#i think eiffel is american enough that just the reminder he probably has french heritage would deal psychic damage

[commsroom]

fluent french speaker renée yvonne minkowski vs douglas fernand eiffel, guy with two anglicized french names. maybe she's not spiteful enough to pronounce his name the french way but it would be funny if she did. just once. to see how he'd react.

[complexmagrparchive]

                                   JE SUIS PARTIE LÀ-BAS

NAME › Im Sowon D.O.B. › 02 18 1992 (25) OCCUPATION › Picture Editor at Complex INSTA › @sowonim

PORTFOLIO

EMPLOYMENT

The Star – Assistant Picture Editor (May 2015 - July 2015) Complex – Picture Editor (November 2015 - Present) INTERNSHIP

The New Standard Edition – Photographer/Social Media Intern (December 2013 - February 2014) Blanc Magazine – Fashion Assistant Intern (June 2014 - July 2014) 10 Magazine – General Editorial Intern (August 2014 - December 2014)

SKILLS

Proficient in using latest photo editing software and high-end digital cameras

Ability to handle multiple projects simultaneously and independently

Excellent coordination and communication skills

ACCOMPLISHMENTS

Completed summer intensive in Paris at Parsons The New School

Traveled through Europe for fashion trend research

Various humanitarian experience working with and leading diverse teams

EDUCATION

Paris College of Art – Bachelor’s Degree Study Abroad Program FIT (Fashion Institute of Technology) – Bachelor of Fine Arts in Photography

DETAILS

She’s born to a young but ambitious couple: a woman in her late 20′s who works as an English teacher and a man in his mid 30′s who works as a U.S. diplomat. Their career choices has brought them together on this joyous day to not only celebrate their Parisian experience, but also their first and last child: Im Sowon.

The first decade and a half of Sowon’s life is spent as a traveler, as she doesn’t have a place to really call home. They’re always moving, leaving–and it happens so frequently that eventually, Sowon just stops trying to make a home out of places altogether.

Her parents value cultural diversity, so she’s given private lessons about heritages, languages, and everything in between. Somewhere along the way, the United States becomes a mandatory subject because “That’s where our home is, back in New York City.” But before Sowon can even process that there had been a Statue of Liberty before an Eiffel Tower, she was already taking in Spanish verbs and conjugations.

Sowon’s heart breaks every three years. Because it is every three years that their family has to relocate, because it is every three years that Sowon loses friends and loved ones, because it is every three years that she is reminded, agonizingly so, that nothing for her is permanent.

They’re snuggling on the back of a pickup truck when she realizes that Prince Charming does exist and he’s right here, in Bali. He’s only sixteen–a year older than her–but he already has life figured out and wants her to experience it all with him. Sowon is taken aback by the concept of commitment, however, and dismisses his proposal for the stars above. (“They’re so pretty.”)

Memories are kept by her in photographs. On her last day in Jakarta, she uses her father’s digital SLR camera to take sentimental shots of the people and places of Indonesia. Despite it only being her first attempt, her mother considers–and even insists–that Sowon take up one or two photography lessons as soon as they land in Italy.

Italy is short-lived, but it’s also where circumstances for Sowon begin to change. Here, she falls in love with the culture, the scenery, the wide avenues, and then ultimately, photography–all within a year. It’s only meant to be a hobby, really, but Milan Fashion Week kicks off and she finds herself sitting in front of the television, gaping at the magic unfolding right before her eyes. Maybe this is her calling. Sowon decides she wants to study fashion photography.

They return to the States shortly after. She finishes the last two years of high school in New York and attends the Fashion Institute of Technology the following semester. By then, her parents are already abroad. It’s in these crucial years of independence that Sowon develops a sense of identity, all the while balancing school and internships.

Although her mind is in the right place, her heart is not. She wants to stay committed, find something worthwhile to keep her in New York–but alas, Sowon is ultimately homesick. Not for France, Brazil, or Indonesia, but possibly for somewhere she’s never been to. (Her heart doesn’t break anymore. It’s still in pieces, waiting to be put back together, and maybe that’s why she can’t stay still.)

10Mag hires her and she leaves for Seoul the morning of.

Lesson One: Sowon le Fou.

“They’re stealing my shit.”

It’s one a.m. when Sowon phones her friend from New York. Their conversation is supposed to go something along the lines of, ‘You’re getting married?’ and ‘No way, congratulations!’, but the festive atmosphere quickly fades ten minutes in and all that’s left, really, is a distressed Sowon, who isn’t much of a happy person to begin with.

“Who?”

“The picture editor at The Star. He’s taking advantage of me because I’m only an assistant.” Sowon emphasizes the word ‘assistant,’ because she knows that’s the root of the problem. “They would respect me more if I wasn’t new.”

“Have you tried confronting him?”

Sowon laughs, dryly. “You really think he’d admit it? That guy? Anyway, the company has his back,” she deadpans, sinking into her couch, “I hate the seniority customs they have here. He’s older than me, so I don’t know if I can do much.”

