Publisher's Note — by Sylvia Kim

Coincidence sometimes brings a person before us with surprising precision. The first time I met Director Ko, what I felt first was that an atmosphere from one person could be this delicate and graceful. Composed yet refined, calm yet never light. What struck me most was the way she spoke. Clear without raising her voice; quiet, yet the grain of thought alive inside it — like a long, well-honed sentence, an intellectual beauty breaking clearly from every word.

Honestly, at first it wasn't easy to connect that she was an architect. She felt more like a teacher, a designer, some delicate specialist of art and aesthetics — so feminine and soft an impression. And so a thought came: could this gentle, graceful person really be someone who built her own path in the fierce, hard world of architecture? In Korea, and in America too.

But the more we talked, the more I knew. Yes. She was a person well beyond ordinary. Inside the softness was strength; inside the grace, astonishing persistence. And above all, the depth only a person who carried the weight of life and did her share can hold. The phrase "a K-sister beyond ordinary" fit no one better. After meeting her, what stayed longest was not her great résumé but her attitude toward people and her gaze on life. A person who handles herself well is deeper, more beautiful, than one who conquers the world. She is, in that sense, a person I'll remember long. Beautiful, intelligent, solid, warm — and a truly wonderful woman who designed her own life.

A pale blue linen blazer and white sneakers

The moment she opened the studio door, that was the first thing I saw. A blazer is formality; sneakers are ease. Usually two worlds that don't match. But with her it was different. A wall of green flowers behind, a blush-pink flower box beside. In that space she sat not as if designed into it, but as if she had always been there.

As she sat, she gathered both hands neatly on her knees, fingers laced, at ease. She didn't move them much. Yet from those hands you felt precision — hands that had designed space for forty years. She didn't raise her voice when she spoke. Her smile was bright but unposed. That restraint was this person's strongest language. Looking at her, the same thought kept returning: how did this gentle person fight for forty years?

She had to get past them

She'd wanted to build buildings since childhood. She majored in interior design in Korea and joined a firm, placed onto ASSEM, a project on the scale of the National Assembly building. Among dozens of men, she was the only woman. The hierarchy of Korean construction sites was simple: the architect first, the interior designer after. And the ones who showed that hierarchy most plainly were always the same people. "Architecture comes first; interior comes after."

Each time she heard it, something stacked up. Too vivid to call anger, too hot to call grievance. Instead of naming the feeling she turned it into resolve. It can't be like this. I have to know more deeply than they do. Only then can I stand above that hierarchy.

"I had to learn more. And to do that, I had to go somewhere bigger."

She thought of Japan. But she wanted a bigger country. America. As she said it, the hands gathered neatly on her knees came forward for the first time. Not for emphasis — a body's response to feeling that old resolve again.

West to east, a month of driving

She first settled in San Francisco, to apply to UC Berkeley. But the moment she arrived she knew: this was not the America she had known. After 7 p.m. the streets changed. In a strange city where no one knew her, she stayed inside for three months. But what she chose was not to remain in that fear. She bought camping gear. Saving on hotels and transit, she drove with that money. West to east. A month of driving. Through every state. Vast plains, deserts, mountain ranges, small towns whose names she didn't know. How wide this country is, how different a face each state wears — she learned it not from a map but in her body.

"I saw a lot, felt a lot. Every state was different. Only after knowing that did I feel I knew what America was."

She has lived forty years on this land now. She came at fifteen and became 1.5 generation. The girl who stayed inside for three months in San Francisco ended up crossing all of America by camping. It was like that from the start. When blocked, instead of turning back — she pushed through.

To build a space is to read a person

Her architecture philosophy compresses into one sentence. Listening to what the client says is not her job. Discovering first what the client cannot yet say — that is her job.

There was a client who loved clothes. But listening, she knew: what this person truly wanted was not many clothes. It was a perfectly ordered space. Lighting that falls just right, the feeling that even with only ten pieces hung like a boutique, the moment you enter, your mood lifts. There was a client who wanted the shower to be as good as the whole house everywhere they went. Unspoken, but it was the most important part of that person's life.

