An elderly couple who had found our blog came to visit, expressing their wish to build a home on a quiet piece of land in Yeoju, where they could see King Hyojong’s royal tomb in the distance. During the year they spent deciding to build, the grandmother carefully and patiently organized her wishes—modest desires, but ones that needed delicate consideration. I suggested they meet with more architects. I believed that the design and building process would only bring them true happiness if they found an architect with whom emotional harmony would come naturally. So, I introduced a senior architect I respected. Not long after, I received a long email.
I read it over and over again, as one might reread a love letter. It ended like this: "To get to the point—we would like to build our Yeoju house with you, Director Cho. You are our first love. My husband says your sense of responsibility shown through your commitment to design supervision earns his trust. If you're not too busy, and if we’re not too incompatible, would you consider taking on our home?" And so, the Yeoju house became ours to build.
It took quite a while to figure out how to approach the grandmother's heart, which offered us three keywords: spirituality, warmth, and sincerity. Both she and I knew that our goal wasn’t to create a house that functioned merely as a machine for living. That made the beginning even more cautious. After crumpling through many sketches, the concept I eventually settled on was “sigim”. Sigim is a Korean word describing the state when time, layered with human touch, deepens something—like well-fermented flavors. Instead of showing off clever tricks, I wanted the house to feel as though it had always belonged to the land.
A house that resembled the gentle plains of Yeoju, that would naturally settle in and age gracefully alongside the grandmother and grandfather—that was my hope. What materials could best represent sigim? The first thing that came to mind was wood. The grain of wood is another name for sigim. But for a wooden house to age beautifully with the couple, it couldn’t be constantly battling rain or snow. So, I designed a deep eave to guard against harsh weather and support slow, seasoned aging.
A gable roof reminiscent of the mountains was placed on top, and the courtyard was sunken down slightly. This empty courtyard became the starting place for spirituality, warmth, and sincerity. The natural element that could embody all three was light. Light should be gentle and comforting, but also at times pour down powerfully, illuminating everything. At noon, it will reach deep into the courtyard and make the scattered river stones shine. That will be the time of truth.
At all other times, only the calm light of the sky will descend. A soft celestial light—one that casts no harsh shadows and does not strain the eyes. Sitting out on the porch, looking at the quiet courtyard and my home, I hoped it would become a moment of spiritual reflection, as if unchanged from a hundred years ago. The grandmother said she didn’t want a house too large. Just a room to rest their aging bodies, a living room for the grandfather who loves watching TV, and a room for family visiting briefly. But she asked for one thing—to leave room. Room for whoever might live here next, so they wouldn't find anything lacking.
That generous wish warmed my heart—and yet it weighed on it like a lump of iron. It reminded me that a home, above all else, is meant to endure. We removed part of the ‘ㄷ’-shaped main house and created a detached study for the grandmother. Between this annex and the main house, we left a space open. For now, it’s a sheltered outdoor area, serving many purposes. But one day, when someone new moves into this house, that space might become a child’s room, a study, or a hobby room.
Our year together, living briefly as part of the grandparents’ family, is coming to an end. I wonder if we spent it with sincerity and spirit, free from pretense and pride— and if, in the end, it will all become well seasoned with time. The Discovery of Place By Cho Byoung-kyu In the empty room, sunlight had seated itself, slipping in through the window. Instead of scolding the sun’s impudence, the room’s owner placed a small table beside it.
Was it to share tea in quiet conversation? Or had they sensed the table’s wish to simply escape the sun? Though sunlight filled it, the room remained empty— until the table was placed. And then, it was no longer an empty room. In gratitude, the room’s owner offered a few books and a warm cup of tea. The table remembered last night’s handwritten letter, and as the owner wiped its surface clean, they found themselves reflecting on the nature of spirit. And so, the room at last became a place.
