Episode 2: The Boy Who Threw Off His Tie and the Erased Suit

Episode 2: The boy who took off his tie and the erased suit The night air above the paper was cold, but the artist's studio was heating up subtly with the tungsten heat of the stand lighting. The artist's right hand held a 4B pencil and approached the upper body of Kang Min-woo, who was standing in the center of the drawing paper. As soon as the tip of the pencil touched, sharp, stiff lines began to tighten Minwoo's shoulders and chest. A conservative navy blue two-button suit jacket with thick shoulder pads, a white dress shirt with stiff starched collars, and a red silk tie that wraps around the neck like a snake and hangs down to the solar plexus.

It was a perfect depiction of the modern-day prison uniform in South Korea, where people had to hang themselves in front of the mirror every morning to wear the social mask of being a 'sincere and neat office worker.' Minwoo's expression in the paper was distorted with pain. The underside of his chin was red due to the tie knot tightening around his neck, and his neatly combed hair was soaked with sweat and sticking unsightly to his forehead. Both sleeves of the jacket were pulled taut like handcuffs binding his arms.

“I can’t breathe… I can’t breathe.”

A moan escaped from between Minwoo’s lips. At that very moment, the white, rectangular Tombow plastic eraser that had been sitting on the mahogany desk flew into the air. The writer's hand grabbed the eraser and struck it mercilessly towards the suit jacket on the paper! 'Park, beat, beat——!'

The edge of the eraser began to scratch the surface of the Kent paper at breakneck speed. The lapels, pockets, and stiff sleeve lines of the suit jacket, which had been solidified with graphite on the paper, were erased white in just 5 seconds. The eraser powder turned into gray fragments and bounced in all directions, like heavy snow on a winter day. In the place where the formal shackles that were the shackles of social norms were completely erased, the author's 4B pencil began dancing again. What was drawn this time was a completely different outfit. An oversized, loose-fit cotton T-shirt with the shoulder line flowing naturally, old washed denim jeans with cool tears at the knees, and light and flexible canvas sneakers! Minwoo stretched out his right hand and roughly ripped off the last piece of the tie hanging around his neck and threw it into the air. “Feels good! I think I’ll buy it!”

A dazzling smile of joy burst from the lips of the young man who had regained his freedom. There was a huge gap that separated a person's quality of life between the stiffness of the synthetic fibers of suit fabric and the softness of a pure cotton T-shirt. The all-season blend suit that Minwoo was wearing was made of cheap synthetic fabric of 70% polyester and 30% rayon, making it a prison of chemical fibers that had no breathability and did not absorb sweat. The plastic core of his shirt collar that was weighing down his neck was rubbing against his skin all day, causing a red rash, and the silver tie bar clip on his chest was like a metal clasp that was tightening his heart.

The moment the stuffy shell was erased with an eraser and a pure white overfit t-shirt made of 100% heavyweight cotton with 20 count was added, Minwoo's skin breathed in cool oxygen deep into his alveoli for the first time in three years. The pores on the surface of my skin opened all at once, welcoming the cool touch of Night Breeze. Clothing was never a display item to show off one's status or satisfy the eyes of others. It had to be wings that would most comfortably protect one's body and allow one to run without hesitation to any place at any time. The men's business suit was the most sophisticated uniform of body control devised by the bourgeois class since the Industrial Revolution in the 19th century.

The hard core and canvas pad of the jacket hid the natural curves of the human body and forced a straight and angular silhouette. The collar and tie that tightened the neck were the ropes of the physical super-ego, suppressing the expression of emotions and forcing only cold reason by compressing the carotid artery connecting the body and the brain. The dense hatching lines of the 4B pencil drawn on Minwoo's body were violent codes that attempted to stuff him into the 'productive labor machine' that society demanded. The act of erasing the graphite armor by crushing it with an eraser was a primordial rebellion against the physical restraints committed in the name of civilization and a declaration of liberation.

The white bare skin of the paper where the eraser passed spoke eloquently of the pure dignity of human beings, completely free from the gaze of others. When I blew away the eraser powder scattered on the surface of the paper with my mouth, a thick gray snowstorm rose over the desk. On the clean drawing paper, Minwoo's body was shining with full vitality. As the pads that were weighing down both shoulders disappeared, the collarbone and shoulder line relaxed comfortably, and the texture of the night breeze seeping through the arms of the T-shirt was vividly depicted as ripples in pencil lines.

