Youth art competitions are usually divided strictly by schools and grades.
It’s natural—after all, even a year or two of age difference can be significant among teenagers.
However, Korea’s premier art education institution, Hanul, did things differently.
The year was 1980.
When the leading professors of Hanul first decided to host the Hanul Youth Art Competition, they declared:
“If the goal of a competition is to rank kids based on who has better basic skills, just for the sake of college entrance exams, then who does that benefit? Aren’t we supposed to be Korea’s top institution for nurturing artistic prodigies?”
Though their actual statement was far more formal and poetic (something about “the passage of time on the lifelong journey of art”), this was the essence of it:
An unlimited, weight-class-free art battle royale for teenagers.
They boldly eliminated the sturdy barriers of grade and school divisions, akin to tearing down the Berlin Wall in Germany.
Furthermore, they prioritized task completion over basic skill evaluations, which they placed as a secondary consideration.
In other words…
“No matter the age, we will award students who can create works that align with the theme, even if they’re rough around the edges.”
Naturally, this approach wasn’t without backlash.
Parents with children interested in art and the students themselves voiced their complaints:
“An elementary school kid competing against a high schooler? How does that even work?”
“Aren’t they just trying to hand awards to their own students from Hanul, which already combines middle and high school education?”
“Why not just make it exclusive to art middle and high schools?”
“Art isn’t something with a definitive answer!”
“How can kids with no training or basics even attempt art?”
“Are they trying to stir up a national frenzy of mustachioed lunatics?”
And so on.
Criticism—logical and reasonable—poured in, and it seemed as though the Hanul Youth Art Competition would fade into the annals of 1980s history.
Yet, the results were far beyond anyone’s expectations.
“What?! This year’s grand prize winner is a middle school sophomore?!”
“What?! A rural high school student blocked two consecutive wins?”
“What?! Someone from an island village beat a Hanul student?!”
“What?! This year’s grand prize went to the son of an Intangible Cultural Heritage artisan?!”
From first graders in elementary school to seniors in high school—a maximum 12-year age gap—the unrestricted art battle royale produced countless dramas.
The “unfairness” of an unlimited weight class introduced a variation to the tightly structured skill hierarchy based on grade.
In short, a perfect blend of “luck” and “unexpected variables” created countless iconic moments.
A golden ratio of 70% skill to 30% variables.
This captivated the public, who grew increasingly enthusiastic.
For students pursuing arts, public interest became a huge reward and merit.
Thus, the competition continued—year after year, after year.
As the years passed, and when the competition had finally endured for over 20 years…
The Hanul Youth Art Competition had become the youth event that every aspiring Korean artist paid attention to.
Upon entering the large auditorium, Garam Hall, the first thing that stood out was a white sheet covering something massive at its center.
The sheer height of it—nearly two meters—looked like a mountain of assorted items draped with a wide white cloth.
“What’s that?”
“What could it be?”
Curiosity drew many participating students closer to the white mound, but staff members wearing armbands stopped them.
“Please don’t approach.”
“You’re not allowed to uncover it yet!”
Startled by the staff’s warnings, the students hesitantly returned to their seats.
‘Maybe the materials and theme are under there.’
In most art competitions, still life objects (the subjects for the artwork) are prepared in advance.
However, the Hanul Youth Art Competition had a problem-solving format, where the scene felt more fitting.
Looking up slightly, I noticed reporters bustling around the second-floor press area.
They seemed to represent various newspapers, entrance exam specialty magazines, and art-focused publications, busily jotting notes or fiddling with their phones, as though waiting for someone.
‘They’re probably here for her.’
And finally, after entering through the main door and sitting in the participants’ waiting area, I could hear the breaths of the gathered students around me.
Clearly nervous.
These students had, until now, thought of themselves as special.
The best artist in their school.
The best artist in their region.
Even if a genius arrived, they secretly harbored the hope: “What if?” They believed they could be the protagonist of today’s event.
But…
The confidence of the external participants began to falter the moment they saw the internal students already seated in Garam Hall—students from the Hanul Comprehensive Art School.