"I find the thing they hadn't thought of and add one more. That's the programming I do."

As she said it, her two hands opened slightly, then gathered again — with the word "add." The gesture of a person who had been adding something to space for forty years. To design a space was, in the end, to design a person. Before drawing the plans she read the person, and discovered the need they didn't yet know. That is why she was chosen, across two countries, for forty years.

A barefoot child who did not cry

In the middle of architecture, a completely different world opened — the story of going to disaster areas. It began after the 2004 earthquake. She decided to go herself. She'd tried donating through church — but she wanted to see with her own eyes where her money went. Connected with a mission group, it continued for over fifteen years. Each year she led a group of nineteen to twenty-five herself. The night before leaving, she and her team laid out tables and packaged donated clothes and shoes one by one, names attached for who got what, until dawn. The next day they performed for the children — trot songs, guitar. Those orphanage children had never seen such a thing. So she showed them: there is another world. You, too, can live like this.

She built schools — stacking cement blocks. No windows; openings instead to keep out the sun. Still the children ate and learned there. She built a daycare. She brought ten soccer balls at a time; the next year they'd be worn to half-moons, but the children kept playing with them, wouldn't let go of the old ones even for new — they were the only toys.

But mid-story, her voice slowed for the first time. There was a child of three, four. No shoes. Walking barefoot through fields, falling, bleeding, soles scraped raw. She applied the medicine she'd brought. It must have hurt. That small child — did not cry.

"There must have been 100% pain. He just stayed still."

A child who already knew there was no one to receive his cry. The look was so pitiful that she cried — instead of the child. As she told it, the hands neat on her knees the whole interview clasped tight for the first time. Very briefly. Then opened again.

"I think donation is for me. To see with my own eyes, to deliver with my own hands. That's the real thing."

In that, her architecture philosophy sounded again. The person who discovers first what a client cannot say. The way of adding something to a space and the way of applying medicine to that child's foot came from the same place. That is why she has done two kinds of work at once for forty years.

If born again, a man — and a small school

At the end I asked: if born again? Without hesitation: "I'd be born a man." A brief laugh. But not a light remark. "There are things a woman can do, but a woman always has surfaces she collides against. Men can do anything — and in that time there are too many men worse than women. So I'd be a fine man and lead a lot." Words from a person who lived forty years as a woman in this field. Not grievance. A wish to do better.

Then came her dream. Her voice changed — a little quieter, but clearer. She wants to make a small school. For children who can't get formal education because of money. A school where retired lawyers, doctors, pilots come once a week to teach. How to read a contract, how to survive on a site, how to make your work your own. Things you should be able to learn even without money.

"There's something the first generation couldn't teach us — to be a person of influence. We never learned it. You can't blame them; they lived through war, had to survive. But now we have the conditions to do it."

If that school is built, she'll teach herself — what to watch for on a site, how to read a space. Passing what she learned alone over forty years to the next person. That is the influence she means.

I remember her rising from the table after lunch. She didn't reach for her coat first. She sat a moment, hands on her knees. Very briefly. Then stood. Now I know what that moment was. She wasn't thinking of what's already built. She was thinking of what she hasn't built yet. That school. Those children. That influence. Forty years stacked, and still her gaze was forward, not back.

Pale blue blazer, white sneakers. At first the combination looked like a contradiction. Not anymore. That is her. Refined but never forgetting the site. Graceful but feet on the ground. The things she builds are not yet finished.

Highlights

• "I had to learn more. And to do that, I had to go somewhere bigger."

• "I find the thing they hadn't thought of and add one more. That's the programming I do."

• "I think donation is for me — to see with my own eyes, to deliver with my own hands. That's the real thing."

• "If born again, I'd be a man. A fine man, leading a lot."

———

발행인의 글 — 실비아 김

우연은 때로 놀라울 만큼 정교하게 사람을 우리 앞에 데려다 놓는다. 처음 고희선 대표님을 만났을 때 가장 먼저 느낀 것은, 한 사람에게서 풍기는 분위기가 이토록 섬세하고 우아할 수 있다는 사실이었다. 단아하면서도 세련되었고, 차분하면서도 결코 가볍지 않았다. 무엇보다 인상적이었던 것은 그분의 말투였다. 목소리를 높이지 않아도 또렷했고, 조용히 말씀하시는데도 그 안에 생각의 결이 살아 있었다.