Minwoo stretched his arms above his head and stretched out coolly. The sound of the spine and joints coming into place with a crunching sound. There was no need to wear armor tailored to other people's standards to prove oneself. Returning to your most comfortable and natural self. That was the first rite of every true independence. The artist's hand began sketching the gentle sidewalk block tiles beneath Minwoo's feet. And an old-fashioned cast iron streetlight was erected on one side of the road. Thin pencil hatching lines radiating out from the lamp head.

Under that pillar of light, the artist neatly drew a neon sign with a thick pen. [24H MART]

The most comfortable and simple lighthouse protecting the city at night, the warm lighting of a 24-hour convenience store illuminated the paper brightly. A plain white t-shirt and old blue jeans were the purest uniform of youthful resistance that James Dean and Marlon Brando threw into the world in the mid-20th century. A simple, minimal round neckline, natural dropped shoulders that slightly cover the shoulder line, and the texture of 13-ounce selvedge denim that has been gently tamed through hundreds of washes. By carefully controlling the texture of the 4B pencil, the artist sensuously depicted the burst details of the denim knee area and the vintage fading of the thigh line.

The moment he put on those clothes, Minwoo was no longer someone's subordinate or an assistant manager waiting for a trial. He had returned to being a wild boy, ready to face the world as his own master. Instead of shoes that were constricting his body, he wore rubber-soled sneakers that gently hugged his ankles, conveying the elasticity of the earth with every step he took, ruthlessly stimulating his instinct to run. The vintage selvage denim depicted on Minwoo's lower body was an archive of fabric that clearly records the time and history of the wearer.

The red-stitched selvage fabric woven on a shuttle loom had the deep, dark sea blue color of natural indigo dye on each rough surface. As time goes by and each time you kneel and sweat, the areas that have experienced friction naturally reveal their pure white skin, creating cat-whiskers and fading honeycombs. The artist completed the denim's dynamic washing pattern by alternating the sharp lines of a 4B pencil and the thin edges of a Tombo eraser.

It was a one-of-a-kind piece of customized armor created by one person's unique life trajectory that mass-produced formal suit pants could never imitate. The feel of the stiff yet heavy cotton fabric you feel when you put your hand in your pants pocket. Minwoo felt the resistance of the fabric and deeply resolved to weave his life into a history with his own deep and rough texture, rather than following the same standards as others. The physical and chemical reactions that occur when the Tombo Mono eraser rubs against the surface of paper were the art of extremely precise erasure.

The polyvinyl chloride (PVC) resin of the eraser adsorbs the graphite carbon crystals on the paper fibers with strong electrostatic force and separates them into rolled up residue. The gray eraser powder piled up on the desk was not just trash. It was the crumbs of thousands of reports that weighed down on Minwoo's shoulders, and the excrement of the soul that was expelled from the physical crushing of the boss's nagging and the fatigue of working overtime. Looking at the gray dust blown into the air by the artist's breath, Minwoo experienced the catharsis of 10 years of pain in his heart being washed away in an instant.

A new creation that begins only by erasing. The white blank space was a canvas of the most dazzling grace given only to those who erased something. Minwoo flopped down on the outdoor plastic parasol chair in front of the convenience store. On the parasol table was a can of cool barley tea and a 1,500 won vanilla ice cream cone with a pencil sketch. The 'pop' sound of carbonated carbonation made when you open the can lid. As I gulp down the cold barley tea down my esophagus, my throat, which had been burning all day in front of the office monitor, was refreshed.

Minwoo took a bite of ice cream and looked up at the night sky. The flight trajectories of small flying insects circling around streetlights were expressed with fine stippling using a 4B pencil. “Nice night.”

The wind was cool, the air was sweet, and there was no worry left in my heart. Just an hour ago, the young man who had been shaking with fear thinking about tomorrow morning's planning meeting and his boss' reprimand was nowhere to be found. There was only Kang Min-woo, a fully living, breathing nature, here and now, in the center of this peaceful night. At that time, a cheerful metallic mechanical sound began to be heard on the wind from the end of a dark alley far away. 'Charrrrrrr—charrrrrr!'

It was the unique, clear, fast rotating sound of the bicycle's freewheel ratchet being engaged. The conversation between two young people sitting face to face under a convenience store umbrella was a pleasant hearing that dismantled society's standardized success stories. “Minwoo, you really should have seen the manager’s face when you came out of the revolving door today. The rumor that the manager dropped his magnifying glass and gaped when you came out after throwing the payment documents was spread through the company messenger.”

