She pointed at his car parked in front of the main gate behind us—only the front bumper was visible from here—and he offered a self-deprecating, deflated smile, as if his tires were flat. Then, as if to erase that bitter aftertaste of laughter, he grabbed the spoon from my sister’s wrist just as she brought it to her lips and swallowed her ice cream. It wasn’t even an unusual tease, so she barely reacted—she simply scooped more ice cream onto the spoon.
By his looks alone, you might guess he was a bit obsessive, but in reality he wasn’t fastidious at all.
“You care nothing for that kind of thing,” she said lightly, but the subtle shift among the three of us made clear this was a taboo topic—one you could only joke about; go any deeper and the peace would shatter. Studying abroad, his material desires—these were all precarious subjects where I was concerned.
“Representative, you talk as if you’d never live on dreams alone. Why not just provide a place for twenty-somethings who have nothing but their bodies and their dreams? Just open your front gate.”
He still looked dissatisfied, but it was obvious he didn’t intend to pursue the subject.
“If someone from Phantom leaves, I’ll object,” he said, “but I can’t picture myself clinging that deeply to someone else’s life.”
“Got no plans? Want to come along?” Gwon Juhan invited me. “We’re shooting Old Future’s new clothes in your garden. It’s perfectly eerie for photos—totally overgrown.”
Being invited to his home was awkward, so I just stared at him. He only shrugged playfully, as if to say, “Why am I blamed for providing a space?” My sister caught my glance and read my mind.
“You’re worried about the Representative? Don’t be. We’ll only shoot in the garden. Representative, can Seo Ihyeon come too?”
“He said he’ll handle it while I sleep. Do whatever—just don’t wake me.”
He rummaged through the jacket draped over the chair back to pull out a pack of cigarettes as if it were nothing. My sister lifted her spoonful of ice cream and signaled to him: yes or no? Instead of lighting the cigarette, he leaned forward and she fed it to him. He licked the sweet residue from his lips and frowned.
“Ugh, I really hate sweet stuff.”
My sister and Juhan laughed at his reaction. It was exactly as expected—he disliked sweets—but why accept it when offered? And earlier, why swipe my sister’s ice cream unasked? His unpredictable, childlike gestures made me laugh too, belatedly.
A delivery truck laden with pamphlets arrived, and we all rose to help unload. But my sister patted my shoulder, insisting that with three of us it wasn’t necessary—she’d make us work enough later, so I should conserve my strength.
If three is too many, why didn’t she stay and send me? Being alone with them still felt awkward....
“By the way, did you quit the moving company? Or did you have to quit because you can’t leave?”
Finally, she asked me a question first, as if I’d ceased to be invisible.
“Yes. It was ad-hoc work—I left whenever I needed to....”
But that didn’t mean he cared about my feelings. He wore his usual indifferent expression.
“How’s it been since then?”
“.......”
Yet whenever something interested him, his expression changed—just now, for instance. He lit the cigarette he’d been holding and, with a mischievous glint, looked at me.
“What about Choi In-woo? Is that going well?”
Perhaps thinking it childish, he chuckled and added, “Does he still keep in touch?”
“Sometimes... he asks if I’m eating well... things like that.”
“With you? About meals?”
He laughed scornfully, as if someone claiming reformation told tall tales. Shrugging it off, he removed his sunglasses and set them on the table, tilting his head toward me.
“Choi In-woo must really care for you if he asks whether you’re eating. That’s the only thing he asks.”
I couldn’t grasp his meaning. Was his counsel—his brand of ‘responsibility’—already spent?
Watching him smoke and sip coffee, I wanted to ask, “Then why are you so curious about my relationship with In-woo?” But I restrained myself. I feared it would be a reckless provocation—or worse, expose my weakness.
Though the gallery was closed, the streets of Samcheong-dong brimmed with people on this early-summer Saturday. Tall, scraggly trees hid the courtyard, but voices drifted in clearly—voices full of excitement.
My nearly untouched coffee glass still brimmed with ice. Smoke from his cigarette curled from shade toward light. A blue-and-white striped parasol fluttered above. I longed to try on his sunglasses but lacked the nerve.
He leaned forward over the table, resting on his elbows, and swept the cigarette between his fingers across his brow.
“Or... is it because I’m neither an Alpha nor an Omega, so you’ve lost interest?”
“.......”
He smiled faintly—this time, it felt like twisted fascination that I wasn’t an Omega. To me, it looked like anger: he was angry I wasn’t.
But his warped interest didn’t last. His phone vibrated; he stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray and hurriedly stood.