사실 처음에는 그분이 건축가라는 사실이 쉽게 연결되지 않았다. 너무나 여성스럽고 부드러운 인상이었기 때문이다. 그래서 문득 이런 생각이 들었다. 이렇게 온화하고 우아한 분이, 과연 그 치열하고 단단한 건축의 세계에서 자신만의 길을 만들어온 분이 맞을까. 그것도 한국에서, 그리고 미국에서도.

하지만 이야기를 나눌수록 알게 되었다. 맞았다. 부드러움 안에 강인함이 있었고, 우아함 안에 놀라운 끈기가 있었다. "보통을 넘어선 K-언니"라는 표현이 가장 잘 어울리는 분이었다. 세상을 이기는 사람보다, 자기 자신을 잘 다루는 사람이 더 깊고 아름답다는 것을 다시 느끼게 해준 만남이었다.

연한 블루 린넨 블레이저에 흰 스니커즈였다

스튜디오 문을 열고 들어서는 순간, 눈에 먼저 들어온 건 그 조합이었다. 블레이저는 격식이고 스니커즈는 편안함이다. 보통은 어울리지 않는 두 세계다. 그런데 그녀에게는 달랐다. 뒤로는 초록 생화 벽, 옆에는 블러쉬 핑크 꽃 박스. 그 공간 안에서 그녀는 설계된 것처럼이 아니라, 원래 거기 있던 사람처럼 앉아있었다.

자리에 앉으면서 두 손을 무릎 위에 가지런히 모았다. 그런데 그 손에서 정확함이 느껴졌다. 40년간 공간을 설계해온 손이었다. 말할 때 목소리를 높이지 않았다. 그 절제가 이 사람의 가장 강한 언어였다. 이 부드러운 사람이 — 어떻게 40년을 싸워왔을까.

그들을 넘어서야 했다

한국에서 인테리어 디자인을 전공하고 회사에 들어갔다. 국회의사당급 대형 프로젝트에 투입됐다. 수십 명의 남자들 사이에서 여자라고는 자신 혼자였다. "건축이 먼저고 인테리어는 나중이야." 그 말을 들을 때마다 무언가가 쌓였다. 그녀는 그 감정에 이름을 붙이는 대신 결심으로 바꿨다. 그들보다 더 깊이 알아야 한다. 그래야 그 위계 위에 설 수 있다.

"더 배워야 했어요. 그러려면 더 큰 곳으로 가야 했고요."

일본도 생각했다. 그런데 더 큰 나라로 가고 싶었다. 미국이었다. 그 이야기를 할 때 무릎 위에 가지런히 모여있던 그녀의 손이 처음으로 앞으로 나왔다.

서쪽에서 동쪽으로, 한 달을 달렸다

처음 정착한 곳은 샌프란시스코였다. 그런데 도착한 순간 알았다. 자신이 알던 미국이 아니었다. 아무도 모르는 낯선 도시에서, 석 달을 집 안에만 있었다. 그런데 그녀가 선택한 건 그 두려움에 머무는 것이 아니었다. 캠핑 장비를 샀다. 호텔비와 교통비를 아껴 그 돈으로 차를 몰았다. 서쪽에서 동쪽으로. 한 달을 달렸다. 미국의 모든 주를 지나갔다. 이 나라가 얼마나 넓고, 주마다 얼마나 다른 얼굴을 가지고 있는지를 — 지도가 아니라 몸으로 배웠다.

"많이 봤고, 많이 느꼈어요. 각 주가 다 달랐어요. 그걸 알고 나서야 미국이 뭔지 알 것 같았어요."

열다섯 살에 와서 1.5세가 됐다. 처음부터 그랬다. 막히면 돌아가는 대신 — 뚫고 지나갔다.

