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Tim Franco
Wednesday 3 March 2021
One day in 2009, a nervous young man rushed out of his home in Incheon, South Korea, head held down. Having not showered in weeks, his skin was oily, his hair unkempt. The loungewear he had on, one of only two sets he owned, was badly stained. He knew he smelled. But heâd run out of necessities, so heâd have to go to the shop down the street. Itâd just be five minutes. All he had to do was stock up on instant ramen, Coke and cigarettes, and then heâd be back.
After picking up his supplies, the man walked home. But as he was approaching the front entrance, a panic spread over him: he didnât know the passcode to open the door. It had been so long since heâd gone outside, heâd forgotten how to get back in.
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Late one evening last October, I landed at Incheon International Airport in South Korea, the first step in a move to the country with my wife for her job. After passing through a formidable series of checkpoints staffed by masked officials, I was whisked into Seoul by a special taxi reserved for arrivals who are destined for quarantine.
With the exception of a one-hour reprieve to take a coronavirus test, I spent the next 14 days in a hotel room with views of the 14th-century Gyeongbokgung Palace and – I realised after a few days – the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art’s (MMCA) branch in Seoul. The sleek structure glowed at night in the distance, and came to have something of the same significance, for me, as the green light on that East Egg dock had for Gatsby. (That, at least, was my thought at certain fanciful moments while alone and jetlagged.)