No One Wanted ThisThe year is 2019. The Lion King live-action remake is in theaters, and I cannot be less excited. I attempt to watch it, only to walk out 40 minutes into the film. Soon, however, I return to the theater, compelled not only by the encouragement of my friend, but also something particularly strange about the remake: Chiwetel Ejiofor’s “Be Prepared. ”In the original animated movie, this musical number is accompanied by what are easily the most whimsical yet menacing visuals in the whole film. Scar rallies the hyenas, convincing them to help him kill Mufasa and Simba. Jeremy Irons’ low, drawling performance as Scar is offset just right by Elton John’s catchy score, setting a uniquely paradoxical tone that is as sinister as it is playful. None of these remarkable highs are present in the remake. The entire sequence is mired in a drab, dark blue palette. The sinister tone of the music is played abysmally straight. Yet, these obvious changes don’t explain my discomfort. There is a glaring absence of something that’s niggling at the back of my mind, but the song breezes by, and I’m forced to carry along. Mufasa is killed by Scar. Simba runs away and hakuna matatas with his adoptive gay parents. His girlfriend Nala finds him and drags him back home, where he kills his uncle and takes his place as the rightful lion king. Nothing of value is added, and everything of value is lost. None of these non-changes have anything to do with what I’m so desperately missing.  Only after I exit the theater does it hit me: they cut out the Nazi hyenas. No One is Fascist The essence of what makes the original “Be Prepared” so captivating is the movement of the characters. Animation allows these lions to move in ways that are entertaining and informative: their movements give away who they are as characters. They can even tell you something of the real world, with its intricate social dynamics and political movements. What does this say, then, about the fact that the hyenas are portrayed as saluting, goose-stepping Nazis? The second verse of the “Be Prepared” sequence is rife with what can only be described as Third Reich imagery. The endless procession of hyenas marching along to Scar’s sweeping promises of hyena Lebensraum resembles shots from the 1935 German propaganda film Triumph of the Will. Scar himself is illuminated by a glaring, vertical backlight that evokes the Cathedral of Light, a lighting technique that the Nazis regularly used in their rallies. Nazism was clearly an ideology that the original Lion King, and the American cultural sphere at large, wanted to deem the villain.  But the Nazi imagery is gone in the 2019 remake. The live-action hyenas don’t march or salute. There’s hardly enough lighting to constitute a whole Cathedral. It is likely that this removal was deliberate. In the director’s commentary released back in 1994, the creators behind the original Lion King explain that while animating “Be Prepared,” they were concerned about how much they could lean into the “fascism on parade kind of thing. ” One could indeed assert that any form of extreme political imagery, no matter the intent, should have no place in children’s media.  But there is no room for argument when it comes to the remake. A remake is an addendum to the original, not its permanent replacement; no amount of embellishment for the new can unmake what was already contained in the old. Disney’s attempt to remove the “problematic” elements of the original achieves effectively nothing. The Nazi imagery in “Be Prepared” is already an undeniable building block of that scene, partly due to how unsubtle it is; there would have been many different avenues to recontextualize this block for a modern audience had Disney not chickened out and removed it entirely, ruining the foundation of the completed sequence. Artistic effects aside, in trying to scrub “Be Prepared” clean of its controversial inspirations, the remake has the opposite effect: it only brings attention to what is missing. The original equates the Third Reich to a starving pack of hyenas led by a cruel, opportunistic usurper, blatantly criticizing Nazism. Then, why should it be so urgent to remove the Nazi imagery, especially when removing it is to the detriment of the entire sequence?The answer is that Disney is a crowd-pleasing coward. Contrary to what the new Lion King may tell you, Nazism was real and alive and on the rise in 2019. According to a study by the Anti-Defamation League, all 50 cases of extremist murder in 2018 were motivated by some type of far-right movement. The high school student Corey Johnson, who shocked the nation in March 2018 by stabbing a 13-year-old to death, was apparently fascinated with Hitler. The school shooter Nikolas Cruz had “numerous images related to Nazis and the Ku Klux Klan” on his cellphone. The Nazis were a bygone threat to the general American public by the 90s, as they were fresh out of Cold War tensions with the USSR. Communism, not Nazism, was public enemy #1. However, historian Kathleen Barlow, who studies the white power movement, speculates that the Trump administration is pulling the Nazis above the surface once more. She explains that having a newly-instated government that tacitly approves far-right movements only facilitates the spread of extremism among the general populace. No One is Evil Without ReasonThe newest film in the modern Lion King saga is Mufasa, released in December 2024. It acts as a prequel to the 2019 Lion King, providing context for why Scar decided to turn against his brother. Scar and Mufasa are not related by blood—instead, Scar is a prince, and Mufasa is his adoptive brother of common birth. Scar is friendly towards Mufasa at first. However, after their pride is attacked by a land-hungry pride called the Outsiders, resulting in his parents’ death, Scar grows resentful of Mufasa and his seemingly innate superiority. His jealousy reaches a boiling point when Mufasa “steals his girl” by dating his crush, Sarabi. Early in the film, Scar convinces Mufasa to act as his wingman. But despite his many attempts to direct her affection towards Scar, Sarabi’s attention never wavers from Mufasa. To Scar’s jealous mind, his brother finally giving in to Sarabi is the ultimate betrayal.  The film attempts to humanize Scar by expanding upon his backstory—another recent trend of Disney’s, seen in everything from the live-action Maleficent to Judge Frollo in the musical adaptation of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. This new Scar isn’t “evil for evil’s sake”; instead, he is the tragic prince struggling to meet his father’s lofty expectations, only to fail next to his perfect brother.  This reveals where Disney’s sympathies seemingly lie. Right until the moment where Mufasa “betrays” Scar by professing his love for Sarabi, Scar is nothing but helpful and eager; dissatisfied, sure, but nonetheless mature enough to keep it to himself. But his personality does a heel-face turn once he spies on Mufasa making out with his crush. Mufasa’s treachery is apparently so grievous that it causes Scar to discard his prior characterization and ally with the Outsider lions. The scene is treated with a sincere, straight-faced gravitas: the accompanying musical number, “Brother Betrayed,” is a grandiose soliloquy about Scar’s feelings of genuine betrayal, complete with bombastic drums and swelling strings.  Frankly, Scar’s complete 180 is likely simply a product of poor pacing. The film, in general, suffers from convenient plot contrivances, especially towards the ending. And it’s not as if “Brother Betrayed” uncritically validates all of Scar’s feelings. The lyrics point out his ridiculous entitlement devoid of any consideration for Sarabi: “I’m next in line, she should be mine!” But the sheer sincerity of “Brother Betrayed” insinuates that Scar’s crashout is an understandable one—not correct, but still understandable. And that is a meaningful difference. Megacorporations such as Disney have a strong incentive to generate sympathy for themselves. The Disney brand markets itself as kind above everything else. It stands for a profitable kind of justice and refrains from any statement that may be even remotely controversial: it pulled a transgender character from its animated series Win or Lose just this February, for instance. Fans speculated that this was to avoid conflict with the reinstated Trump administration. They may very well be correct—Disney has historically sustained itself through its connections with political bodies (see the many US propaganda films that Disney produced in the 40s; ironically, they support the war effort against Nazi Germany). So when considering modern Disney’s propensity for not only reinventing their classics but also actively justifying their villains, it’s interesting to think about what might have motivated this new creative direction. Perhaps Disney wants the audience to believe that anyone, no matter how questionable their actions are, has the potential to be understood and connected with. And if this anyone includes those who murder and take without any regard for others—well, it isn’t right of them to enact territorial genocide, or for them to send thousands of people to die in mines, but the Jihadist terrorists murdered this hero’s brother, and the richest man in the world has his daddy issues to contend with. So surely you can see where they’re coming from, at the very least. No One Cares, but Someone ShouldThe rebooted Lion King series has very little to show for itself, save for its massive profitability and its erasure of Scar’s Hitler-ness. I do not care for the former, but the latter matters greatly in the current social context. In attempting to appease its sensitive audience, Disney obscures the new wave of Nazism from public scrutiny and hides its own tacit involvement. Megaconglomerates such as Disney cannot become as big as they are without appealing to every place under the sun where there is money to be made. Its suppression of queer representation in its newest series speaks for its compliance with the new US administration; its strong business presence in Israel under the guise of political neutrality speaks for far more. We live in a world where creatives are not allowed to say “far-rightism and genocide are bad, actually” without being pelted with tomatoes. In such a world, it becomes the audience’s responsibility to deduce exactly what our favorite media is trying to make us believe.