Seoyeon held her stomach and giggled with an ice cream stick in her mouth. Minwoo also chuckled and rolled the can of cold barley tea in his palm. "Honestly, for the past three years, I've looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself, why am I doing this? I wondered if it was really right to waste my youth and soul for a few million won in my bank account. The moment I took off my tie today, I knew it. Rather than being a domesticated sheep in a comfortable prison, I wanted to live as a wolf running on my own feet even if I was starving in a rough field."

“Wow, our Kang Min-woo is bursting with amazing words! So, what is life? It’s no fun running on the rails set by others. Only when you deviate can you see new scenery!”

At Seo-yeon's unstoppable retort, the confidence that had been suppressed deep in Min-woo's heart surged like spring water. The only person who truly understands me. From that alone, he was gaining enough courage as if he had won the world. On the streets of Seoul at midnight, the 24-hour convenience store was the only desert oasis where modern urban nomads could take refuge. A glass showcase where 3,000 types of processed foods are displayed in rows and rows under a bright fluorescent light of 200 lux. It was an extremely democratic and equal space where anyone could buy hot canned coffee or sweet ice cream without discrimination with a 2,000 won bill in their pocket.

The plastic parasol chair in front of the convenience store was a night sanctuary where office workers after working overtime, designated drivers, job seekers, and teenagers who had run away from home could put down their bags and catch their breath. Minwoo buried himself deeply in the plastic chair and stretched out his legs. As the cold sweetness of the ice cream hit the tip of my tongue, the dopamine receptors in my brainstem simultaneously sent out signals of relief. The comfort contained in this simple luxury of 1,500 won. It was a much deeper and more sincere toast to survival than the champagne in any fancy hotel lounge in the world.

Cutting through the darkness of the alley, a girl appeared on a bicycle with a silver headlight. The writer's hand moved the pencil sharply toward the right side of the paper. He has a slim and healthy build, with a height of 165 centimeters, a weight of 52 kilograms, and a leg length of 95 centimeters. Han Seo-yeon, 25 years old, wore a loose gray hooded zip-up and denim shorts, her hair tied up in a high ponytail fluttering cheerfully in the night breeze. Seoyeon stopped the bike in front of the convenience store umbrella, as if she was drifting skillfully by turning the handlebars.

The rubber tires of the wheels scraped the asphalt, leaving skid marks. “Kang Min-woo! What are you doing here? I thought you lost your soul while working overtime, but you’re just eating ice cream?”

Seoyeon put her butt on the bicycle seat, opened her eyes and burst into laughter. Minwoo chuckled and got up from his seat. “What about working overtime? I logged out completely as of today. I tore off my tie and escaped.”

“Really? Awesome! Our Assistant Manager Kang finally went crazy and succeeded in escaping!”

Seoyeon jumped off the bike, clenched her fists and held them out towards Minwoo. 'widely!'

The fists of the two youths clashed cheerfully in the air. At that moment, the writer's hand wrote a victory cheer in large, rough cursive in the upper right corner of the paper. [HELL YES!]

Seoyeon tapped Minwoo on the shoulder and shouted. “Yes, this is the real you! Sannim wearing a tie didn’t even suit you. Today is the day we take control of our own lives!”

The sound of the two people laughing spread through the air, dazzlingly lighting up the alley on a late fall night. The character Han Seo-yeon was the spirit of a free indie rocker who crash-landed in this bleak city center. She majored in visual design in college and worked as a promising art director at a large advertising agency, but six months ago, she threw down her pen tablet and resigned while working overtime. Instead of creating false images to sell other people's products, he transformed into an independent illustrator and bassist who captured the real lights and shadows of the night streets in his sketchbook while riding his bicycle.

Her bike frame was covered with stickers from Hongdae indie clubs and logos from rock bands Nirvana and Oasis. Seoyeon's eyes lit up as she patted the old guitar case on her back. “Minwoo, I rented an underground ensemble room in Hapjeong-dong tonight, right? That bloody beat you made when you held the drumsticks a while ago hasn’t died yet, right?”

“Drum…?”

Minwoo’s heart sank at those words. A forgotten memory of a band from my college days. The heavy vibration that struck the snare drum as if it were crushing it and the brilliant explosion sound of the crash cymbal hit the brain stem harshly. The mechanical shock of the moment when Minwoo and Seoyeon's fists clashed in the air was the spark of youth itself. The moment the hard knuckles of two people come into contact, a light dull sound ‘thud!’ occurs for 0.01 seconds. The sound was an unspoken oath that was thousands of times stronger and clearer than words. 'I welcome your escape. Bless your rebellion. And tonight, we will be fully ourselves.'

