T/N: Eeyyyy, I wanted a fresh story that’s not in the entertainment setting. Let’s look forward to Geonshin’s journey!
Prologue
The Pritzker Prize.
Known as the Nobel Prize of architecture, it is awarded each year to an architect who, through architectural artistry, has demonstrated a fusion of talent, vision, and responsibility, making a consistent and significant contribution to humanity and the built environment.
Since 1979, starting with the great Philip Johnson, it has been awarded annually to architects such as Frank Gehry, famous for the Guggenheim Museum, Rem Koolhaas, who sparked an architectural revolution, and Zaha Hadid, known for the Dongdaemun Design Plaza.
But shockingly, not a single architect from South Korea has ever won the Pritzker Prize.
Not a single one.
Is it because Asian architects are discriminated against or unrecognized on the global stage?
Looking at the fact that architects from China and Japan have collectively won eight times, that’s clearly not the case. We simply don’t have an architect to present to the world.
Is that unfair? It certainly is.
The large architectural firms have become subcontractors for construction companies, clinging to apartment projects, while smaller ateliers have no work, doubling as billiard halls and bookstores… To talk about the reality of architecture in South Korea is, quite literally, absurd.
Who wouldn’t want to create art and build houses infused with their own philosophy? But who can endure this industry where the pay, if calculated by the hour, doesn’t even reach minimum wage, where overtime and all-nighters are the norm, and even on Christmas one is stuck eating soggy cup noodles while working overnight?
Every year, countless people graduate from numerous universities, armed with dreams and hopes. In every district, architectural and interior design offices are second in number only to convenience stores.
This small land is overflowing with people who can build houses, and the endless cycle of competition never stops. To put it bluntly, architects stand in line like they’ve taken a number at a deli counter, waiting for a client, which drives design fees down and forces them to meet unreasonable demands. This is the harsh reality for South Korean architects.
When Na Geonshin, at 20 years old, first entered a vocational college for architecture, he saw a glimmer of light.
The name of that light was Ando Tadao.
A high school graduate and even a struggling boxer just to make ends meet, Ando had belatedly entered the world of architecture, creating magnificent structures, serving as a professor at the University of Tokyo, and ultimately winning the Pritzker Prize in 1995 — his story was already legendary in the field.
Though Geonshin was merely attending a technical college, and a secure future was by no means guaranteed, wasn’t there still a chance for him to become like Ando Tadao?
He believed in the saying: “The more impossible a dream seems, the more loudly you should declare it. That way, the shame of failure will force you to grit your teeth and achieve it,” a saying he foolishly followed…
“I’ll definitely win the Pritzker Prize just like Ando Tadao. Don’t look down on me just because I’m from a technical college.”
He repeated those words like a mantra.
But now, more than 20 years later, Na Geonshin could only order a bottle of soju at a shabby barbecue joint.
“There was a time when this line of work had a certain romance to it…”
Geonshin sighed as he pulled out a cigarette. In the middle of the round table, the thin pork belly slices had cooked too long and turned crispy like cookies. The lady owner slammed a bottle of soju on the table and said,
“You’re not thinking of lighting that cigarette here, are you, Mister Architect?”
Geonshin awkwardly put the cigarette down and smiled.
“Of course not, ma’am. I wouldn’t do that.”
“When are you going to take a look at that duct in my kitchen like I asked you to? The smoke isn’t venting properly, and I think there’s even a leak.”
“Well, smoke in a barbecue place is normal, isn’t it? Who doesn’t like the delicious aroma of grilled meat?”
“Your boss! He’s come down from the second floor a dozen times complaining about the smell, you fool! Why are you guys working so late without going home? If I can’t do business at night, how do you expect me to make a living?”
“Why did our boss have to be so clueless? Sorry about that. I’ll come by in the morning and fix it for you.”
“What ‘in the morning’? You’re going to stay up all night again and only go home at dawn, I bet. If you need more rice, just say so. Don’t act all pitiful. Tsk tsk.”
“Yes! Thank you.”
With the cold soju bottle, Assistant Manager Lee Jaeho refilled the glasses. The dark circles under his eyes and greasy, unwashed hair made it obvious he hadn’t been home in days.
“Sir, we’re still on overtime… Shouldn’t we finish up quickly and go back? We have more than a few drawings to submit tomorrow…”
“Yeah, we need to get back.”
Geonshin looked at Jaeho staring blankly at the grill with pity. Then his gaze shifted to Employee Kim Song, who had been nodding off during the entire meal. It had probably been four days since she’d last been home. The work of six people was being handled by three, and even with 16-hour days, it wasn’t enough.
Where had things gone wrong?
Even the corporate card, touted as a perk, sent a message to the boss every time it was used. Knowing the company’s situation better than anyone, Geonshin avoided using it after reaching the limit. He just wanted to treat his two employees to some meat, so he paid out of his own pocket and ordered the cheapest thin-cut pork belly.
Pathetic.
“Jaeho, you and Song should call it a night. If the trains stop, you’ll have to sleep in the office again.”
“But… what about the unfinished drawings?”
“I’ll finish and submit them myself. We still have 12 hours left until 9 a.m. tomorrow.”
“But still…”
“Hey, Song! Wipe that drool and go home to rest. At this rate, you’ll never get married.”
“Huh? We’ve already submitted the drawings?”
“Look at her, half-asleep and babbling. Snap out of it and go home! Get a good sleep and come in tomorrow morning. Go! Before I change my mind.”
“Ah, okay. Hehe.”
Jaeho couldn’t hide his smile.
How long had it been since Geonshin saw his employees smile?
“You left your computers on, right?”