A truck carrying the artwork had arrived.
■ ■ ■
Eight months after the ‘body& soul’ exhibition—hailed by visitors, critics, and the art press—Shu-shu now unveils ‘body to soul,’ consolidating his unique style’s maturity and deepening its thematic resonance.
The body as a vessel for the soul.
The body at odds with the soul.
The body’s bare physicality, detached from the soul.
Shu-shu’s mastery of treating the body as subject belies his youth and tenure.
In ‘body to soul,’ he delivers a mature rebuke to those who dismiss photography as mere record, employing pure light and shadow—line and plane alone.
The results, forsaking photography’s realism, resemble traditional painting more than photograph.
As any cook knows, simplicity reveals true skill: it’s like serving a fine meal with just a handful of rice and a head of kimchi—unembellished yet elegant.
Standing before Shu-shu’s work, I feel torment. I see in his art the self I shun and want to avert my gaze, pretend ignorance. Yet if I had courage, an impulsive urge drives me to confront that self—as he must have endured similar anguish to infuse his soul into his creations.
But courage alone isn’t enough. I will likely remain cowardly, living on the thin comfort that, through his art, I briefly recall my cowardice and preserve a shred of humanity. To me, art does this: following routine life, it stands us before grand themes and compels reflection on life’s vague purpose.
As both dealer and collector—and fervent fan—I await Shu-shu’s future works with equal parts excitement and agony.
■ ■ ■
The pamphlets printed flawlessly—no color errors, no misordered pages, no skewed binding. They were packed today for tomorrow’s shipment, exactly as planned.
While address labels printed, I picked up one of the 500 or so pamphlets stacked by the conference table.
After the artist’s image-free résumé came a critic’s preface—predictable and pedantic for a gallery show. Yet dressing art in lofty jargon can serve its sale.
What struck me was the introduction by Phantom’s representative, Lau Wikun.
My sister and Juhan said it’s extremely rare for a gallery to include its own representative’s introduction alongside a critic’s. Even more surprising was Lau Wikun’s intimate tone: fully aware of its personal nature, yet seemingly unyielding. His unabashed confession of admiration for the artist’s delicate yet resolute soul and resultant works felt like a love letter.
“Standing before his work, I always feel anguish.”
A man known for masking true feelings laid bare his soul in print.
“What messed-up bastards,” Juhan cursed, tearing his gaze from his phone. He clicked a link he’d shared.
“Did you see that blog post about Shu-shu’s new exhibition? The title’s ‘Alpha and Omega Art: Different from Drug-Induced Hallucinations?’ They’re belittling ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) his work.”
The post suggested that creations born of the Alpha/Omega heat cycle were no different from art made under drug-induced hallucinations—undermining their value.
Especially Golden Alphas and Golden Omegas: who knows if they used pheromones to boost creativity? The post brimmed with thinly veiled hostility.
“What’s wrong with these people? Beta complex? Or another gallery out to trash them? So what if someone’s aroused—does that make their art any less? Even if it did, would it be anything but erotic? Fools with nothing better to do.”
The label printer dinged; Juhan rose, chair scraping as if echoing his jumbled thoughts.
True, some Alphas and Omegas succeed across fields, but that reflects their high success rate among a tiny minority. Most high achievers are Betas, simply because Betas form the vast majority.
The origins and history of Alphas and Omegas are shrouded in theories—no consensus exists. The prevailing view holds that pre-civilization, their fertility gave them a larger share; but with agrarian societies’ rise, Betas gradually dominated.
In medieval Europe, they were sometimes persecuted as cursed mutants; in ancient China, they were revered as divine children—some dynasties barred Betas from royalty.
Their modern image—externally attractive, gifted—took shape after the Industrial Revolution. To preserve their scarce lineage amid upheaval, they amassed wealth and influence.
No genetic proof of superiority exists; most Alphas and Omegas are simply born into privilege and thus enjoy better opportunities. From Betas’ perspective, the added pheromone element—romantic to some—has fueled both adoration and resentment, spilling into film, drama, and entertainment.
But whether admired or reviled for being different, the world’s only real class today is wealth. As our moving foreman said, Alphas and Omegas struggle more without financial backing.
“Is the artist... an Omega?” someone asked.
“Yes. A Golden Omega.”
Juhan continued packing almost mechanically.
“Seeing Shu-shu in person, you can sense that Omega aura. It’s like... nobility. Not just handsome—there’s something special about his presence. Dancers long admired him, and when he turned to art, they followed. A Golden Omega with striking looks—no wonder it made headlines and drew fresh interest in the art world.”