Mass media has always been fascinated by the human body. The first-ever movie, Workers Leaving The Lumière Factory in Lyon (1895), captured the bustling movements of a crowd, marking the beginning of the body’s presence on screen. The advent of film technology resolved the long-standing dilemma of the fine arts. Human bodies had previously only been represented as static images through paintings and sculptures. While the theatrical body—the performative arts—could display dynamism, it was ephemeral. Film technology finally made it possible to capture and preserve the full physical potential of the human body.  Initially, bodily motions were imprinted on strips of celluloid film. The next step was digitization, which reduced the weight of the material by converting the body of work into data. The progression to the digital age meant the extinction of heavy film reels, which elevated people to become more active creators, designing and building new bodies of digital pixels. Digital technology, including AI and VR, ostensibly grants us greater freedom from the physical realm. Yet, it also leaves questions about where we are headed in this technocentric world, particularly regarding how digital representations of the human body are affecting our reality. Is there something we are missing amid all this freedom?Body Horror and Body FantasyAI is at the center of the rapid development of digital technology, and it’s compelling—it works as a perfect laboratory and canvas for reconstructing human physicality. However, whether framed as body horror or body fantasy, the reimagining of the body provokes issues regarding the consumption of bodily images and their impact on real bodies beyond the screen.  The body horror genre in cinema demonstrates how we have always been fascinated by pictures of stripped flesh and bone. Generative AI has also engaged in this genre of anatomical deconstruction, digitally morphing the body like a lump of clay. On social media, hashtags like #AIhorror or #uncanny bring up works of body horror produced by AI, which all share the “uncanny-core” aesthetic. There is something strangely gratifying in the way AI relentlessly dissects and metamorphoses the body, making it hard to look away from the grotesque visuals. While AI pushes the genre to its extreme, almost to the verge of absurdity, it also exposes the human body to an even more superficial and exploitative system. Like the voyeuristic anatomical amphitheater of the Renaissance, where dissections were open to the public, the body image becomes a surgical spectacle in the highly visual-centered media landscape. Human anatomy is both fact and fiction in the digital world: the body stands not only as a reality, but also as an immaterialized illusion that relies on its fetishization.  What happens when body horror changes to body fantasy? The hyper-real body as a gory spectacle readily satisfies viewers’ fantasies, merging with the deeply misogynistic consumption of real women. This fantasy is digitized through anthropomorphized AI, such as AI-generated virtual humans. These once-disembodied figures now appear as the epitome of beauty. Even though they exist only in the digital world, we are enthralled by these digitized bodies. In 2024, the first “Miss AI” competition was launched as a part of the Fanvue World AI Creator Awards (WAICAs). The ten finalists—mostly women in their 20s with glamorous figures and radiant smiles—were evaluated on their appearance, especially their ability to pass as humans. Scrolling through their Instagram accounts, it’s impressive how real and beautiful they seem. Yet, Miss AI merely repeats the symbolic “Miss Korea” parade, where young female contestants are broadcast live in blue swimsuits, smiling and waving to a crowd. And so, old discourse resurfaces: how beauty competitions encourage hyper-perfectionism and an unhealthy obsession with the illusion of beauty.  The promotion of AI beauty pageants, however, also points to something even more insidious: a pre-existing social issue exacerbated by this technological development—the sexual exploitation of women. The beauty and so-called personalities of these contestants are manufactured by their creators. Unlike real-life celebrities whose personas are difficult to distinguish from their real personalities, the audience is hyper-aware of the superficiality and artificiality of these AI models. These fictional attributes make them especially vulnerable to exploitation. They appear real—just enough to be impressive, but not enough to deceive completely—forming a loosely crafted emotional connection with viewers. This morally gray connection has already revealed its danger in the rapid rise in online sexual exploitation using deepfakes. This face-swap technique has been increasingly used to gratify one’s sexual desires. Yet the absence of the real, tangible human body weakens the sense of violation. Moreover, these violations are not contained in the digital world, often having consequences for the models’ real-world counterparts. In short, the way AI realizes our body fantasies hinges on exploiting the perceived soullessness of the generated bodies—a technologically sophisticated advance, but a regression of our society’s empathic and ethical foundation. The Melancholy MachineWhile AI is engaged with the image of the body, virtual reality introduces more complex agendas regarding how new forms of media affect both our minds and bodies. The virtual world introduces us to a wholly new dimension. We are shifted from mere spectators to autonomous players, enabling us to move beyond traditional media experiences toward embodied ones. The technology feels revolutionary or even transcendental—but is it truly? Virtual reality reveals just how powerfully fabricated experiences affect our bodily senses and eventually, our psyche.  Climax of the Next Scene (2015), a film by Kim Jisun, delves into the most accessible VR experience around us: online video games. Kim meets a group of players in Grand Theft Auto (GTA) who call themselves “suicide artists. ” The so-called artists spend their time inside the game finding 100 ways to die—an endless cycle of their digital characters’ virtual deaths. Instead of playing the game as was intended, these players have established their own set of rules. Such behaviors imply the desensitization of the body: the players remain physically unscathed, yet the addictive repetition of killing their characters leaves tiny cracks in their minds. The thrill—this“unreal sensation”—begins to replace the violence of the act itself. The peculiar case of suicide artists is even more thought-provoking than the long-standing controversies surrounding abusive gaming culture. The game they are playing mirrors reality: real societal anxieties ooze from the monitor, anesthetizing the players and soaking into their broken psyches.  The virtual experience centers on the individual. Unlike films, which follow a fixed narrative and montage, players independently explore the generated setting. Physical contact is effaced, and solitude is required to achieve immersion. As a result, the body drifts from the physical world while virtual stimuli clouds the senses of distracted players, further intensifying the isolation of individuals in modern society. Thus, the audience becomes lonely players, and the closed society of virtual reality only grants users a superficial sense of omnipotence. Violent and suicidal behaviors remain spectacles, while the political and social dimensions of violence are pushed out of focus. In this way, the system functions like a melancholy machine, reproducing and amplifying collective depression and anger. In brief, the virtual world renders individuals even more “individualized,” desensitizes their physical bodies, and traps them in an endless cycle of mindlessly crushing pixelated bodies. Sympathy for the Digital BodyThe world of digital technology feels quite liberating—you can do whatever you want. Today’s media experience can be understood as an engagement with the digital body and the embodied experience of digitized human physicality. However, the relationship between technology and the body appears exploitative, with the latter being reduced to a subordinate of the former. In the face of this bleak reality, introspection into our responsibilities and roles as human beings is more necessary than ever. And it begins with the most fundamental question: what is the body in the 21st century? The body has always been transgressive and political; it isn’t confined to biology and nature. As proven by gender fluidity and cyborgs, the structure of the masculine and feminine, humans and machines, is not as binary as we believe it to be. The concept of the body has become even more expansive as it now includes digital bodies—categorical divisions like the real and the virtual, the material and the immaterial, or fact and fiction don’t matter. These weightless bodies may lack corporeality, but they function as potent and controversial vehicles that carry even greater political weight than real bodies. Today, humanity’s anatomical interest in the body as an object has shifted to a new dimension: the digital body is the new amphitheater—a spectacle, an inquiry, and a reminder that the body mirrors the state of the mind.  With the dismantling of body politics in the digital age, our conception of the body must move towards a harmonious and sustainable integration with technology. Although beauty may still lie in the eye of the beholder, beauty-seekers in the technocentric world must acknowledge that their sensory apparatus is no longer entirely their own but increasingly shaped by technology. Understanding the bodies of the 21st century, therefore, begins with cultivating a sympathetic approach toward the constantly fragmented and violated bodies that exist both on and off screen. A truly appreciative media experience emerges when digital-flesh dualism is dissolved: the body is equally valued in both realms, transcending the aversion to the declining body or the presumed superficiality of the convenient, digital one.

Toxic masculinity and online bullying are among the growing dangers of today’s internet space, and the 2025 Netflix series Adolescence has successfully brought them further into the spotlight. Adolescence situates its story in an English town that has recently witnessed the murder of a teenage schoolgirl, Katie Leonard. Shockingly, the primary suspect turns out to be a 13-year-old boy, Jamie Miller, who attended the same school as Katie. Throughout the four one-take episodes, we are never shown flashbacks of Katie’s past or of the incident itself. Instead, the audience is made to observe the procedural measures taken after Jamie’s arrest and the resonating effects of his actions on his family, school, and neighborhood. As the writer Jack Thorne describes, this is not your typical whodunnit but rather a “whydunit. ” Still, at the end of the series, we are not left with any decisive, concrete answer as to why Jamie is the way he is. Rather, we are all forced to reflect upon a question asked by Jamie’s own father: “How did we make him?”When Internet Replaces RealityThe answer to the question above may be found in the realm of social media. When social media initially took off, it was primarily used to upload photos and texts related to our real lives. It was something that was subsidiary. Nowadays, this relationship between social media and reality has become reversed, as we often mold our lives around what we see on these platforms. For adolescents, who are in the midst of shaping their identity and are more prone to taking the internet’s words as truth, this inversion can have even more profound consequences. Instead of using social media to reflect who they are, adolescents use it as a guideline for who they should be. Moreover, constant exposure to idealized lifestyles via algorithmically amplified messages distorts their self-perception and degrades their self-worth. Increasingly drawn into online spaces, young people, especially boys, are easily exposed to content that promotes toxic masculinity and anti-feminist narratives, where vulnerability is mocked, dominance is glorified, and girls are dehumanized. One such example of misogynistic content introduced in Adolescence is that of the manosphere. The manosphere refers to a loose, informal collection of online communities and blogs centered around male identity, masculinity, and gender roles. While not a unified movement, it includes various subgroups such as incels (“involuntary celibates”) who often express resentment at being sexually rejected by women, and red pillers—people who believe they’ve awakened to harsh truths about women and society. Both ideologies are revealed to be central to Jamie’s actions. For example, detective inspector Luke Bascombe learns from his son, Adam, that a single emoji—a red pill—holds a very different meaning for teenage students. Adam: [Katie] is saying he’s an incel, Dad. Luke: He’s 13. How can you be involuntarily celibate at 13? Who isn’t celibate at 13, huh?Adam: She’s saying he always will be. “You’re an incel. ” You’re gonna be, I don’t know, a virgin forever, basically. And all those people have hearted, which means they’re agreeing with her. Understanding these hidden meanings reveals that Katie’s seemingly innocent comments on Jamie’s posts actually carried less than nice intentions. In this light, we realize that Jamie was, in some ways, another victim of social media’s confusing and toxic discourse. In Episode 3, Jamie meets with a psychologist. The psychologist asks Jamie what the comments Katie left on his Instagram posts mean. Jamie explains that Katie was implying he is an incel. Although he denies being part of such “truth groups,” he expresses agreement with the “80/20 rule,” which states that 80% of women are attracted to 20% of men. Moreover, when asked whether girls find him attractive, Jamie bluntly replies, “Of course not. [. .. ] Because I’m ugly. ” This statement contradicts his earlier claim that he doesn’t see himself as someone whom women dislike, or that he only stumbled upon truth group arguments after “everyone kept going on about it. ” This contradiction perfectly illustrates how Jamie’s seemingly innocent internet surfing eventually spiraled into a detrimental internalization of his insecurities, and how he is not fully aware of it, or is possibly in denial. Interestingly enough, it also reveals how Jamie’s peers have played a significant role in fueling his curiosity about such topics online.  