“Right,” her friend responds, “and it’s The Star you’re working for as well. I doubt anyone has the time to deal with image theft.”

“I should still do something about it though, right?” Sowon asks, seeking moral support.

A short pause, and then: “Yes.”

Lesson Two: Le Mépris.

Seoul is expected to have a thunderstorm sometime around noon. Sowon suspects, as lunchtime is approaching, that maybe that’s a sign for doom–a foreshadowing that her confrontation with the editor-in-chief won’t end too well.

She almost backs out of the plan too, until her thief throws a look her way that screams ‘Tu es completement débile.’ – And that’s all it takes for her to barge into the editor-in-chief’s office, honestly.

“Sajangnim,” Sowon begins, and she feels her confidence withering the longer she waits for a reply.

The editor-in-chief looks up from his desk and gives her a pointed look. (The disrespect.)

Sowon continues, “My work has been stolen by Mr. Lee for the third time. I wish you would say something about it to the staff so that I don’t always look like-”

“But aren’t we all working together?”

She swallows her words.

“We’re in the same team, Sowon-ssi. I don’t see a problem when our number one goal is to attract our readers.”

“Excuse me?” Sowon asks. She has to mentally run through a list of French conjugations to diffuse her anger, but the more she stares at the editor-in-chief, the more aggravated she becomes. “I just want credit, is all.”

“Is this really something we should be talking about right now?”

Sowon doesn’t answer.

“Yah, why aren’t you working? Is it even your lunch break yet?”

It’s one thing to be disrespected by her colleagues, but to have her boss of all people stare at her and treat her with disdain is both damaging and degrading.

Sowon hates the way he looks at her–hates the way all her seniors look at her, as if she hadn’t worked hard enough to get here.

Her employment status is still fairly new (three months since she’s been with The Star), but the lack of recognition irks her, gets under her skin. She can’t stand the seniority customs, the mindset that elders are automatically right, no matter how wrong they are. They say it’s best to pay no heed to their words, because what do they know? But sometimes, ignorance isn’t bliss. Sometimes, it just hurts.

Sowon feels herself crumbling. She wonders, for a split second, if Korea is the right place to be.

(Will there ever be a ‘right place’?)

“Merde!” she exclaims, “C’est des conneries! Va te faire foutre!”

There’s a downpour in Seoul for the next hour.

Lesson Three: Tout Va Bien (Pas Vraiment).

They tell her she’s such an American Girl, like it’s supposed to hurt. You Americans are so spoiled. And if it hadn’t been for the pojangmacha over her head, she’d have mistaken this situation for a night out in France. (The French people badmouth Americans, too.)

It’s all so amusing to her, though, how different people around the world think of Americans in the same light–as if there’d been an international consensus that the majority are utter babies.

Sowon can’t deny that her six years in New York has made her pompously entitled, especially in situations where things don’t go her way. And, maybe–as her friends had put it–she was being a little too sensitive that day.

“What do you suggest I do then, oppa?” Sowon is genuinely curious.

“You’re how many years old? 23?”

She nods.

Her female friend chimes in, albeit tipsily, “I think you need to grow up.”

Lesson Four: Hélas Pour Moi.

August and September disappear as quickly as they arrive. October settles in quietly.

Lately, everything feels humdrum blue–empty and eerily still, like the calm before a storm. Days of isolation and desperation turn to hours, weeks, months, driving nothing but schisms and fissures into her chest, hollow where her heart is. It’s all so draining, and it doesn’t help that Seoul feels lonelier than usual.

Maybe she’s homesick again.

“Or unemployed?”

The cheeky remark earns a playful smack from Sowon.

“No, oppa. It’s something about the cold,” she says, honest, “feels… nostalgic.”

He half-chuckles, stares off into the distance like something’s there. “What are you homesick for anyway? France?”

Sowon doesn’t say anything, because she also doesn’t know. Not really. Not yet.

—

“When are you leaving?”

“What, all of a sudden you care now?”

“Maybe I can give you some advice.”

“Soon, like in-a-few-weeks-soon.”

“Oh.”

—

Something is missing.

Sowon realizes this on the morning of oppa’s departure, when her apartment is colored blue and indigo. Something is always missing, and she can’t figure out what it is.

Lesson Five: Faut Pas Rêver.

November rushes in with new beginnings and miracles.

And a letter from Bern.

Grüezi, it reads, I know you probably hate me more than anything right now—in fact, I’d be lucky to have you even read this. But Sowon, listen to me. My moving had nothing to do with you. I couldn’t tell you this in person because I thought you needed some time alone, and—

Sowon skims through the first half of the letter, drops her gaze toward the very last sentence.

I learned a little French for you. “Faut pas rêver.” I hope you never give up your dreams of being a picture editor.

Yours truly.

She stills momentarily–and then trashes the letter altogether.