“Do you have class tonight?”
“Yeah, the study-abroad class has to attend painting sessions. It was really helpful when we went to France last time.”
“Oh, that competition? Could you have participated last winter?”
“No, last year Professor Ahn Sooyoung personally picked people from the study-abroad class for it.”
‘Ahn Sooyoung… She’s the artist who won multiple times at the National Art Exhibition and is the only Korean recipient of the Guggenheim International Prize. She’s also been invited to the New York Museum of Art. And she’s here?’
Even in casual conversations, the sheer difference in their level was evident.
Confidence was already eroding.
And then…
Click-clack.
When the last student entered, the external participants realized they were merely extras.
‘That person… could it be?’
Click-clack.
The sound of her footsteps alone changed the atmosphere.
In the bright, spacious auditorium filled with hundreds of students of varying ages, everyone’s attention was drawn to the single individual who had just entered.
Everyone was looking at her.
It was obvious what they were all thinking.
‘…Han Mari.’
‘Is she really a genius?’
‘Wow, her face is so small.’
‘Her skin’s even paler than on TV.’
‘She’s taller than I thought.’
‘Even though it’s the same Hanul uniform, hers looks so much fancier.’
‘Is she a chaebol’s granddaughter who doesn’t stay in the dorms and commutes from home?’
Without saying a word, just through glances, I could tell what they were thinking.
Because I was thinking the same thing.
‘Han Mari.’
I was looking at her too.
‘I’ve finally met her.’
She was only 10 meters away.
With just a few steps, I could approach her and say something.
Or…
If I shouted, “It’s because of you that I started art,” she might hear me.
She might even reply.
‘Should I try talking to her?’
Though I had completely forgotten this thought a short while ago, standing there, I suddenly felt like a foolish uncle fan seeing his favorite idol up close.
But I quickly decided against it.
Let’s not.
I’d probably regret it later.
Imagining the “reality that would soon unfold”, I suppressed the sudden urge.
‘She looks younger than I expected.’
A first-year middle schooler.
No, since it was March and she’d just moved up to second year, it made sense.
Still, she seemed quite mature.
When all eyes focused on her, Han Mari wore a blank expression.
Then, her gaze met mine, and the corners of her lips slowly curled upward.
‘Is she smiling at me?’
Why?
For what reason?
“Pu…!”
Just as she was about to say something…
“Attention, please. The Hanul Youth Art Competition is about to begin. Participants and guests in the press area are requested to take their seats…”
Students quickly averted their gazes and swallowed hard.
Startled by the announcement, Han Mari made an “oh no!” expression and hurried to join the Hanul students’ seating area.
‘She’s sitting way in the corner.’
Neither the high schoolers nor the middle schoolers gave her more than a glance, and no one greeted her.
And so, the event began.
The broadcaster hosting the event spent a long time introducing the history and tradition of Hanul. Formalities and lengthy speeches followed.
When all the formalities finally ended, the competition began.
At the center of the auditorium, the panel of judges took their seats.
Among them, sitting in the middle, was a middle-aged man with sharp eyes and a black suit.
His all-black attire and stern demeanor gave off an ominous impression as he picked up the microphone.
“Greetings, students. I am Professor Jung Jeonjin, specializing in Western painting, and I’ll be serving as the head judge for the 24th Hanul Youth Art Competition.”
At this announcement, sighs could be heard from the section where the Hanul students were seated.
‘Looks like it’s the strictest and toughest professor.’
Professor Jung Jeonjin wasted no time with the usual praises for the students’ artistic sensitivity or lofty talk of honor.
Instead, he got straight to the point.
“…Let’s begin the competition immediately.”
With a flourish, the white sheet covering the mound at the center of the hall was pulled away, revealing a chaotic pile of items: old TVs, light bulbs, plaster statues, decorations, furniture, charcoal briquettes—an assortment with no apparent commonality.
The revealed art materials were even more shocking.