This type of herd mentality is also what ultimately gives Jamie grounds to participate in Katie’s own case of cyberbullying, when intimate photos were passed around the entire school body via Snapchat. While making vulgar remarks on how Katie’s body looked, he defends his actions by saying that “everyone had done so. ” Given that social media thrives on constant sharing, imitation, and performative behavior, often without real-world consequences, it becomes dangerously easy for adolescents to mistake distorted online norms for actual moral consensus. Where to Step In: Is There a Place for Parental Intervention? Throughout the series, the role social media played in the incident is emphasized. Yet, many adults still underestimate just how central these online spaces have become in shaping young minds. Without guidance or critical literacy, adolescents are left vulnerable to belief systems that quietly erode their confidence, empathy, and sense of agency. Accordingly, at the end of the last episode, the question of whether Jamie’s parents, Eddie and Manda Miller, could have done better in guiding his internet behavior is raised:Eddie: [. .. ] Maybe I took my eye off the ball a little bit. No, but he was in his room, weren’t he? We thought he was safe, didn’t we? Didn’t we think he was safe?Manda: Yeah. Eddie: You know, what harm can he do in there? I thought we were doing the right thing.  It is not that Eddie didn’t try his best to raise his children with love and care; he made conscious efforts to avoid becoming like his own violent father. He bought Jamie the computer that he wanted and took him to football practice. His eldest daughter turned out to be just fine. The main issue is that Eddie and Manda failed to communicate with Jamie. They never directly addressed his beliefs, nor did they know that he was being bullied at school. The school did no better. Some may say there is no room for adult intervention and that handling teenagers is impossible, especially with smartphones in their hands. However, this is only an excuse to give up on our next generation, when in fact we should be actively learning to better understand them and guide them toward becoming healthy adults in a rapidly changing world.  DI Bascombe is a prime example of how we may, unknowingly, be short-sighted when acknowledging the complexities of children’s social media use. Even after listening to his son’s explanation regarding the cryptic messages on social media, Bascombe remains skeptical, calling it “a bit of a stretch. ” Yet, what he regards as far-fetched is the very reality teenagers are living and navigating. Adults cannot afford to dismiss aspects of adolescent internet culture as trivial or assume that problems can be solved just by taking their phones away. Instead, we must truly put ourselves in our children’s shoes and understand the meanings and emotions sparked by seemingly minor interactions within the vast sea of online content. Most importantly, we must recognize why children and adolescents are so vulnerable to all types of extreme content—even when it seems absurd to us. Adolescence is infamous for being a period full of risk-taking, reward-seeking tendencies. One of the most significant neurological features of this period is the imbalance between a highly active limbic system, which governs emotional and reward processing, and a still-developing prefrontal cortex, responsible for self-regulation and decision-making. This neurodevelopmental gap makes adolescents particularly sensitive to immediate rewards and social validation, while impairing their ability to fully assess risks and consequences. There are glimpses of this in moments such as when Jamie fails to reason out why he has an Instagram account. He only states that it is necessary to have one to view others’ accounts, but he cannot rationalize why he wants to see others’ posts.  Compounding this vulnerability is the adolescent tendency toward egocentrism, manifesting in phenomena like the imaginary audience—the belief that others are constantly watching and judging. Social media both reinforces and magnifies this belief, creating an environment where adolescents feel perpetually pressured to conform to perceived social norms. At the same time, adolescents experience personal fables—the belief that one’s experiences and feelings are unique, and that no one else can understand them. Jamie’s reply to the question of how he feels about feeling ugly unmasks these mechanisms of his twisted self-perception. He is unable to give a straight answer and only asks:“Well, how would you feel? You don’t know. [. .. ] You’re dead pretty. ”Building Resilience Among ChildrenSo, is there anything we can do to protect children from these vulnerabilities? The most direct approach would be to shield them from hazardous online content via regulation. In fact, some countries, like Australia, have begun implementing legal restrictions on teenagers’ use of socialmedia. Moreover, there are also measures that we, as individuals, can take to help children navigate the virtual world. Beyond merely restricting access, we should focus on mentally equipping the youth to face the overwhelming flood of information online. They must be trained to think critically and resist the pull of mob mentality. Equally important is teaching healthy, growth-oriented views of identity.  Perhaps most importantly, we must recognize adolescents’ profound longing for external recognition and acceptance. Adolescence makes this clear, even in Jamie’s final cry to the psychologist: “Do you like me?” He recalls the lack of validation from his father during soccer practice, while a friend asks DI Bascombe if he was popular with girls as a teenager. The problem is not the desire for approval itself, but that teenagers are now seeking it from unhealthy sources on the internet. That’s why adults must create environments where young people can earn appropriate, meaningful validation. What Jamie did is unacceptable. However, we must confront the fact that it was the negligence of adults that enabled his actions. We cannot brush off Katie’s death as another unlucky tragedy that has nothing to do with us. As Adolescence takes us on a journey through the guilt and confusion felt by Jamie’s parents and teachers, all of us adults are called to question our role in protecting future generations.

Football in KoreaFootball is more than just a sport in South Korea—it's a source of national pride and identity. From the 2002 World Cup semifinals to Son Heung-Min’s global stardom, Korean football has made a name for itself in the global football community. Yet, beneath these successes lies a system that struggles to consistently develop future stars. The Korea Football Association (KFA) has long been plagued by a history of internal fragmentation. The endless internal turmoil within the association has stunted youth development in Korea, forcing some of the brightest talents to leave the country for a better future. If the players begin to lose faith in the KFA and flock out, the overall competitiveness within the nation will dip and lead to weaker performances in international tournaments. The Fragmented Structure of the KFAThe KFA is responsible for overseeing football at all levels in South Korea, from grassroots programs to the senior national team. However, its internal structure has long been marked by instability and division, hampering its ability to fulfill this role effectively. Currently, the association is split into two parties. Led by the current KFA president Chung Mong-Gyu, the Chung faction currently holds the most power within the association, with his position as the chairman of HDC Hyundai Development Company playing a huge role in his power game. The Chung faction’s focus is on maximizing profit from various events organized by the association. Directly locking horns is the “ex-players” group. Composed of former players, this group prioritizes the sport’s technical aspects. Due to this difference, these two parties have always quarreled with each other, rarely able to find common ground. A prime example of this impasse is the recent selection process of the Korean national team’s manager, taking place right after the 2023 Qatar Asian Cup. A task force was assembled and given five months to find three candidates fit to lead the national team back to its former glory. Aiming to utilize their experience as professional players, numerous “ex-players” members were selected. However, it was revealed that the KFA was already leaning towards Hong Myeong-Bo, who did not even make the top three. Ultimately, Hong was appointed as the new manager. This case epitomizes the deep distrust currently plaguing the KFA. How Fragmentation Impacts Youth DevelopmentAt the core of the KFA’s responsibilities lies youth development, and this is where the effects of fragmentation are most evident. The KFA’s divisions have made nurturing young talent an inconsistent process. For instance, ever since its collaboration with the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism in 2008, the KFA has aimed to implement changes like limited playing time for youth players and the creation of 8-player leagues. These changes, meant to prevent injuries, were often halted due to internal backlash. Like this, the KFA is rarely able to implement and maintain necessary changes, leaving the youth programs unable to provide adequate tools for players to flourish. One of the most damaging outcomes of the KFA’s internal fragmentation is the absence of a unified youth development strategy. The growth of amateur football culture is key to the overall development of football in Korea, and the KFA’s efforts in this area have been lacking. Youth programs currently lack clear KFA standards. The programs rely on producing promising young talent for schools and teams to recruit. While this issue exists elsewhere, the “luck” factor plays a larger role in Korea. If more talented players happen to live in a single district, the district will likely receive an unmatched level of extra attention from schools and teams. This leads to various forms of additional support, ranging from equipment to matchday experiences. All these forms of support lead to an inequality in experience among the youth players, which is an issue the KFA must be able to tackle. Another consequence of the KFA’s fragmentation is the "talent drain," a phenomenon where many of South Korea’s bright young footballers choose to leave the country to further their development. Countries like Germany, England, and the Netherlands have become prime destinations for South Korean players seeking opportunities to grow. In the past, players like Lee Young-Pyo and Ki Sung-Yueng proved themselves in Korea before going overseas. Nowadays, more and more talented youngsters are eager to leave Korea, and this compulsion to leave the country reveals deep flaws and distrust in the domestic system. In fact, current superstars like Son Heung-Min and Lee Kang-In have never even spent a single year under the domestic youth program. This leaves people with the impression that the key to success is leaving Korea. This talent drain has significant long-term consequences. It reduces the quality of local players, weakening the domestic K-League. This widens the gap between homegrown and international players. Plus, the cohesion of the national team is also at risk. While international exposure can benefit individual players, heavy reliance on foreign systems leaves many with a weakened sense of connection to their home country. As more players begin to lose this emotional attachment, it will only become tougher for the KFA to elevate the overall quality of domestic football. This would also lead to hardship for the national team to present a united front in international competitions. A Way Forward for the KFAFor decades, football has been a constant source of recreation for South Koreans. While there are other genres of sports like baseball and esports that the country has had global success in, they do not come close to football in terms of the longevity of their success and their nationwide impact. Given how football has such meaning in this country, it is imperative that the KFA finds a way to resolve its ongoing internal conflict. First and foremost, the KFA needs stable and transparent leadership. Constant turnover in executive positions has led to inconsistency and a lack of continuity in policy. Fixed leadership terms and reduced political interference could foster long-term focus. By prioritizing a clear and consistent vision for youth development, the KFA can avoid the short-term thinking that has often derailed progress. This requires a strategic plan that outlines specific goals for youth programs and ensures that future leaders are committed to those goals.  Once stable leadership is in place, a national standard for youth development needs to be established. This would involve the KFA working closely with K-League teams, local academies, and schools to establish a unified curriculum with national benchmarks for coaching, fitness, and technical skills. This way, the KFA can ensure that every young player has access to a high standard of development. Centralized oversight would also help close the gap between elite and underfunded programs, creating a more equitable system for nurturing talent.  Over the past few years, the KFA has been testing out new ways to spotlight underfunded youth programs. There has been an increase in the number of youth tournaments that are sponsored and broadcasted by the KFA, providing more chances for players to showcase their skillset. The KFA has also begun to sponsor former professionals turned influencers like Cho Won-Hee and Kim Young-Kwang to raise awareness for youth football. This is just one example of how the KFA can utilize its various resources to further aid youth players. With these changes, the Korean football community will end up with a healthier football culture. Ideally, if the KFA creates an environment in which players feel like they can reach their full potential, there will be an increase in the number of quality players with emotional ties to the country. Once the number of quality players increases, the national team will be able to come up with various combinations of game plans in tournaments, increasing the chance of good performances. As the national team grows, the fanbase will provide more support by attending various KFA events with greater enthusiasm. The stylish brand of football displayed by the national team in the 2022 Qatar World Cup has already proved how quality football leads to fervent fan support. This performance has reignited the fire in the hearts of many football fans, as they were shown a glimpse of the heights Korean football can reach. Fans have since displayed increased interest in the administrative aspects of the sport, which is a good start for the growth of this nation’s football culture. Rebuilding the Future of South Korean FootballThe Korea Football Association’s internal fragmentation has cast a long shadow over the domestic football scene. Yet, the story of Korean football has always been one of resilience and transformation. Reforming the KFA is more than just an administrative challenge—it is an opportunity to redefine football in South Korea. A united KFA, committed to nurturing homegrown talent, can inspire a new era of success. With the right vision and commitment, South Korea can rise again. The road may be long, but the rewards will be remarkable: a national team that plays with heart, a league that thrives with talent, and a country united through its love of the game. All of this can empower the next generation of athletes and give fans a renewed sense of pride.

