Return of the Genius Photographer

As I moved further up Gireum-dong, most of the houses were empty.

There was no sign of life, and it was safe to say that the area was devoid of people.

All I could see were red circles painted on walls or gates indicating vacant houses and yellow caution tape surrounding collapsed homes.

Unlike the lower parts of the neighborhood, where a few residents still lingered, the upper part was filled with remnants of former inhabitants.

The alleyways between empty houses were overgrown with weeds, adding to the eerie silence of the scene.

I paused to take some photos of the surroundings.

Click!

I wondered where those who were driven out had gone…

As I walked slowly, lost in thought, I stumbled upon a quaint house that stood out.

Unlike the crumbling homes around it, this small house was well-maintained, almost like a hidden treasure.

Intrigued, I took a photo.

“Who’s there?”

A voice called out.

I turned to see an old man with striking white hair, dressed in tattered clothes, staring at me.

“Are you from the city?”

The man’s tone was full of suspicion as he scrutinized me from head to toe, trying to figure out who I was.

“Ah, no.”

“Then are you a reporter? What are you doing wandering around in front of someone’s house?”

I quickly denied it, but the old man remained distrustful, his face full of displeasure.

It seemed I was photographing his house.

I realized why a well-kept house stood amidst the ruins—it belonged to someone. I hadn’t expected anyone to still be living in this area.

Understanding the situation, I apologized.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone lived here. I’m just a photographer, not a reporter.”

“Ha, and you expect me to believe that? You’re here to pressure me into moving, aren’t you? I’ve already said I’m not leaving. You can kill me or do whatever you want, but I’m not moving,” he retorted, still unwilling to trust me.

It seemed the old man was wary of anyone approaching him, regardless of their intentions.

This made it hard to communicate.

Feeling unjustly accused, I tried to reassure him.

“I was just taking photos of the surroundings. You don’t need to worry.”

“I don’t care if you’re a photographer or whatever. If you have no business here, just leave,” he snapped, walking past me towards his house.

Ignoring me completely, he bent his already hunched back further and began picking up trash scattered around his yard.

“If they’re going to leave, they should take their stuff with them. Good grief,” he muttered.

The neighborhood was littered with discarded belongings and debris from collapsed houses.

Despite the bleakness, the old man quietly picking up trash seemed both lonely and noble.

I felt a sudden urge to capture this scene but restrained myself, choosing instead to help him clean up.

I felt guilty for taking photos without permission and couldn’t just stand by while he worked.

I approached him and asked, “Where should I put this?”

The old man, surprised, pointed to a corner. Taking that as an answer, I continued helping him in silence.

The place was so cluttered with junk that calling it a neighborhood seemed questionable, but meeting someone here was a pleasant surprise.

Still, why was the old man staying when everyone else had left?

Cleaning up took longer than expected.

I circled the old man’s house, gathering trash and debris into a pile.

It didn’t make the place spotless, but it felt refreshing.

Finally, I could straighten my back.

The old man, watching me intently, spoke up.

“At least you’re a young man with some manners.”

“Sorry if I startled you. I wouldn’t have taken photos without permission if I knew you lived here,” I apologized again.

“No, I misunderstood,” he replied, slightly embarrassed.

Clearing his throat, he continued, “Lately, everyone who comes here is related to the redevelopment. So, I tend to be wary of outsiders.”

“Ah…”

I finally understood his initial hostility.

“But you seem a bit different.”

His tone had softened considerably.

“It was nothing. I just helped clean up a bit.”

“No, you apologized first, and there was a lot to clean up. Thank you for helping,” he said, expressing gratitude.

It seemed he hadn’t encountered many like me, especially since even occasional volunteers had stopped coming.

The old man said that even a small help was greatly appreciated. Although his tone was calm, a deep loneliness emanated from him.

“But… why are you staying here alone, Grandpa?” I asked, feeling sorry for him.

As I climbed up, I saw that this area of Gireum-dong was under demolition.

The presence of excavators and half-demolished buildings made the future of this place quite evident.

So, it was all the more puzzling why this old man remained here alone in a neighborhood that had gone eerily silent after most people had left.

“Young man, how long do you think I’ve lived here?” the old man asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer and continued, “Since the end of the Korean War, I’ve been living here for over 40 years since 1960.”

It was as if he was slowly pulling memories out of his mind, recounting his past.

“Nearly half a lifetime… All my youth and happy memories are here,” he said with a profound resonance in his voice.

“This neighborhood is everything to me. At my age, I don’t have the strength to move elsewhere, nor do I want to. Leaving here is the same as dying.”

The old man looked around slowly, as if recalling that era.

Perhaps in his memories, this place was bustling with people.

