Growing up, my parents always told me to do what I wanted. The trouble was, I didn’t particularly want to do anything. I played games, hung out with friends, and studied in between. I did well at school, but I think I kept studying because I was good at it, not because I enjoyed it.
In elementary and middle school, memorizing things was usually enough to get good grades. That stopped working so well when I took science subjects in high school. Then I went to university to study engineering. I worked hard, but I wasn’t interested. Back then, I sometimes wondered if I just wasn’t someone who could get deeply absorbed in a subject.
I see it differently now. I can spend hours reading about design and art. The more I learn, the more I want to know. Maybe I didn’t dislike studying. Maybe science and engineering just weren’t for me, and I hadn’t yet found what was.
In my first year at university, going out was much more appealing than going to class. Older students told me the first year was for having fun, and I took them at their word. I ended up on academic probation, then left to do my military service. When I came back, I tried studying again. Still no interest. University was becoming something I went through because I was supposed to.
So I took time off.
There wasn’t a grand plan. I wanted to learn Photoshop, so I signed up for a class. My dad had always liked computers and electronics. New gadgets were constantly appearing at home, and I’d grown up comfortable figuring out software. I liked fashion and beautiful things, too. Making something beautiful on a computer seemed like fun.
That was about the extent of it. My start in design.
One day, Meokmaek called and asked if I’d seen a documentary about a group traveling around Europe, making videos for hostels in exchange for places to stay and meals. Why didn’t we try it?
There were four of us: Meokmaek, me, a friend from my college, and an older friend. We headed to Europe with one camera and a million won each. We didn’t have much of a plan. Staying at a friend’s place, we collected email addresses from hostel websites and sent nearly a hundred emails a day.
The first reply came from a hotel in Barcelona. We made a video for them, and they gave us room and board. We kept sending emails, trying to find somewhere in the next city. When we left, one of the staff gave us a little money and wished us luck. It wasn’t much, but I’ve never forgotten it. A small kindness in an unfamiliar place can mean more than you’d expect. I think I began to understand that then.
That’s how we traveled around Europe. Along the way, we applied to be on a travel show produced by Na Young-seok, a Korean television producer, and somehow got picked. We’d tried to look as much like penniless backpackers as possible in the photo we sent. Whether that helped, I still don’t know.
One of the show’s producers found out we made videos and kept giving us work after we returned to Korea. Meokmaek did the editing; I handled captions, color grading, and music. It’s barely an exaggeration to say that this producer’s projects paid our bills through most of our twenties. I’m still grateful.
Back from Europe, I switched my major to film and video. This time, studying felt different. Why had a scene been shot that way? How was the story being told? How could editing or music transform the same footage? I wanted to know.
I’d started out wanting to make something pretty in Photoshop. Somehow, I was making videos. And making videos had led me into design. I don’t remember ever deciding, “I’m going to be a designer.” I tried things that interested me and learned what I needed along the way. That’s how I got here.
FiKee started much the same way.
I first met Albam at an exhibition of treasured belongings. Both Albam and Meokmaek were taking part. We could easily have crossed paths and never met again. But later, Meokmaek and I started a reading group through the local district office, and Albam turned up. The three of us talked about books, then began working together.
Our first project wasn’t FiKee. It was Currybook, an online book recommendation service. We all loved books and wanted to help people find good ones. But we didn’t know how to build a website, or anyone who could. More than anything, we had no way of reaching people.
Then Albam found a street called Seosulla-gil. It was much quieter than it is today. Meokmaek went to look and spotted a space with a “For Rent” sign.
We talked it over. If meeting people online was this difficult, what about opening a real place? At least someone might walk through the door.
So we decided to open a book café.
None of us had run a business. We couldn’t really make coffee. We didn’t have any particular expertise, or much experience working for a company. Looking back, it was pretty reckless.
But maybe that was how we’d always done things. We didn’t limit ourselves to what we already knew how to do. If we wanted to try something, we started—and learned what we were missing as we went.
At FiKee, I naturally took on the design work. At first, all we had was a slogan:
finders keepers.
Our thinking was fairly straightforward. Finding something means going out to look for it. That’s an adventure, isn’t it?
So we used maps, arrows, and other obvious symbols of adventure, and thought that made the design feel like FiKee. Looking back, it was a pretty literal connection.
At the time, it made sense to me.
Working on more projects and learning more about design has changed how I think. Now, I spend longer asking why something belongs at FiKee than how to make it look adventurous.
My work here has grown, too. I make posters, information cards, and menus. I design products and plan signs. I choose cups and trays, check stock, and place orders. Apart from accounting and some of the operations, I’m involved in quite a lot.
It’s taught me that design doesn’t stop at the edge of a screen. Sometimes, helping someone choose a drink matters more than making a beautiful menu. And understanding what people actually want to own can be harder than designing an impressive product.
I like things with a story. The way a single scene in a film can make you imagine what came before and what happens next. I’m drawn to images and metaphors that leave you thinking, rather than spelling everything out. In design, too, I like to leave something a little hidden, something whose meaning you might discover later.
But making products and selling them teaches you that what you like isn’t always what people reach for. Something cute, easy to understand, or immediately appealing can sell much better. At first, I found that gap disappointing. I think I believed that if I made something well, in a way I liked, it was good design.
I see it differently now. If someone is going to use a design, what they need matters as much as what I like. That doesn’t mean simply making whatever people want. It means continually weighing what I care about against what they need.
That’s probably where most of my thinking about design happens these days: somewhere between the two.
I now think of design as finding ways to make things a little better, rather than simply making them beautiful.
Even before FiKee, I wanted something like that. I wanted design to make the world a little more beautiful, or someone’s life a little easier. It makes me happy when something I’ve done helps someone feel more comfortable or enjoy themselves a bit more.
Maybe that’s why I still remember the hotel staff member who gave us that little bit of money as we left. What feels like a small gesture to one person can stay with someone else for years. Design doesn’t have to change the world all at once. Taking one small difficulty out of someone’s day can be enough.
So I’m going to start writing about my work.
Not just what I made, but what I first had in mind, where I got stuck, why I chose a different approach, and what changed along the way. In a few years, something I believe is right today may seem wrong. That’s fine. If I’ve changed my mind, I’d like to have a record of why.
I hope these pieces give a clearer sense of the designer I am. And if something I’ve noticed—or got wrong—helps someone look at their own problem differently, all the better.
When I read this again in a few years, I hope I find more than a collection of polished results. I want to see what problems I noticed, how I thought about them, and how that thinking changed.
And somewhere in there, I hope there’s at least one thing that helped someone.