We understand the power of gaze almost intuitively from a very young age. One must have heard an adult saying, “How dare you look straight in my eyes?” when growing up. This statement implies that there is a significant difference between the one who can look and who cannot. Bell Hooks explores the dynamic in her acclaimed book Black Looks:“Imagine the terror felt by the child who has come to understand through repeated punishments that one’s gaze can be dangerous. The child who has learned so well to look the other way when necessary. Yet, when punished, the child is told by parents, “Look at me when I talk to you. ” Only, the child is afraid to look. Afraid to look, but fascinated by the gaze. There is power in looking. ” As Hooks explains, as we grow up, we are drawn to the act of gazing. We are constantly told to look or not to look, forced to conform to the power embedded in the dominative gaze. Looking, therefore, is not just a visual exchange but a mechanism of control that shapes our behavior. This dynamic becomes particularly potent during adolescence, a stage when we first experience the pain of growing up. In response, some begin to reclaim the agency of their gaze by looking back, an act of resistance against control and a subversion of power dynamics. As Hooks strongly declares in her book, “Not only will I stare. I want my look to change reality. ” This is the empowering gaze — a gaze that fights against domination and strives to assert its vision of the world.   The concept of gaze is important in cinema because it communicates with the audience in a nonverbal way, guiding their attention and revealing power relations. In coming-of-age films, the gaze often plays a crucial role in navigating the journey of growing up. However, many of these films fail to resonate with real teenagers because they are shaped by an external gaze that imposes authority over their lives. In contrast, House of Hummingbird(Dir. Bora Kim) is a good example of what it means to embody the empowering gaze. We view Seoul in 1994, through the eyes of a 14-year-old Eun-hee. Eun-hee is given the power to direct the film’s gaze, which allows the oppressed teen to enjoy the taste of liberation. Her gaze is not only a source of excitement but also a vessel for the sentiments of insecurity and grief of her generation. By placing the tragic collapse of the Seong-su Bridge as a pivotal moment in the film, the film connects the personal journey of growing up with societal tragedies. Thus Eun-hee’s gaze allows us to see the two aspects of adolescence: the influence of the dominative power in daily life and the lingerings of historical trauma. By examining this specific gaze, we step closer to figuring out how we can remove the heavy burden that weighs on the shoulders of the future operators of the world.  Firstly, Hummingbird mirrors the lives of teens pressured by the system — at school, at home, and even among peers, whom they constantly struggle to keep up. In many coming-of-age films, teenagers are often objects of observation, while the audience has the authority to exercise power over them as observers. However, this film turns over the conventional gaze by granting Eun-hee agency over how she is perceived. This empowering gaze is prominent in the way the camera views her physicality by focusing on her body as a source of vibrant movements.  Eun-hee’s bodily movements, particularly in the film’s dance scenes, exemplify the empowering gaze. At a dance club, Eun-hee gathers her friends under the dazzling mirror ball and dances to the sound of banging music — swinging her limbs and spinning around in a way that feels more like romping than dancing. Later in the film, Eun-hee dances alone in the living room, madly jumping up and down, flinging her arms in the air. Her disorganized moves are somewhat experimental: the manic stomping, tossing, and turning is a form of risk-taking. It’s not just dancing, but rather an expression of rage and freedom: a declaration of breaking free from the oppressive aura surrounding her.  The gaze further expands the sense of possession of space, resisting the prevalent hierarchical power through her movements. At school and home, the authoritative figures impose standards of female demureness and student-like manners on the schoolgirls, punishing them if they deviate from those lines. When Eun-hee and her friends sit in a classroom, they must constantly prove their values through conformity. But when they enter the dance club, they no longer feel the need to prove themselves to anyone. Similarly, the living room — a place where the family gathers at the end of the day — is often steeped in a silent atmosphere shaped by patriarchy. When Eun-hee dances alone, however, she briefly but fully dominates the space. When Eun-hee dances, she owns the moment: she can thrive and turn the room into a place for dance, not for punishment.  By reclaiming the gaze, Eun-hee dismantles the dominant power that once pervaded these spaces. Just like this, we need to provide opportunities for teenagers to realize that they can do the same. Their bodies create movement, and their actions fill up a space . There are not many spaces where teens can express their honest feelings and desires. But they do need physical spaces where they can be free from the external gaze and be led by their autonomous gaze; they need somewhere to breathe. Therefore, society should be ready to give up the position of guiding, supervising, and judging the teenage demographic. Only when we allow them to move their bodies in whatever way— from dancing and singing to running, screaming, jumping, and smoking (all of which Eun-hee does in the film) — can we awaken the sense of joy of growing up.   While the empowering gaze liberates Eun-hee individually, it also serves as a lens to examine societal grief and loss. The film delves deeper into the historical scale the gaze reflects. Teens grow up within the dominant system, but a much broader concept weighs on them — history. A professor of historical theory Frank Ankersmit once argued that history is “a companion permanently closer to us than even our parents, our wives, and husbands, or our most intimate friends,” stating  that “all of our life is a continuous fight with history. ” To better understand the struggles of teens, we must peer into their intimate relationship with history, especially its emotionally devastating aspects.  We grow up amidst recurring tragedies, and one of the most enduring struggles we need to “fight” against is the permanent mark that they leave on us. At the heart of Hummingbird exists the historically traumatic accident of Seong-su Bridge. The collective experience of the tragedy is represented by Eun-hee’s individual memories. Eun-hee’s gaze captures “the emotional baggage of the time” by encapsulating what is left after the tragedy. Eun-hee loses her only sanctuary, teacher Young-ji, because of the accident. Young-ji was the first person to tell Eun-hee to stand up against her abusive older brother, helping her realize that she was, in fact, important. The film doesn’t include dramatic scenes of the bridge collapsing nor Young-ji’s death. Instead, we notice her absence. In one scene, Young-ji’s mother1 wonders: “How can that bridge collapse? It was such a huge bridge…” Next,  we see Eun-hee staring at the pictures of Young-ji on the wall, while the tidy, brightly lit room that once belonged to Young-ji seems so vacant without her. The camera also pans to the half-broken bridge in the middle of the Han River, and then to Eun-hee’s face as she gazes at the sight. In short, the film shows us the people left behind and the ruin itself, asking us an important question that resonates with us even today.   How can we — survivors or descendants of the tragedy — overcome this personal and collective devastation when the traces of death still linger in the air?Here, the empowering nature of reclaiming the gaze is highlighted: we must  become the main agents of “looking. ” We are not just spectators, but historical witnesses. Though we may not be able to prevent major tragedies as individuals, it’s our task to decide what and how to remember the history. As witnesses, we can take part in the gradual progress from mourning to healing. Thus, “emotional baggage” does not need to hinder our growth. Instead, it brings us to recognize the importance of remembering. Some historical catastrophes may be painful to even think about in the present, but the only way to reconciliation is in the action of seeing and remembering, not forgetting.   House of Hummingbird portrays not just a private story of a young girl but also the profound entanglement of individual and collective trauma. Although set in the past, the film deals with timeless themes, reinforcing the connection between history and contemporary realities. Each generation carries the sorrow and shock of its time, passing them on to the next. Growing children are burdened by the collective sorrow of society, thus the journey of growing up is a kind of traumatic experience that accumulates across generations.   Where can we find solace in this fractured world? While writing this article, I came across the Nobel Prize lecture in literature by Han Kang, who wrote beautiful works that revisit the pain of our history. She mentioned two following questions: “Can the past help the present? Can the dead save the living?” These questions resonate with us through and through. The past is in the past and the present seems to be merely an echo of the past — how can they take us out from the pit of helplessness? Perhaps the answer to all of these questions lies in the act of looking. Our gaze connects the dead with the living and brings hope to our approaching future. The quiet, watchful gaze bears the scars of the past not as a burden but as proof of resistance and resilience. So, don’t be afraid to look back. The act itself may seem silent and restrained, but it can be one of the most compelling and courageous acts that one can do to bring change to the world. This is the strength that every Eun-hee on the Earth deserves to acknowledge: unceasingly beating their wings, and stepping forward as witnesses to their history.