The artist strongly pressed a 4B pencil around the fists and drew fine spark lines in the shape of lightning. The lines rode on the static electricity of the graphite and gave off an intense light that seemed to jump out of the paper. At the moment when each other's body temperature and pulse were transmitted through their fists, Minwoo felt the ice wall of loneliness that had bound him for the past three years shattering. A true friend is not someone who whips me to fit the mold of the world, but a comrade who recognizes my wings and flies with me from the edge of a cliff. The formative beauty of the aluminum road bike that Seoyeon rode was a masterpiece that embodied the physics of speed and freedom in graphite.

The thin wheelset with a diameter of 700c has 32 thin spokes that intersect radially, creating a silvery afterimage, and the diamond-shaped main frame shows the ultimate in minimalism without any unnecessary elements. Every time Seoyeon stepped on the pedal, the light friction sound emitted as the chain wound around the sprocket teeth. The bicycle was the most perfect machine that replaced human muscle energy with the most honest and pure kinetic energy. The magic of these two wheels, cutting through the wind with only your own heartbeat and the power of your legs, without the noise or exhaust gases of a petroleum engine.

Seoyeon's flying ponytail hair and loose hoodie hem were the very fluttering wings of youth that created a fresh crack in the stagnant air of the city. The author relaxed his grip on the pencil and stared at the two figures standing side by side in the middle of the drawing paper. Min-woo, who took off his suit and regained his freedom, and Seo-yeon, who rode a bicycle through the night wind. In the dark and light shades of graphite, the silhouettes of two young people radiated a lyrical and romantic glow, like a scene from an old masterpiece movie. The night of reality is always lonely and cold.

A time when countless young people, tired of competition and isolation, lock themselves in their rooms and sigh in silence. However, if there is only one friend by one's side who fully recognizes each other's existence and sincerely supports each other's deviations, no large organization in the world can ever subjugate youth. The streetlight shattered on each spoke of Seoyeon's bicycle, flashing silver highlights. Minwoo threw the finished can of barley tea into the recycling bin and put his hands in his pockets. The hot rhythm of music began to surge in my heart.

There was nothing rough for the boy who had taken off his suit. Tonight, into the deepest darkness of this city, their own great march of independence was about to begin. The sound of the alleyway heading towards midnight contained a huge musical prelude. A subtle 60-hertz hum noise emitted by the blue neon sign transformer of a 24-hour convenience store. The sound of the late autumn night wind whistling through the red brick walls of the alley. And the dull bass engine sound of late-night trucks speeding on an overpass in the distance.

It seemed as if all the noises of the city were slowly holding their breath to form one gigantic rock ensemble. Minwoo got up from his chair and clenched his fists. The beats that were sleeping inside my body vibrated through my blood vessels. Beyond a simple deviation, a huge storm of music that would prove their heartbeat to the world was waiting for them at the end of that dark alley.

“Let’s go, Seoyeon. It’s time to awaken the drum inside me.”

“Okay, follow me! If you fall behind, there’s no soup!”

Seoyeon's bicycle pedals spun furiously and she began racing into the darkness of the night. A long silver trail formed behind the bicycle wheel, and Minwoo followed suit, kicking the ground vigorously with both feet. The city's street lights created a tunnel of brilliant light above the heads of the two young people. Now no one could stop their sprint. The laughter of the boy and girl who won their freedom resonated high in the night sky, ushering in a new dawn. The night was no longer a lonely refuge, but the biggest and most brilliant stage where they could play their true dreams.

In Minwoo's eyes, the burning flame of passion was shining brightly through the graphite lines. It was the immortal light of pure youth that no darkness could swallow up. The fist bump shared by Minwoo and Seoyeon was the strongest gesture of solidarity among youth against the isolationism of capitalist society. The world defines young people as enemies and encourages them to compete. A battlefield in a cruel zero-sum game where my peers' mistakes become my opportunities and other people's misfortunes become my relief. However, the two people standing face to face under the convenience store streetlight refused that mean rule of survival.

Pure trust that allows us to reveal each other's wounds without hesitation, encourage the courage to deviate, and run through the night streets together, shoulder to shoulder. The two words ‘HELL YES!’ written roughly on the corner of the paper were a refreshing uppercut of youth aimed at all the cynicism and resignation in the world. They weren't alone. The two youths, who saw the flame of freedom burning in each other's eyes, were now heading towards a huge rock storm that no one could stop.