Every morning, people would come out of the densely packed houses, and by evening, they would return home to spend their days.

To those living outside, this place might seem like a mere slum, dirty and poor. But to the residents, it was a place of comfort and rest.

What did it feel like for such cherished homes and memories to disappear in vain…?

The old man’s story was filled with such sorrow. The weight of his tale rendered me a mere listener, silently absorbing his words.

“Could you leave a place that’s everything to you if you were told to leave overnight?” he concluded his story, lifting his head to meet my eyes.

His face, full of wrinkles, displayed sadness. Or perhaps it was my own sadness reflecting back.

This place was undoubtedly disappearing. That’s an undeniable fact.

Once the apartments are completed, new people will fill the void, people unrelated to the residents of this neighborhood. And gradually, this neighborhood will fade from everyone’s memory…

The old man’s story was profoundly sad to someone like me who knew the future.

“I must have bored you with my story,” the old man said, looking a bit embarrassed, and resumed fiddling with the trash.

I responded with a faint smile, “Not at all. It was a helpful story, Grandpa.”

“How could such a story be of any help?”

I was sincere. The old man’s story contained everything I wanted to capture in my photos.

Longing, loneliness, love for the bygone days…

They were all genuine and touching elements.

“So why did you come to such a place, photographer?”

The old man, having finished his tale, asked me the reason for my visit.

I took a deep breath and said, “I came to take good photos.”

I spoke to him as respectfully as possible.

“So, Grandpa, may I take your photo?”

He seemed taken aback by my request.

“Me?” he asked in disbelief.

I nodded, meeting his gaze.

“No way. Take pictures of handsome young men like yourself, not an old man like me.”

“No, I want to take photos that can evoke memories of this place.”

“Memories…?” he muttered, as if mulling over my words.

I continued to persuade him, seeing his hesitation.

“I want to show that there were people who cherished this place.”

Places known as slums or shantytowns are often perceived by most people as dirty or dangerous.

Naturally, they are considered something that should be eradicated.

For the sake of the city’s appearance.

For the sake of the public good.

To build better buildings.

In the midst of all these reasons, shantytowns disappear in an instant, like an embarrassing past that needs to be cleared away.

But to someone, even a shantytown that should be erased quickly is a precious place if they lived there.

Just as the old man said, this neighborhood was their home and held their memories.

Demolition is a foreseen future. So, if I can’t stop the construction…

At the very least, I want to create photos that those who lived here can look back on.

I believed it was the duty of a photographer to capture the past amidst the flowing tide of time.

“Alright then. If you’re going to take it, take a striking one,” the grandfather finally responded with a smile after a long silence of eye contact between us.

“Of course.”

Upon hearing his acceptance, I immediately pulled out my camera.

“Look this way, please.”

As I raised my head and looked through the viewfinder, the grandfather’s expression against the backdrop of Gireum-dong was visible.

Whether it was a resolute determination to stay here until the end or an attempt to conceal his lonely heart, his face was profoundly serious.

I carefully focused on the deeply etched face of the grandfather.

‘No need for any tricks.’

Just capture the photo calmly and honestly.

No more expressions were necessary for this photograph.

The image already conveyed the story I wanted to tell—of Gireum-dong and the grandfather.

As the camera gradually focused, capturing even the wrinkles on the grandfather’s face distinctly,

I finally pressed the shutter.

– Click!

The expression on the grandfather’s face, revealing his complex emotions.

– Click!

The deserted alley where everyone had left.

– Click!

I captured the neighborhood that those who had left had loved.

Seoul wasn’t built in a day.

Gireum-dong is being reborn as an apartment complex.

The Seoul we see today is the result of countless changes over time.

In that process, many things must have disappeared.

Just like this neighborhood.

Things that were ruthlessly discarded or marginalized and forgotten…

But surely, they were precious too.

That’s what I believe.

Hoping that such thoughts are captured in the photo, I pressed the shutter.

– Click!

Whether the photo I took would be considered a handsome one as the grandfather mentioned, I wasn’t sure.

But I felt certain that it was a good photo.

“Are you a famous person?” After the shoot, the grandfather, looking at the photo, asked me with a surprised expression.

Seeing the photo I showed him, he seemed to brighten up with a smile that hadn’t been seen before.

“No, I’m not famous right now.”

“Is that so… I don’t know much about photographers, but this is a very impressive photo.”

Personally, I thought becoming famous was only a matter of time, but I didn’t say that.

Hearing my answer, the grandfather warmly encouraged me, like he would to his own grandson.

“I’m sure you’ll become famous.”

With his encouraging words, I thanked him sincerely.

And with that, I left Gireum-dong.

That’s how the photo for the contest was completed.