Treat yourself with… Need a break? Buy our product Does social media promote self-love, or does it promote self-indulgence? We already know the answer. Love has become equated to the act of buying, and self-love can be achieved through purchasing bath bombs, colognes, scented candles, and perhaps some flowers. But love should not and cannot be commodified. Moreover, independence and self-care should not rely on money. The internet unites everyone through separation: social media proves that you can be connected to a million different ‘friends’ and be completely alone. We have lost a sense of self, a sense of community, and our perception of what love is has completely been distorted. Furthermore, social media acts as the basis for consumerism with ads and sponsors by big companies.  While social media connects us, this connection is arbitrary. We are connected to each other’s information; not to each other. Sending a friend request is much easier than walking up to someone to talk to them, and our sense of community has been reduced to the click of a button. The distorted sense of true relationships is reflected in our distorted understanding of self-love. Merriam-Webster defines self-love as “an appreciation of one’s own worth or virtue”. Sara M. Bosworth further mentions in her article, “The Power of Self-Love”, that “self-love begins when we observe our actions and words with compassion as if we were our own best friend. ” With the rising awareness of mental health, self-love has become an essential aspect in our lives. Self-love is often linked with self-care, and the term is famously used by Audre Lorde. In Audre Lorde’s A Burst of Light (1988), she touches on the struggles of black women, ‘American apartheid’, her experience with cancer, motherhood, sisterhood, and so much more in her string of profound essays. Lorde introduces self-love as an act of “resistance” and the act of self-care as an act not of “self-indulgence”, but as an act of “self-preservation” and “political warfare. ” This is emphasised especially when talking about her experience with cancer and receiving treatment. The terms ‘self-love’ and ‘self-care’ are seen as powerful acts in reclaiming the black female body, which has been abused and exploited for hundreds of years. Lorde’s fight against cancer can be seen as an extension of her fight against racism, sexism, and homophobia. Self-love and self-care are used to uplift the oppressed community of black women—it does not end with the self. One of the important questions raised in A Burst of Light is: “How do we deal across our differences of community, time, place, and history? In other words, how do we learn to love each other while we are embattled on so many fronts?” Lorde emphasises the sense of community between black women and how solidarity is accomplished through togetherness. When self-love and self-care are used to uplift the oppressed individual, the uplifted individual signifies the beginning of an uplifted community. When self-love is practised correctly, it results in an outward expression of love. Love starts with the self, but its power is truly realised in the act of togetherness. The power of one lies in the fact that one individual has the power to change one’s community. Self-love is a way of gaining back the power that was taken away by the oppressor, a way of liberating the oppressed mind, and this uplifting power spreads through solidarity. Self-love and self-care cannot stop with the self—it has to be extended into the community for its full power to be realised. Self-love and self-care are powerful acts of defiance—however, this meaning easily becomes lost and misunderstood. Our understanding of self-love and self-care is heavily influenced by consumerism. Self-care is no longer an act of defiance, but an act of buying and consuming. Furthermore, our polluted understanding of the self distorts the sense of empowerment and solidarity. How we define ourselves is directly related to how we love ourselves. Recently, a social media trend showed the rise of the ‘trauma candy salad dump’. The trend originates from the ‘candy salad dump’ trend where people introduced themselves while dumping bags of sweets into a large bowl.   ‘Trauma candy salad dump’ reflects the distortion of self-perception, as the trend shows the change from self-introduction to trauma dumping. The problem with ‘trauma candy salad dumping’ lies in the fact that heavy traumas are addressed in a light-hearted way in what seems like a ‘competition’ of who has been the most traumatised. Social media has become a platform where we can openly discuss our mental health—and that comments on our commendable progress in removing mental health stigma. The problem is that we have started defining ourselves only by our traumas and mental illnesses. It is true that experiences such as one’s trauma and mental illness largely shape one’s identity. However, this cannot become one’s key definer. We live in an era of identity loss—we do not know who we are, and we are desperate to ‘find’ ourselves.  Casually listening to the trauma of a stranger can feel strangely uncomfortable, but this has to do more with the way social media works rather than the telling of one’s trauma itself. Social media causes us to become desensitised to each other and to sensitive topics. People merely become a means of entertainment and consumption on social media, and so we consume others’ traumas and slowly become numb to them. The problem is that this desensitisation affects our real relationships. We lose the ability to connect and communicate with others. We interact more on social media where we observe and consume, rather than in real relationships where the effort is reciprocated. Maytal Eyal states in her 2023 Time Magazine article titled “Self-Love is Making Us Lonely”:“To navigate the harsh terrain of radical individualism, self-love has emerged as our tool for survival. But it can come at a cost, especially when the type of self-love we turn to is the kind that has been manipulated by corporate ad campaigns and social media.  In its commodified form, self-love is not really self-love at all; instead, it’s more like self-sabotage, convincing us to hyperfocus on ourselves at the expense of connecting with others. ”As Eyal mentions, self-love has become a means of “self-sabotage” where we isolate ourselves “at the expense of connecting with others”. It is true that factors such as COVID-19 have contributed to the development of an unhealthy sense of self-love and severed relationships. However, self-love that has especially been “manipulated by corporate ad campaigns and social media” advocates “self-sabotage”, tainting the initial meaning of empowerment and solidarity. What do our distorted sense of self and polluted sense of love say about us? Eyal continues to touch on the problem of self-love, mental health and loneliness: “Past research has also documented the vicious feedback loop of consumption and loneliness: When we purchase material possessions (even in the name of self-love), we surprisingly feel lonely, so we try and soothe ourselves through buying more, but this only makes us feel worse. This takes a toll on our health, as loneliness has been linked to increased inflammation, heart disease, and even premature death. ”While the link between self-love and “premature death” can seem quite extreme, Eyal’s claim about the unhealthy effects of the distorted understanding of self-love is important, especially in the sense that it propagates loneliness. Without a sense of community, self-love amounts to nothing but isolation.  Self-love was a tool for minorities to combat oppression. The Black Consciousness Movement of South Africa and the Black is Beautiful Movement of America are both examples of self-love uplifting the community. Even when the white oppressors deemed black people worthless, black pride focused on regaining this power through an emphasis on elevating the self and therefore the community. The rise of self-love proves that there has been and that there is a huge absence of reciprocated love and togetherness, causing us to search for this love within ourselves. In other words, an unhealthy sense of community and a history of oppression has caused so much trauma that we have lost the ability to love each other, and self-love is a way of reclaiming this love. Even though the notion of self-love and self-care started off as a means of empowerment and solidarity, it has regressed into a means of consumerism and loneliness.  How can we reclaim a healthy sense of self and a healthy sense of love? The act of self-love is an act of defiance—a refusal to be defined as inferior by the oppressor; an act of “political warfare” as mentioned by Audre Lorde. However, self-love has turned into a trifling commodity, nothing more than a product on social media. The regression of self-love further comments on the polluted sense of self and the inability to love. Reclaiming the power of self-love through regaining a sense of community is essential. Lorde’s question about overcoming differences is pivotal in our reclamation of self-love and community: “…how do we learn to love each other while we are embattled on so many fronts?” We need to learn to talk about our differences in a healthy manner, in safe spaces. Too often, we hide our differences or disregard them completely in fear of being misunderstood and alienated.  Identity is complex, and so are love and our relationships. Redefining self-love simultaneously as an act of community and an act of independence is important. Self-love does not just imply the purchase of bath bombs and scented candles. Self-love does not entail isolation and avoidance of responsibility for ‘peace’. Self-love is an act of power achieved through self-care. It is stating that you are of power and value, when systems of oppression, such as social media dominated by consumerism, say you are worthless. It is the act of uplifting the individual and therefore the whole community in solidarity. Can we really buy this kind of powerful love? Do we really believe we can achieve love through consumerism? The commodification of love speaks to the instability of social relationships. We need to rebuild the sense of community through self-love and self-care. While these terms may allude to an inward expression of love, the resulting love will always be an outward expression.  

Say not, “Why were the former days better than these?” For it is not from wisdom that you ask this. (Ecclesiastes 7:10)Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment. (Guatama Buddha)“I think in the future you'll be able to save and replay memories. ” These were the words of Elon Musk in 2020 as he announced plans to test his brain-computer interface (BCI, also known as Neuralink)  technology on humans. “I mean, this is obviously sounding increasingly like a Black Mirror episode. But I guess they're pretty good at predicting,” he joked. Just imagine that: a world where everyone is so obsessed with their past that they spend most of their lives replaying the “glory days. ” Sounds a little…dystopian, right? As Musk mentioned though, such a reality may not be that far off in the future. In fact, it might already be upon us.   For example, consider how easy it is to curate and rewatch one’s favorite moments on the Internet. As such, new technologies have made it increasingly convenient to present certain memories in a more idealized manner. Yet, whether this convenience is a change for the better remains contestable. In this sense, Celine Song’s 2023 film, Past Lives, sheds light on how familiar technologies all around us can be utilized to arouse nostalgia. It does so through both its plot and its actual production process, reminding us of how technology has already been helping us “save and replay memories” starting as early as two decades ago. Ultimately, the film gives us a chance to reflect on our own use and awareness of modern technology.  