It was as if someone had tried to embody the phrase, “I’ll give you anything you want,” and poured every conceivable art supply into one place.
Not a single cheap item was in sight—all the materials were high-quality imports from Europe.
The students were stunned.
“What kind of theme would require this…?”
While the students were still reeling, Professor Jung Jeonjin’s sharp voice rang out.
“The theme of the 24th Hanul Youth Art Competition is… ‘Light.’ Students, you are required to submit a piece on the theme of ‘light.’ Each person may submit only one work.”
(Theme: ‘Light’)
What followed left the students even more astounded.
“You may submit your work in any format: Western painting, Eastern painting, prints, sculpture, installation art, action painting, murals, or even performance art… Anything is allowed. If you need additional materials, inform the administrative staff. For those requiring video submissions, you may use the broadcast room to edit your work until the submission deadline.”
“Materials: Unlimited”
“Format: Unlimited”
“Choose the medium you are most confident in. The competition starts now at 10:30 AM, and submissions will close at 5:00 PM.”
The phrase running through everyone’s mind was clear:
“Do whatever you want.”
And yet, another phrase lingered unspoken:
“If you can.”
Unlimited.
No categories.
The sheer weight of those words left everyone frozen in place.
But then, one girl jumped to her feet, dashed forward, grabbed a sheet of paper, and hurriedly drew something.
With a yellow dot sketched onto the paper, she ran to Professor Jung Jeonjin and held it up.
“I’m submitting this!”
She had taken only 30 seconds.
Everyone stared, jaws dropped, as she began to explain before anyone could react.
“This represents the ‘light’ in my heart, and the theme expresses the fleeting inspiration I felt in the moment!”
Hearing this, I smacked my forehead.
Sigh…
It wasn’t admiration—it was secondhand embarrassment.
‘That’s exactly what the judges hate the most…’
Sure enough, Professor Jung Jeonjin remained expressionless as he tore the paper in half.
The girl’s face crumpled instantly.
“Huh?!”
“One final note,” Professor Jung Jeonjin said as he picked up the microphone again.
“The theme is ‘light’—as it is. Not some abstract notion of ‘the light in your mind’ or ‘the light in your heart.’ It’s about light itself. Anyone who uses wordplay or vague conceptual explanations in their presentation will be disqualified without exception. Since this piece has been deliberately damaged by a judge, you may resubmit. That is all.”
With that, he turned away.
The girl, now deflated, went back to choose her materials again.
The other students, who had hesitated after witnessing the scene, carefully began selecting their supplies.
Amid the flurry of activity, I stood, deep in thought.
“Light…”
A few hours later, murmurs broke out among the reporters on the second floor, who were taking photos of the competition.
“Huh? What’s that kid doing?”
“Who?”
“Over there, that elementary school-looking kid.”
“Where? Did they bring in a child actor just to stir up attention?”
“No, I heard from the entertainment section that there’s no one here except Han Mari. And she’s not exactly a celebrity…”
“But look at that kid just sitting there, doing nothing… If they’re a genius, they should show us something. I’ve got deadlines to meet too!”
“No, not Han Mari! That elementary schooler in the corner!”
“What’s the point of watching an elementary schooler at a middle-and-high-school competition?”
“I said look!”
“Where—”
Zooming in with their cameras, the reporters focused on the mentioned student.
The child was furiously sketching with a single pencil, rapidly creating images related to the theme of ‘light’ using various materials: TVs, light bulbs, and charcoal briquettes.
Each piece evoked the word ‘light’ at a glance.
The reporters felt as though they were witnessing the early days of a genius like Han Mari.
“…Wow?”
“Better than most exam-prep students.”
“And really fast, too.”
“At this rate, they’ll at least get an honorable mention.”
But then, the child did something shocking.
Rip!
“They tore it up?!”
The child bolted out of the hall, returning moments later with a cardboard box, which they cut with scissors.
They then placed the cutout over Professor Jung Jeonjin’s head.
“…They put it on him?!”
“Submission complete.”
“That’s your submission?!”