공간을 짓는다는 것은 사람을 읽는 것이다

그녀가 말하는 건축 철학은 한 문장으로 압축된다. 클라이언트가 아직 말하지 못하는 것을 먼저 발견하는 것 — 그게 자신의 일이다. 옷을 좋아하는 클라이언트가 있었다. 그런데 이 사람이 진짜 원하는 건 옷이 많은 게 아니었다. 완벽하게 정돈된 공간이었다.

"그분들이 생각하지 않았던 것을 발견해서 하나를 더 얹어드리는 거예요. 그게 제가 하는 프로그래밍이에요."

공간을 설계한다는 건 결국 사람을 설계하는 일이었다. 도면을 그리기 전에 사람을 읽었다. 그것이 그녀가 40년 동안 두 나라에서 선택받아온 이유였다.

맨발로 걷는 아이가 울지 않았다

건축 이야기를 하다가, 완전히 다른 세계가 열렸다. 재난 지역에 간 이야기였다. 2004년 지진 이후부터 15년이 넘게 이어졌다. 매년 19명에서 25명의 그룹을 직접 이끌고 갔다. 학교도 지었다. 시멘트 블록을 쌓아서. 그런데 이야기하다가 그녀의 목소리가 처음으로 느려졌다. 세 살, 네 살짜리 아이가 있었다. 신발이 없었다. 맨발로 밭을 걸어다녔다. 그녀가 가져간 약을 발랐다. 아팠을 것이다. 그 작은 아이가 — 울지 않았다.

"통증이 100% 있었을 텐데. 그냥 가만히 있는 거예요."

아프다고 말해도 받아줄 사람이 없다는 걸 이미 알고 있는 아이였다. 그 표정이 너무 안쓰러워서 그녀가 울었다고 했다. 아이 대신. 인터뷰 내내 무릎 위에 가지런했던 두 손이 처음으로 꼭 쥐어졌다.

"기부는 나를 위한 거라고 생각해요. 내 눈으로 보고, 내 손으로 전달하는 것. 그게 진짜거든요."

공간에 무언가를 얹어드리는 방식과, 그 아이의 발에 약을 바르는 방식은 같은 자리에서 나왔다.

다시 태어난다면 남자로, 그리고 작은 학교

인터뷰 말미에 물었다. 다시 태어난다면? 망설임 없이 답했다. "남자로 태어날 거예요." 가벼운 말이 아니었다. "여자는 부딪히는 면이 항상 있어요. 그래서 멋있는 남자가 돼서 리더를 많이 하고 싶어요." 억울함이 아니었다. 더 잘하고 싶다는 말이었다.

그리고 나서 그녀의 꿈 이야기가 나왔다. 작은 학교를 만들고 싶다고 했다. 돈이 없어서 정규 교육을 받지 못하는 아이들을 위한 학교. "1세대가 우리한테 못 가르친 게 있어요. 영향력을 주는 사람이 되는 것. 하지만 지금 우리는 그걸 할 수 있는 조건들이 있잖아요." 그 학교가 지어지면 그녀는 직접 가르칠 것이다.

점심 식사가 끝나고 일어서던 그녀는 코트를 먼저 집어 들지 않았다. 잠깐 앉아있었다. 그 잠깐이 무엇이었는지 이제는 안다. 이미 지어진 것들을 생각하는 게 아니었다. 아직 짓지 못한 것들을 생각하고 있었다. 40년을 쌓아왔지만 그녀의 시선은 여전히 뒤가 아니라 앞에 있었다. 그녀가 짓는 것들은 아직 끝나지 않았다.

하이라이트

• "더 배워야 했어요. 그러려면 더 큰 곳으로 가야 했고요."

• "그분들이 생각하지 않았던 것을 발견해서 하나를 더 얹어드리는 거예요. 그게 제가 하는 프로그래밍이에요."

• "기부는 나를 위한 거라고 생각해요. 내 눈으로 보고, 내 손으로 전달하는 것. 그게 진짜거든요."

• "다시 태어난다면 남자로 태어날 거예요. 멋있는 남자가 돼서 리더를 많이 하고 싶어요."