Song’s film Past Lives gives insight into how our sense of nostalgia is easily induced through technological measures. In the screenplay, the audience is introduced to Na Young Moon, a normal twelve-year-old child living in Korea. She starts developing a strong friendship with Jung Hae Sung, one of her classmates, but the budding relationship is cut short when Na Young’s parents suddenly decide to move to Canada. Na Young picks out a new name, “Nora”, and grows up in a completely new space. After twelve years, she manages to get back in touch with Hae Sung through Facebook and Skype. However, the two go their separate ways once more, until they eventually find each other again in New York City after another twelve years have passed. Only this time, Nora is married and Hae Sung is simply visiting as a tourist. At the very end, they return to their respective lives, embracing the fact that they must fully close a certain chapter behind them. Movie Production Technology: The True Source Behind Synthetic NostalgiaThough less obvious than Neuralink, Past Lives is a prime example of how technology facilitates our infatuation with the past. This is revealed in the production process of the movie itself. A major characteristic of Past Lives is the constant use of static shots. The photo-like images fill in the spaces between the movie’s main events and dialogue. Thus, the flow of the story consists more of a sequence of static scenes rather than dynamic movements. Despite this lack of dynamism, the audience is still able to follow the flow of the story and form a specific construct of Nora and Hae Sung’s memories. Connecting the dots in someone’s life based on only a few photos closely resembles how we reconstruct our own past and that of others by looking at old photos and moments. Though this is fine with a movie which is a product to be digested and enjoyed, would it be acceptable when it comes to our real lives? That is, can our lives be fully comprehended through just a few photos? Arguably, no, because photos tend to leave out the less memorable, but still equally important moments in our lived experience. Everyone’s lives are constantly playing out by the millisecond, making it impossible to condense reality into a few snippets caught on camera. So, even if we look back on fond memories, it is crucial to remember that the past does not really consist of only those good moments. Rather, we are selectively choosing to remember what we want, however we want. Another important factor was Song and cinematographer Shabier Kirchner’s choice to use a 35mm 3-perf P-Vintage film camera. Historically regarded as one of the most traditional films in the industry, 35mm films instantly are implicative of old Hollywood movies. The usage of a 3-perf setting along with the P-vintage lens produces a grainier image with a vintage vibe. This grittiness emulates a realistic texture within a dreamlike atmosphere, naturally heightening the film’s nostalgic nature. This perfectly mirrors the various filters we find on photo editing apps today. For example, one of the most popular editing apps in Korea, SNOW, offers countless options for producing a precise effect in our pictures. And a large portion of these aim at creating nostalgic atmospheres, similar to that in Past Lives. In fact, these filters are quite literally categorized as “film”, “retro Seoul”, or “dreamy”. This demonstrates how accessible technology enables the manipulation of our memories. Last, but certainly not least, movies—and all types of media these days—utilize music to deliberately tailor a specific ambience. Composers Daniel Rossen and Chris Bear touch on this whilst explaining the process of creating the Past Lives soundtrack.   “We talked a lot about trying to create a sense of being between worlds or being between versions of your own life—in a way like being stuck in an almost liminal kind of space,” Rossen said in an interview with A24 Music. The two accomplished this end by “doing these kinds of chord progressions that don’t quite ever resolve”. Basically, the soundtrack manages to fabricate an “open-ended, middle-ground feeling”. Thus, audio was central to designing the nostalgia of an unresolved past in the film. Again, this is something we can easily emulate via digital apps. Take Instagram, for example. In 2023, Instagram expanded its music feature to carousel posts—something that had previously been available only on Stories and Reels. This is a clear indication of how prominent music has become in shaping our intended 'aesthetics' online. All in all, Past Lives brings to mind how nostalgia can be concocted out of technical methods that are now easily accessible.  Past Lives: A Personal Testimony of How Technology Facilitates NostalgiaThe synopsis of Past Lives also elicits a strong sense of longing for the past, as we witness both Nora and Hae Sung clinging on to their past recollections and the possibility of reunion. But let us take a step back and examine exactly how and why Nora and Hae Sung were once more drawn to one another. After all, twelve years should be more than enough to let something go, right? Yet, in a world dominated by the internet, that is not the case. As the saying goes: ‘Once on the internet, always on the internet’. Why would we ever feel the need to forget the past when we can preserve an illusion of it for eternity?Likewise, the most pivotal force that kept the possibility of reunion open in Past Lives was always the technology at their disposal. Hae Sung published a Facebook post searching for Nora; Nora saw said post and messaged Hae Sung; the pair conversed via text messages and video chats. All these tools allowed them to continue exploring their relationship further, despite being on opposite sides of the globe. If Nora and Hae Sung had been just a generation older, their relationship would most likely have remained truncated. This highlights a crucial aspect of today’s generation: our technology does not simply make ‘what-ifs’ happen; it enables us to repeat and, more importantly, reconstruct our pasts. Our iPhones present auto-generated videos of old photos overlayed with lively music. Instagram’s “On This Day” function automatically displays stories from the same day, one to several years ago. And how easy is it to add some type of reminiscent audio? All these features point to a prevalent phenomenon in our era of technology and information: recalling and reshaping memories is becoming easier than ever before. Even moments that should naturally fade with time can instead be magnified and idealized with just the right editing. Fortunately, Nora is fully aware that the Hae Sung in her mind must be different from the real-life Hae Sung. When her husband questions whether she is attracted to Hae Sung, she clarifies: “He was just this kid in my head for such a long time. And then he was just this image on my laptop […] but I don't think that's attraction. ” Like Nora, we too must stay conscious of how we tend to easily warp our perception of certain memories. More importantly, we must recognize the profound impact digital devices have on our perceptions as technology continues to permeate our everyday lives. How Past Lives Breaks the Illusion of NostalgiaFortunately, Past Lives involves a realistic plotline in which Nora refuses to be trapped by her illusions of wishful hoping. During the first reunion after the initial twelve years apart, Nora suggests that she and Hae Sung take a break from their daily online conversations. Nora: I think we should stop contacting each other for a while. Hae Sung: Why?Nora: I’ve immigrated twice before settling here in New York. I want to make something out of this. I want to commit to my life here, but I’m always searching up flights to Seoul every single day. Hae Sung: So, you don’t want to speak to me anymore?Nora: Just for now. Her reasoning is clear. She is fully aware that her real life is distinct from the stuff on her laptop screen—whether it’s conversations with Hae Sung or plane tickets to Korea. Of course, some might argue that leaving everything behind to pursue romance is always an option. However, both Nora and Hae Sung are at a stage in their lives where they wish to further develop their identities from their present state, rather than thaw the identities frozen in bygone experiences. At the end of the day, they choose to stay faithful to their respective presents because they understand that growth and maturity require them to embrace what is real and immediate, rather than dwell on what was and could have been.   If this is where I ended up. .. this is where I'm supposed to be. Keep An Eye Out for Synthetic NostalgiaWith the expedient growth of technology, it has become far more convenient to conjure up idealizations of our past. The techniques for doing so are becoming ever more sophisticated, seamlessly weaving nostalgia into our daily lives. But by offering tools to revisit the past, technology blurs the line between genuine memory and curated experience. As we immerse ourselves further in these digital constructs, it becomes essential to reflect on how much of our nostalgia is truly authentic and how much is a product of carefully crafted illusions. In view of this, Past Lives serves as a poignant reminder of how technology reshapes our emotional landscapes. Interestingly, as a movie, Past Lives itself is not innocent of evoking synthetic nostalgia via high-tech methods. Yet, it balances this by presenting characters like Nora and Hae Sung, who remain firmly aware of the distinction between their idealized memories and their present realities. Nora, in particular, understands that growth requires staying grounded in the now, even when reviving the past feels tempting. So, just as Nora and Hae Sung did, we too must confront the allure of nostalgia in our own lives to mature as individuals.   And as with all social phenomena, the best approach lies in awareness. Try asking yourself the following: How often do the media and technology around you deceptively portray the past as a paradise lost? And how often have you stopped to actively ask yourself, “Was the past really as good as they say?” By staying mindful of how technology shapes our perceptions, we can shatter the perfect illusions of lost times, recognizing them for what they truly are: stories we tell ourselves, often shaped by the tools we use to remember.

“Come with me and you’ll be in a world of pure imagination…”Timothée Chalamet enchanted the whole world with his performance in Wonka. The film provided our lonely world with just the thing it needed—hope. The colourful world of dreams, delightful sweets, and exotic chocolates provided the perfect happy ending. However, the film provides false hope, and for all its colour and sugar, the narrative behind the chocolate in Wonka does not have such a sweet aftertaste, nor does it have a sweet origin. There is a clear colonial narrative behind the history of chocolate and the film, which is concealed for our untainted enjoyment and innocent childhood. After roaming the world for seven years to look for special chocolate ingredients, Wonka finally decides to settle and start his business to achieve his dream—opening a chocolate shop to his name in the Galeries Gourmet. Starting off penniless, Wonka is immediately swindled by the cunning city and scammed into becoming an indentured servant (for twenty-seven years, four months, and sixteen days), laundering and ironing sheets. The audience ventures along with the penniless, imprisoned Wonka to see how he eventually achieves his chocolate dream. Although Wonka is unfairly imprisoned, scammed into forced work and later nearly killed by chocolate (literally, a near “death by chocolate”), the true injustice surrounding chocolate is veiled, even within the film. It is well known that cocoa beans — the main ingredient of chocolate, trace back to cocoa trees which are found in South America (Amazon), Western Africa, and South-East Asia. West Africa notably produces the vast majority of cocoa beans that are consumed in the world market. However, most of the world-renowned chocolatiers of today are situated in European countries, and this is a problem. Cocoa beans are grown in Africa, but European countries are the ones who make the most profit out of them. One of the most famous countries for chocolate is Belgium, and I remember being extremely unsettled when I visited in July of 2023. The country’s incorporation of a colonial item into its culture and tourism seemed unethical. Throughout the whole trip, it was interesting to note that most of the tourist districts focused on selling chocolate. Even when planning the trip, a lot of the tourist websites emphasised the world-renowned chocolatiers. In the peaceful country lined with cobblestone, it seemed easy to forget the innocent blood the country is built on.  Near the end of the 19th century, King Leopold II of Belgium had colonised what we know today as Congo. The main items of extraction were ivory and rubber, and this was done through the forced enslavement of the Congolese people. King Leopold II even went as far as to cut off the hands of slaves who tried to run away and ransacked the country of its resources. Britannica further explains the cruelty and injustices of King Leopold II:“The regime, under Leopold’s unrestrained personal control, became notorious for its treatment of the Congolese. Forced labour was used to gather wild rubber, palm oil, and ivory. Beatings and lashings were used to force villages to meet their rubber-gathering quotas, as was the taking of hostages: one method employed by Leopold’s agents was kidnapping the families of Congolese men, who were then coerced into trying to meet work quotas (often unattainable) in order to secure the release of their families [. .. ] Brutality was widespread in mines and on plantations. The population of the entire state is said to have declined from some 20 million to 8 million” (Britannica, 2023).  King Leopold II exercised great cruelty on Congo, but this cruelty persists today in the form of neo-colonisation; Western countries continue to exploit their previous colonies through a pacified form, so that they can continuously profit from them. The legacy of colonialism is still relevant today, which is a sad truth as it means that we are still turning a blind eye to cruelty, discrimination, and injustice.  