Chapter 9

The Changmi Art Gallery was chic. An elegant clash of warm wooden boards and raw concrete that stretched across three floors, it housed Seoul’s modern art elite. Like most galleries in the city, it was bankrolled by a chaebol.  

Bora Hong had fought hard to get a job at Changmi. Of course, her father’s decades of service to the parent conglomerate had opened doors, but Bora had earned her position. She’d done her undergrad at Rhode Island School of Design. A master’s at ChungAng had followed. Her thesis had been written in two languages. She had traded away drinks with friends, movie nights, experimenting with boys and substances — all sacrificed for the place she stood now. She deserved it. Fuck anyone who said otherwise.

Tonight people would see what she brought. Yes, it was Atta Kim’s name on the posters, but this was very much Bora’s show. She had hunted him down, massaged his ego, sealed the deal with a smile and a hand on his knee. Now, after twenty years exhibiting exclusively abroad, Korea’s most famous artist was back home — and he was premiering his most ambitious work yet in Bora’s gallery. 

The whole of Seoul was coming. Stars, moguls, critics, personalities, anchors — every favour, every late night, every well-judged moment in hotel rooms had brought her tonight’s audience. 

This morning, she was electric. She skipped out of Apugujeong station exit 8, the sky above her spotless blue. Garosugil – Art Street – shimmered in front of her, chic and soon to be crowded, the perfect stage for her triumph.

As she turned the corner, the gallery was hidden. Something blocked her view. This was not in this morning’s script. 

An industrial cherry picker squatted in front of her building, an obscene silhouette against the clean lines of the street. A worker swayed in the bucket, tangled in a blinding mess of wires, the logo of the Korea Electric Power Cooperative stamped on his arm.

“I hope you’re not parked here all day. Your truck is blocking our gallery front. We have an opening tonight.”
“No one’s going to see your opening if I don’t fix the power. Half the street’s out — some punk cut the main supply. Took the lamps too.”
“Well, how long will it take?”
The cherry picker whined as the bucket descended. The man’s voice floated down.
“…done by lunchtime. Don’t worry, your opening’s safe. Not that I get why anyone would want to go.”

Bora rolled her eyes. Of all mornings, fate had saddled her with this idiot.
“Well, it’s not for you to understand. Just restore the lights. Careers are being made tonight.”

The man didn’t answer. He peered past her.
“I mean, I saw the paintings. Just empty holes.”
“Paintings? What paintings? We’re exhibiting photographs. Korea’s premier photographic artist. And who are you to call them holes? Why is a repairman offering commentary on art”

It wasn’t becoming for a girl her age to speak to an older man like this. But her stress and her privilege had stripped her of politeness.

“Pictures, paintings, whatever. Doesn’t matter when they’re empty. Why put holes in them?”
“What holes? Why do you keep saying that?”
“Look at your window. Maybe it’s modern art, but to me… frames without pictures are just holes.”

His voice faded. Bora wasn’t listening anymore. The bucket was down now, and the gallery facade was finally exposed. Three floors of German-engineered glass that tinted dark when the power was on, but was as clear as water now.

This morning’s passersby should have been treated to a free preview of Atta Kim’s vast photographs. Instead, they saw nothing. Nothing but frames just like the cherry bucket man had said. 

Bora stared, mouth open, stomach heaving. Her head shook as she refused the sight that confronted her. The scale of Kim’s work didn’t matter now. The cherry bucket man was right. They were just holes, no photographs in sight.

She climbed into the bucket, pressing against him.
“What are you doing?”
“Take me up. I need to see.”
“Not without a hardhat. I need clearance—”
“I don’t care. Take me up or I’ll say you did this.”
“Did what?”
“I’ll tell them you cut the power. That it was fine before you came. Of course you didn’t, but do you want the paperwork? Take me up and I’ll keep my mouth shut. Refuse, and I’ll bury you in forms.”

She gave him a smile she had used too often. He sighed and flicked the lever. The bucket began to rise.

As they lifted, the truth came into view. The photographs were still there, but not where they belonged. Each one lay on the floor, cut clean from its frame. Severed, stripped, placed in neat rows like discarded clothes. No exceptions.

It was too precise to be vandalism. Too deliberate. Skilled hands had done this.

Bora’s head pounded. There was no opening night now. They could order reprints, but not by tonight. The hopelessness swept over her, and she felt a tear sting her eye. There was no number in her phone she could call to fix this.

She was screwed.

Boy 2: “Mate, I’ve got a cold. Don’t know if I can do this.”
Boy 1: “You’re joking. You’re fucking joking. What am I supposed to do with that?”
Boy 2: “Relax, I’m winding you up. I do have a cold, but I wouldn’t let you run 10K on your own.”
Boy 1: “You’re not funny. Funny exists, but you’re nowhere near it.”
Boy 2: “What time you wanna meet?”
Boy 1: “Give me an hour.”
Boy 2: “Cheonho station, one hour.”
Boy 1: “Done.”
Boy 2: “I’ll load up on meds. See you there.”
Boy 1: “Nice one.”