“Yes. Oh! I didn’t save, thinking I’d come back to work right away…”
“You’re risking your life, huh? Even during a war, you save before running. I’ll continue the work myself, so go on.”
As his employees vanished like the wind, Geonshin downed his soju.
Romance.
There truly had been romance when Geonshin first started in architecture. Even if he spent nights working overtime, drinking soju with instant ramen broth, there had been the promise of tomorrow. If he endured this phase, he could become like Ando Tadao and win the Pritzker Prize.
That hope had sustained him.
But it had taken him 20 years to realize that romance only exists when there’s hope.
43 years old.
The age of “no illusions.”
An age where one is no longer swayed by the distractions of the world.
Perhaps that was why…
Now, Geonshin was certain that things like becoming Ando Tadao or winning the Pritzker Prize had been impossible goals from the very start.
“I must have been crazy… someone like me.”
Geonshin saw his future: unmarried, with no decent home, dying alone like an old man. As a graduate of a technical college, he couldn’t even dream of getting into the big firms that only accepted 4-year university graduates. Nor had he qualified to open his own atelier. It wasn’t easy to become a licensed architect.
In his small office above the barbecue joint, where the smell of grilled meat wafted up every night, he did nothing but repeat the same CAD drawings all day long — design was out of the question.
A so-called “CAD1 monkey.”
A monkey tracing subcontracted drawings. An office manager in a drafting subcontract firm, doing repetitive grunt work like a factory worker.
This was Na Geonshin’s reality.
“If I could go back, I’d never touch architecture, damn it.”
Thud.
“Whoa! What’s going on?”
At that moment, the shop’s power went out, a blackout. A few moments later, the lights came back on. The flustered owner came out of the kitchen to reassure the customers.
“Sorry, sorry! The cursed duct must’ve leaked water and tripped the breaker. I’ll fix it tomorrow, so don’t worry and enjoy your meal.”
“I should’ve fixed it earlier for her.”
Geonshin felt sorry for the old lady in the worn-down building. Since moving into this office, he’d seen her more than his own parents. Her words might be rough, but she was generous with food, feeling pity for the employees working overnight.
“This building’s so old, no wonder the power went out… Power went out…”
Power went out?
“Oh shit, the drawings!”
He remembered Jaeho saying he hadn’t saved his work. Song probably hadn’t saved either, leaving everything open.
His vision went dark as Geonshin sprinted upstairs to the office.
“Aaaagh!”
The monitor waited for him like the Grim Reaper, its screen black.
“It’s ruined! I’m screwed! The deadline’s tomorrow!”
He booted up Jaeho’s computer first. At least Geonshin’s own work had been saved. But Jaeho and Song’s work…
Half of the drawings were his, while the rest had been split between the two employees. They likely left multiple detail drawings open, referencing other files while they worked.
This meant trouble. He might have to check through a pile of drawings as thick as a dictionary.
The few dozen seconds it took to boot felt like an hour. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears.
“Should I call them back now? No, first I’ll check. Maybe the auto-save worked.”
Thankfully, CAD software had a feature to auto-save every 10 or 30 minutes like a suicide prevention mechanism.
“There’s the file…”
He opened the project folder and tried to load the CAD file.
With the most annoying warning sound in the world, a message popped up. Geonshin stared blankly at it.
[This file is corrupted and cannot be opened.]
It was as good as being told to die. He tried the next file, but again, the same error message popped up. With trembling hands, he checked the files one by one.
“How many files were you working on at once? Damn it.”
Song’s files were no different. The warning sounds kept ringing, crushing his spirit. He had thought he could finish everything by morning if he worked through the night, but now 20+ additional drawings needed to be redone.
“It’s already 11 p.m…”
Even if he called the employees back, it would take two more days to finish. In other words, he was screwed.
Banging his head against the table, Geonshin recalled his boss’s words:
“Geonshin, this job? I barely managed to get it from Sam-in Architecture. We’re delivering to a government office, so you must finish it on time. You know what happens if you get on Sam-in’s bad side. You’ll never work in this industry again.”
Of course, he knew. Sam-in’s bullying was notorious. They were just lackeys of Korea’s largest construction company, Gi-yeong Construction, yet they acted like they were the top architecture firm leading the country. Sam-in Architecture.
“Yeah, I know! That’s why I’m going insane!”
Geonshin buried his head into the table, staring at the floor.
Why did I buy meat instead of just ordering jajangmyeon? No, if I’d just fixed the duct earlier, there wouldn’t have been a blackout. Damn it. I shouldn’t have joined this company…
“My dream is to become the first Korean Pritzker Prize winner.”
The words he used to say at every interview when he was young and foolish now felt shameful and humiliating. He couldn’t raise his head.
“I should’ve never started architecture. Damn architecture.”
Tomorrow, I’ll submit my resignation and leave this industry.
Having made that decision, Geonshin felt a bit calmer. The remaining drawings? Let them be. If he’d just worked at a convenience store, he’d have none of these worries.
“This life was doomed from the start. Why did I risk everything on such empty hopes…? Did you really think you were someone special, Na Geonshin, you idiot?”
“You idiot… idiot…”
Maybe it was the exhaustion of staying awake for four nights. His heavy eyelids slowly closed. With his head on the desk, Geonshin fell asleep.
Whatever happens, happens.
As Geonshin snored softly, on the monitor above his head, the message saying the files couldn’t be opened still remained.
But then the screen glitched with noise, a warning sound chimed, and a new message appeared.
[Regression Event]
The project file for the first Korean Pritzker Prize winner has been opened.
- CAD, or computer-aided design, is a widely used technology in the architecture industry. With CAD, architects can create highly detailed, three-dimensional (3D) models of buildings and other structures. This allows for great accuracy and precision when planning a project. ↩︎
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