Belgium’s fame for chocolate began around the 20th century, but Belgium was already extracting Congo’s resources starting from the 1880s. Belgium was able to export great amounts of cocoa beans from the cocoa trees in Congo. In other words, Belgium acquired the world-renowned reputation for great, fine chocolate through the exploitation and enslavement of Congo. The problem is that Belgium continues to profit from Congo’s cocoa beans, and chocolate is only the tip of the iceberg—the colonial structures embedded into Congo’s financial, political, and cultural systems continue to exploit the country’s people and resources.  Belgium’s chocolate is a prime example of how colonisers are still unjustly exploiting colonies. While in Belgium, I was shocked to see how this colonial narrative became something normal and accepted. As long as Belgium’s legacy of chocolate lives on, Congo’s painful history will persistently follow. We need to be conscious of the history of colonisation behind chocolate, and the neo-colonisation that still takes place today. The need and understanding for ethical chocolate are essential because we have been at the receiving end of the sweet treats wrought from the pain of others for too long.  Let’s take a look at Wonka again. With a short glimpse into the cruel colonial truth about chocolate, there are a few things we need to view differently. When Wonka reveals his chocolate for the first time in the Galeries Gourmet, there is a neo-colonial narrative which we should not overlook. Wonka sings the following song at the Galeries Gourment to reveal his fine invention:In a jungle near MumbaiThere’s a little hoverflyWhose wings go at a thousand flaps per sec and that’s no lieThese microscopic fleasLike chocolate more than leavesAnd when asked nicely, Lay precisely one little egg in each of theseWhen it hatches from its shellIt gives a happy yell, Whoo-hoo!How thrilling to be living in a chocolate hotelIt beats its wings with gleeAnd then, as you will seeThe chocolate will levitate and float most gracefully!(from Wonka, “You’ve Never Had Chocolate Like This (Hoverchos)”)Wonka’s “hoverchoc” contains the hoverfly captured near the jungle in Mumbai. Additionally, the chocolate contains marshmallows “Harvested from the mallow marshes of Peru” and caramel “salted with the bittersweet tears of a Russian clown” and cherries “cherry-picked by the pick of the cherry pickers from the Imperial Gardens in Japan. ” One notable thing is that the countries mentioned are not European and are heavily exoticised and portrayed as the “other” from a Eurocentric perspective. Wonka mentions that the hoverflies are happy to be taken from their original homes, imprisoned in chocolate, eaten, and pooped out from the rear. The problem is that Wonka is creating more distance between what is foreign and familiar to the Western audience and emphasising the Eurocentric exoticism myth. The problematic myth, however, is watered down through imaginary and absurd concepts such as the “hoverfly”, the “mallow marshes”, the “bittersweet tears of a clown” and “the pick of the cherry pickers”. There is another problem: the Oompa-Loompas. Wonka (who is evidently white) steals cacao beans from Oompa land, and eventually “enslaves” the Oompa-Loompa (played by Hugh Grant) at the end of the film to work for his factory. The way the Oompa-Loompas are portrayed is reminiscent of how the colonisers used to describe the native people of the colonies: inhumane, uneducated and barbaric. The Oompa-Loompas are green in colour, abnormally small, and follow a culture different to European customs and traditions. The danger is that the audience is positioned to view the Oompa-Loompas as foreign and sub-human, so the explicit slavery and exploitation becomes downplayed as if it were something normal. The relationship between Wonka and the Oompa-Loompa is portrayed as comical; absurdity once again acts as an agent that waters down the danger of the colonial narrative, as the “hoverchoc” did.  Furthermore, the problem regarding the Chief-of-Police needs to be addressed. The Chief-of-Police initially seems to be a good guy who humbly attends to his job. However, the audience is soon introduced to the ugly truth: that the Chief-of-Police has been taking bribes in the form of chocolate to do ‘small’ favours for the three chocolatiers dominating the city. The Chief-of-Police gradually becomes more corrupt, and this is shown through a visual representation. The Chief-of-Police grows larger and larger, almost to a stage where he cannot even walk properly, and the “small” favours become not so small as he is asked to murder Wonka. Although we are critical towards the corrupt Chief-of-Police, we fail to realise that the Chief-of-Police is simply a reflection of ourselves: we take chocolate as a bribe, ignoring the injustice for a single moment of enjoyment. Wonka ends with Willy Wonka and the Oompa-Loompa entering a yet-to-be chocolate factory that is magically built through a song. Before Wonka isolates himself in his new chocolate factory, headed towards a new dream, a strong sense of loneliness remains as Wonka is left alone after helping those around him return to their loved ones. Wonka is left alone with the Oompa-Loompa as his only companion. They leave together and decide to work together, although the roles of master and labourer are clear. The ending of the film seems to be a happy one. However, there once again needs to be a critical understanding of Wonka’s factory as a colonial symbol. In Christopher Columbus’ 1493 Letter of ‘Discovery’, there is a huge emphasis on the “beautiful” nature of the “wonderful” land. The ‘new’ land is idealised, as a neo-Eden paradise with “the greatest variety of trees reaching to the stars. ” The craze of the quote-unquote New World (which was clearly inhabited even before Columbus arrived) and the highly idealised depiction of the land is reminiscent of Wonka’s “world of pure imagination” where colourful treats dissipate all worries and problems. Wonka’s ‘chocolate kingdom’ is finalised through his chocolate factory, and the colonial message this sends cannot be ignored.  So what should we do? Not eating chocolate for the rest of our lives is too extreme. Fortunately, there is an alternative – ethical chocolate. Ethical Consumer says the following about the unethical nature of chocolate: “The majority of the world’s cocoa is grown by small farmers in West Africa, where it’s the source of livelihood for millions of people. But cocoa farmers receive barely any of the chocolate industry’s $100 billion revenue: estimates range between 6% and 11%. Few farmers can afford chocolate and many have never tasted it, with over half of Ivory coast’s cocoa farmers living below the global poverty line, and their countries taste virtually none of the industry’s profits either” (Ethical Consumer).  Most of the chocolate we consume today is produced through unethical means  established through colonization.  Ethical Consumer provides the following chart of ethical and unethical chocolate: Adequate Cocoa Sourcing Rating (Ethical Consumer)Inadequate Cocoa Sourcing Rating (Ethical Consumer)Inadequately sourced cocoa brands currently dominate the mainstream market. As chocolate also involves problems such as deforestation and child labour, considering the ethicality of cocoa sourced is important when it comes to buying chocolate. Buying Fairtrade International or Rainforest Alliance certified chocolate allows for adequately sourced cocoa to be consumed ethically. As most chocolate we can find on the market in any corner store is inadequately sourced, there needs to be a higher demand for ethically sourced chocolate. It is realistically difficult to consciously look for ethically produced chocolate, but we cannot ignore the history of pain behind chocolate which remains today.  The overlooked colonial narrative in the sensational film Wonka reflects the lack of consciousness about chocolate's real-life, colonial history. We vaguely attend to it but choose to overlook the painful past for a short moment of sweet bliss. The accumulation of small changes amounts to big changes, which is why we cannot overlook or gloss over even the smallest injustices. Chocolate, although seemingly faultless, carries a bitter, dark and unjust truth which we cannot ignore. Although the market for ethically sourced cocoa is relatively small, it has the possibility to grow. The history of pain, exploitation and slavery persists and we cannot let this continue.   

The sun shone brightly on June 1, the street between Jonggak and Euljiro 1-ga Stations lit up with the colors of the rainbow. Dozens of tents lined the street and thousands of people waved brightly colored signs to celebrate the 25th Seoul Queer Culture Festival (SQCF). From the smiling faces and exuberant atmosphere, it would be difficult to imagine such an event as a wellspring of political controversy. However, despite its quarter-century history in South Korea, the SQCF and LGBTQ issues in general have been highly controversial. Queer Festivals, anti-discrimination laws, and marriage equality are contentious political matters, while online discussions routinely devolve into dirty fights. As a proud ally—someone who is not part of the LGBTQ community but supports it—I wish to focus on why LGBTQ issues have become such a volatile subject and my proposal for mediation of this problem. Hate groups commonly slander queer festivals as “obscene festivals”. Some of my university peers regularly call gay people “perverted freaks”. The Seoul government routinely rejects SQCF’s permit applications on the grounds that it “violates social norms”. You would think from this treatment that the SQCF is some obscene, profane event. But the reality is that the SQCF is an inviting place where friends, families, and individuals celebrate queer culture. At the festival, we can see: college friends running a tent for their college club, students exploring tents run by foreign embassies and human rights groups, and families with little children waving pride flags are the scenery of the SQCF. Some of the most heartwarming scenes come from Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG) Korea, an ally group made up of parents of LGBTQ people. They offer free hugs to anyone at the festival, a comfort for those who have been pushed away by their families because of their sexual orientation. The religious community is also sizable, with many Catholic, Protestant, Buddhist, and other religious groups holding prayers and blessings for those who cannot receive them elsewhere. For religious LGBTQ people, these prayers provide moments of deep comfort. Religious ceremonies, song and dance performances, human rights booths, and foreign embassies all create an environment of love, safety, and acceptance, not the sexual imagery that people assume. Participating in a Pride festival cannot lead you to the conclusion that they are “obscene festivals”. Another common line of attack against LGBTQ events is the question, “Why do they show up in public places and disturb the peace?” When the first Daejeon Queer Festival was announced this year, it faced such opposition. Many supposed-moderates often use this argument. They say they have no problem with the LGBTQ community but only wish they wouldn’t make a public scene. But if you are willing to accept people only when they stay quiet and out of sight, you are not being as moderate as you believe. LGBTQ people hide their true selves from society 364 days a year; celebrating one day of Pride is not “making a scene”. All members of society have the right to exist as their true selves. Saying that LGBTQ people need to hide themselves for others’ convenience is discriminatory. To the outsider, Pride Parades and LGBTQ struggles can be just another annoying headline or eyesore. But to the people they affect, these festivals represent the hope of being able to live as an equal member of society. Many people miss this humane aspect of Pride events. Pride festivals are safe spaces for all people to celebrate who they are. The inappropriate imagery associated with Pride Festivals is an unfair representation intended to silence the movement. As most people only see LBTQ people through media depiction, they develop incorrect ideas of what the community is like. This leads to biases, fear, hate, and alienation of LGBTQ people from society. LGBTQ people are reduced to headlines and political debates that people want to avoid. But LGBTQ people lead lives just like everyone else. They go to school, go to work, have families, make friends, laugh, cry, love, and hate just the same. Any conflict resolution for LGBTQ issues requires that people understand this. In short, due to media bias and political alienation, people dehumanize the LGBTQ community people. Instead of being seen as autonomous individuals, they are perceived as an annoyance and an obscenity. But you cannot know people through news articles, dramas, or online videos. To know people, you must see and interact with them firsthand. Come see who we are at a Pride event. We are not a dangerous “other”—not some vague threat or nuisance. We are as diverse, layered, and complex as everyone else. We are people just like you, so come see us as people. This article is written by Kim Ha-jin, 1st place winner of the The SNU Quill x The Korean Herald 2024 Student Column Contest. --Ed.

