Perhaps realizing the gap was a blessing in disguise.

Because now, he had a clear target to strive for.

His fighting spirit reignited within him.

Sang-hoon’s heart burned with an invisible fire.

So, the compliment he gave Woojin wasn’t just a simple one.

It was a declaration of intent.

A statement that one day, he would catch up to Woojin.

“I’ll head in first. It seems like you’re not smoking because of me, so feel free to smoke now.”

At the end of the long silence, Woojin dusted off his knees and stood up.

His expression was relaxed, as if he had taken in enough fresh air.

He was likely heading back to the exhibition hall, as it was close to closing time.

But then, it happened.

“I was looking for both of you, and here you are together!”

A curator approached them from a distance, her expression suggesting good timing.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve got great news.”

At Woojin’s question, the exhibition curator smiled and looked between Woojin and Sang-hoon as she answered.

“The chairman has made his selection for the auction piece.”

*****

Seoul Auction.

Along with K Auction, it was one of the largest auction houses in Korea, and I was watching the proceedings.

The cold, discerning gazes of the attendees as they examined the pieces.

The auctioneer expertly cut through the heavy atmosphere as he conducted the auction.

“Ten million won.”

“Ten million won, we have!”

With each paddle raised by the bidders:

“Fifteen million won.”

“Twenty million won.”

“Twenty million won, we have!”

The prices skyrocketed, creating an intense scene that was thrilling even to observe.

Today, my own work was also set to be auctioned here.

The curator had called it an extraordinary occurrence.

I recalled what she had said before I came here.

“The chairman insisted on holding your auction early, even though the exhibition isn’t over yet.”

“What about the exhibition?”

“Oh, no changes to the exhibition schedule. The auction is happening first, but the buyer will collect the piece after the exhibition ends.”

Usually, in the emerging photographers’ exhibition run by the Hanseong Cultural Foundation, they select highly regarded works after the exhibition ends and submit them for auction.

However, thanks to the recommendation of Chairman Han Gun-ho, who was particularly taken with my work, it was decided that my piece would be auctioned ahead of schedule.

That’s how I found myself here today, at the auction house.

“Eighty million won.”

“Eighty million won, we have! Any further bids?”

The bidding had reached its peak, and no more paddles were raised.

A hush fell over the room.

“Eighty million won, to bidder number 18!”

A piece had just been sold.

There are three main ways a photographer can sell their personal work.

One, like Jung Woong, by holding exhibitions and setting up opportunities for people to purchase, or by dealing with buyers directly.

Another is through consignment sales with an agency, galleries specializing in photo sales, or professional art dealers.

The last method is through auction houses.

Selling through auctions has the advantage of potentially having your work valued higher than its expected price.

It’s also a place to meet professional collectors, dealers, and wealthy executives eager to buy.

Just having my piece submitted here was already a significant step for my career.

“Next up is the following piece.”

Auction house staff, all wearing white gloves, carefully placed the next artwork onto the platform.

“This is a piece currently on display at the Hanseong Cultural Foundation’s exhibition for emerging photographers. The work is titled Broken Wings by Han Sang-hoon.”

Tension filled the room once again.

“The bidding starts at ten million won.”

It wasn’t just my work that had been submitted for auction from the exhibition.

When the curator said this was extraordinary, she meant that two works had been selected for the auction.

Sang-hoon’s work had been placed on the platform before mine.

I wondered what price it would fetch.

Since we were part of the same exhibition, I hoped it would fetch a high price.

“Twenty million won.”

“Yes, we have twenty million won!”

“Thirty million.”

“Thirty million won!”

“Thirty-five million.”

“Thirty-five million won, now!”

The auctioneer didn’t miss a beat, and the price steadily climbed.

From forty million to fifty million. Then fifty to seventy million.

The pace at which people were raising their paddles gradually slowed.

“One hundred million.”

“One hundred million won!”

Suddenly, the bid reached one hundred million.

It was as if someone had just declared ownership.

A sharp-looking man with a thin metal-framed pair of glasses and slicked-back hair raised his paddle.

The entire room fell silent.

“One hundred million won, sold to bidder number 3!”

With the silence that followed, Sang-hoon’s piece was sold for one hundred million won. A rather impressive sum.

In auctions, the final price isn’t determined solely by the value of the artwork but also by the potential of the artist.

Although it’s not uncommon for bids to exceed expectations, one hundred million won was still quite a high price.

‘If only mine sells for around that much…’ I thought to myself.

The reason I entered this exhibition was to raise money for my study abroad.

One hundred million won would be more than enough.

As I was caught up in my thoughts, the man with the slicked-back hair, the one who had raised paddle number three earlier, suddenly looked directly at me. He made eye contact and smiled slightly, nodding as if greeting me.

What? Does he know me?

I racked my brain, but I couldn’t recall ever meeting him before. It was unsettling to have a complete stranger smile at me like that.

“Next up is another piece from the same exhibition as the previous one.”

But I couldn’t dwell on it for long.

“This is Your Silence by photographer Nam Woojin. The bidding starts at thirty million won.”

The auction for my piece had begun.

“Fifty million won.”

Paddles were raised quickly.

“Eighty million won.”

The price soared just as fast.

“Eighty-five million won.”

“Ninety million won.”

I felt my hands clenching with tension. The paddles kept rising, like a race for money.

“One hundred million.”

“One hundred thirty million.”

“One hundred thirty million, we have!”

The price had already surpassed my expectations, but it kept climbing.

“One hundred fifty million.”

“One hundred seventy million.”

Even the auctioneer’s eyes were gleaming as the bids far exceeded expectations. My heart was pounding with excitement.

“One hundred eighty-five million.”

“Two hundred million.”

“T-two hundred million! Any further bids?”

At two hundred million, the paddles stopped. No one raised another.

‘Two hundred million…’ I could already sense the auction nearing its conclusion. I nodded slightly. Two hundred million was double the goal I had set.

But then it happened.

“Bidder number 3?”

The man with the slicked-back hair, who had smiled at me earlier, raised his paddle again.

“Three hundred million.”

His calm voice cut through the silence, and the room immediately buzzed with murmurs.

And understandably so—three hundred million. Even for a highly anticipated artist, that was an astounding amount, far exceeding the prices of other works. Yet the man remained composed, as if it was only natural that the piece would be his.

The auction house fell silent again.

“Bidder number 3, sold at three hundred million!”

My work was sold for three hundred million won.

The moment the final bid was confirmed, the man, as if his business was done, picked up his briefcase and stood. Then, he walked directly toward me with purposeful strides.

“Hello, Photographer Nam Woojin.”

He greeted me warmly and then revealed the reason for his presence.

“Chairman Han Gun-ho wishes to meet with you.”

At last, I understood who he was.