2020-ongoing
I am the daughter of a signmaker. My father has crafted signs for forty years. When he measured storefronts, I would sit in the passenger seat of his white Porter truck, watching him climb the ladder. As I grew older, I helped peel letters from vinyl sheets, following the knife-cut lines. To me, signboards were familiar, an extension of my childhood.
Naming something is an act of love. My father took pride in selecting fonts, choosing colors, and drawing illustrations. Whenever we traveled to unfamiliar neighborhoods, his signs would greet us. He loved his craft. But that love was not universally shared. While we tried to read the care embedded in every sign, others looked at them with indifference—or even disdain. I understood why people disliked the clutter of Korean signboards, yet a part of me felt slighted.
Since 2012, South Korea has invested heavily in signboard improvement projects, allocating 4 to 6 billion won annually to replace existing signage. Rapid urbanization brought an explosion of businesses, and with them, a surge in unauthorized signs. Defying outdoor advertising laws, layers of vivid, mismatched letters filled every wall, becoming an inseparable part of the country's landscape. The demand for eye-catching signs, built not for harmony but for visibility, speaks to the competition and self-interest ingrained in our society.
Signmakers no longer wield brushes but welding torches. Old signs come down, new ones go up. I once wondered who would craft signs when my father grew too old to work. It was a needless worry. Time moves forward, generations replace each other, and outdated signs are inevitably replaced by sleeker, more polished ones. The signs my father made—perhaps awkward, rough, or unrefined—will be taken down. Even the “bad” signs will disappear.