My feelings towards Florentijn Hofman’s Rubber Duck Project are complicated and intense. While most people consider the Rubber Duck to be an endearing piece of contemporary art that has been increasingly fading from cultural relevance, I have been singularly preoccupied with it for years. My obsession begins during a gen-ed course I took in my freshman year of college, where I was assigned to critique a public art piece. When the professor explained the specifics of the assignment, she emphasized how the students were not to write the critique on Hofman’s Rubber Duck. “You technically could… And many students over the past few years have attempted it too—,” she said “But I have yet to see one that is deserving of A+. ” Fueled only by the overconfidence of a college freshman, I decided to take up the challenge (Oh, the folly of man!). I received a B-minus and I deserved it. Even after days of slaving away at my computer, I still failed to capture the elusive essence of the Rubber Duck. Regardless of my failures, my fascination with the Rubber Duck persisted, and today, I’ve come to understand that its story is far more complex than its seemingly benign exterior suggests—it is a tale of savage murder, legal intimidation, and many many protests. The Rubber Duck’s Reception… and MURDERThe Rubber Duck is an inflatable PVC public art installation created by the Dutch artist Florentijn Hofman in the shape of, as its name implies, the iconic yellow bath toy. Its size varies from 14 by 15 by 18 metres to 26 by 20 by 32 metres. Unveiled in Amsterdam in 2007, the bright yellow sculpture has been displayed in over 16 different countries. Hofman describes the Rubber Duck as transcending boundaries, stating that “it doesn’t discriminate and lacks any political implications. The amiable, floating Rubber Duck is […] gentle, approachable, and appropriate for all ages. ”The cheerful sculpture was celebrated for its playful charm, captivating audiences with its size and cute appearance. Its reception in Seoul was overwhelmingly positive, attracting over 5 million visitors to the Seokcheon Lake during the month it was installed in 2014. Yet, the Rubber Duck was not universally embraced as not everyone shared the same enthusiasm for this oversized inflatable artwork. In 2009 Belgium, the Rubber Duck became the victim of a cold-blooded “murder. ” In a bizarre act of vandalism, an unknown assassin stabbed the Rubber Duck 42 times with a knife. Whether it was an extreme case of cute aggression or the work of a Dexter-esque vigilante targeting kitschy rubber duckies, the motive behind the attack remains a mystery. What this proves, however, is that the Rubber Duck is a polarizing piece of art. While some view the Rubber Duck as a harmless piece that brings simple joy through its bright yellow color and innocent exterior, others view it as an empty commercialized artwork that embodies the superficiality of modern consumer culture—a vapid spectacle. It is this divided reaction that led me down a rabbit hole of exploration into the lore of the Rubber Duck. After all, this strong, polarized response is itself evidence that the piece is of value. What Value Does The Rubber Duck Offer?Rubber Duck fails miserably as a public art piece. Public art, by definition, is art that is open to the public to enjoy. It extends beyond the sterile white backdrop of traditional “white-cube” galleries into outdoor spaces. A fundamental characteristic of public art is its accessibility. The public needs to encounter, engage and connect with art in their daily routines. In this sense, Rubber Duck is not truly accessible. Although the Rubber Duck’s appearance in different locations give it the illusion of mobility—as if it floats around from one body of water to another, or at least that the same PVC casing is deflated and inflated again in a different city— do not be fooled. The Rubber Duck is notoriously remanufactured for every showing (I will not even get into the environmental ramifications of this, though I wonder—is there a graveyard of deflated rubber duckies in the Netherlands, or does it lie lifeless in the landfills of respective countries?). Accessibility is limited to cities that Hofman deems deserving of his artwork and those that can afford to manufacture a large-scale rubber duck—even then, they are only allowed to showcase the duck for a few weeks. Furthermore, the artwork inherently fails at being site-specific, a key component of a good public art piece. Site-specific artworks synergize with their surroundings, creating a dialogue between the physical object, time, the space it occupies, and the audience it engages. Beyond the obvious reference to a bath toy in a body of water, what connection does Rubber Duck establish with its locale? Its place in Asia is confusing at best, given how most Asian countries (barring Japan) rely on showers rather than baths, making the cultural reference of a bathtub toy somewhat lost in translation. It feels to me like a misplaced spectacle only concerned with viral appeal rather than creating a lasting impact on the communities it visits. Bloomberg reporter Kriston Capps holds that Rubber Duck “sends an infantilizing message about the role of public art in cities. ”The Duck REEKS of ControversyI cautiously assert that good public art is neither subversive nor overly political: it should enhance public spaces without provoking strong reactions. The irony is that because public art requires the use of public funds to procure and maintain, most public art is political and subject to controversy. The Rubber Duck is no exception. The rubber duck stirred up much controversy in 2013 when the Pittsburgh public found out it cost the city 20,000 USD to invite the enormous yellow duckie to town, and once again in 2017 when the Ontario government spent up to 150,000 CAD to rent, ship, mount, and upkeep the duck. One Rick Nicholas from Canada complained about the waste of taxpayer dollars, calling the situation an “absolute cluster duck,” and Pittsburgh Dad on Twitter cried that with the duck’s exorbitant cost, it “better be able to fill potholes. ”Adding fuel to the fire, both cities faced controversies surrounding the “intellectual rights” to Hofman’s Rubber Duck: the city of Toronto, for displaying a counterfeit Rubber Duck, and Pittsburgh, for when a local business owner started selling unlicensed rubber duck merch. You see, the Pittsburgh Cultural Trust had already been selling duck merchandise when this local business owner emerged with rivaling rubber duck T-shirts. Naturally, they sent a cease-and-desist letter to the business owner, sending a stern message against “any duck shirts at all. ” This isn’t the first time Hofman has complained about the unlicensed use of his rubber duck. The artist was reportedly upset by the emergence of unlicensed duck-themed transit cards and counterfeit souvenirs in Taiwan, and refused to attend the opening ceremony of the duck. In another instance, the artist went as far to condemn China for their counterfeit giant duckie in an interview with the Wall Street Journal, stating, “if I was a Chinese person, I would revolt. [. .. ] This kills society, this kind of behavior. ” Like this, Hofman holds that he only agrees to display his artwork in cities that “obey [his] rules. ” Though he would never admit it himself, Hofman is a man of many contradictions. While he claims to be a “supporter of public art in public spaces,” he withholds the public’s access to it, explaining in the same breath that he is “not a big believer in art is forever. ” He criticizes the cities that dare to capitalize on the duck, while he himself maintains an unrelenting grip on licensing and merchandising for the Rubber Duck. He hates those who copy his designs, while his own design is a copy of the rubber duckie made by Tolo Toys. While I do not mean to diminish the importance of an artist’s rights to their intellectual property, I must ask: does the design and concept of the Rubber Duck have enough originality to justify such strict control?Reclaiming the Rubber DuckHofman has always sought to maintain meticulous command over every aspect of the Rubber Duck, from its access to interpretation. He insists on the Rubber Duck’s singular meaning…or rather, an intentional lack thereof. The duck stands for nothing, and it is through this emptiness that it, ironically, becomes a blank canvas for whatever message the public assigns to it. Leave it to online users to blur the lines between ownership and appropriation, transforming the inflatable icon into a vehicle for various forms of commentary. The Rubber Duck dominated virtual spaces in the early-to-mid 2010s and quickly became a target for ‘memeification. ’ In 2013, an image was uploaded to a Chinese social media platform where the iconic ‘Tank Man’ photo from the Tiananmen Square protests was altered to feature a column of Rubber Ducks—instead of tanks—in front of a lone protester. Online users subjected the friendly and apolitical Rubber Duck into doing political work. Users were briefly able to share the image, bypassing online censorship restrictions, until officials got involved. It’s only somewhat hilarious (and mostly disquieting) that the government felt the need to ban the term “big yellow duck. ” In Brazil 2016, the familiar rubber duck emerged once again as a symbol of resistance. This version bore striking similarities with Hofman’s Rubber Duck—in its tall stature and bright yellow color. But instead of large beady eyes, it had crosses for eyes, and on its chest, the message: “Chega de pagar o pato. ” This Portuguese slogan roughly translates to “We won't pay for the duck any more” or “We won’t pay for what is not our fault any more. ” The giant duck was commissioned by Brazilian industrial group, FIESP, to use in protest against government corruption and economic policies. Hofman’s team responded to this use of the Rubber Duck by saying that they “made a very unwise decision” and that he thought it was an “illegal use of the exact design and therefore copyright infringement. ” The São Paulo factory that produced the duck for the protest was the same one commissioned to manufacture Hofman’s Rubber Duck during his visit to Brazil in 2008. Hofman stated that the new duck was merely “propaganda [that] misuse[s] the work which really looks similar to my work, and don’t bring the same story as I planned with my work since 2007. ”This raises the question: what gives Hofman the authority to dictate what the Rubber Duck symbolizes? His insistence on relegating it to a docile, apolitical yellow duck reminds me of the high pedestal J. K. Rowling stands on as the self-acclaimed sole creator of the Harry Potter canon. It seems to me that the more one looks into the Rubber Duck’s evolving symbolism in public discourse, the more apparent it becomes that Hofman’s rigid control limits the artwork’s potential. The Rubber Duck’s story is far from over. It reappears with renewed significance in Thailand, where its symbolism evolves dramatically in response to political unrest. In Thailand, during the 2020 protests against the monarchy, the inflatable Rubber Duck took on a new role as a practical tool. Protesters used inflatable rubber duck pool toys as shields against tear gas and water cannons, turning the once-innocuous duck into a resilient protector. Images of these tattered ducks, bearing the marks of conflict, served as powerful symbols of resistance. Rubber Duck transformed from a passive art piece to an active symbol of courage and solidarity. The Rubber Duck’s journey is a testament to the unpredictable power of art to transcend its creator’s intentions. What began as a seemingly innocuous yellow inflatable has evolved into a symbol of resilience and defiance, morphed by the hands of the public to represent much more than Hofman ever envisioned. From its role in thwarting censorship in China to its practical use as a shield in Thailand’s protests, the Rubber Duck has defied its initial apolitical facade to become a beacon of resistance. While Hofman may cling to his vision of a harmless, docile duck, the world has redefined it as a fighter, embodying the very spirit of struggle and solidarity.