It was the second class about originality.
I made two pin badges — one showing something unexpected that I like, and another showing something unexpected that I dislike.
Then I drew a self-portrait wearing those badges.
I usually draw girls, but for the “unexpected thing I like,” I drew a boy.
For the thing I dislike, I chose being alone.
In the self-portrait, the person wearing the badges is a girl dressed in colorful clothes,
but her expression looks somehow lonely.
This time, we expressed our current feelings through doodles and had time to talk with others.
We also drew various kinds of scribbles together on a long sheet of paper.
Everyone mixed their drawings, and we even wrote what the title and description would be if the artwork were displayed in a museum.
Through this activity, I was able to get closer to people and feel the energy created by different shapes and lines coming together.
I took some time to think about what originality means.
For me, originality is a kind of boundary that separates me from others.
That boundary comes out through my skin and exists between me and other people —
in the air and space that connect us.
That space gives me my uniqueness.
It feels eternal, and within my own boundary,
I can do anything I want.
That freedom becomes my originality and my identity.
I believe the eyes are the window where you can see that uniqueness.
When I look into someone’s eyes,
I can imagine the story they hold inside.
So, I drew my own eyes.
On my ID card, I painted single eyelids,
empty black pupils,
and blue skin to represent myself.
I think the color blue explains me best —
it shows my personality and who I really am.
And I drew a person, filling the inside with chaotic lines, random colors, and words.
Without thinking too much, I was able to reflect on the things that fill me.
Hong Sang-soo’s new film Right Now, Wrong Then seems to be his finest work since The Turning Gate.
The performances by Jung Jae-young and Kim Min-hee are so absorbing that it feels impossible to take your eyes off them.
Especially with the familiar backdrop of an art exhibition, their two contrasting yet intertwined performances linger vividly in memory.
Hong’s films, like Ozu’s, deal with quiet and static slices of life, but within those, he evokes subtle emotional ripples.
Because of that, it’s hard to describe his work using a single, defining concept.
However, as one watches his films, certain recurring thoughts and emotions inevitably arise.
Interestingly, the film’s title is presented without spaces between the words — RightNowWrongThen.
When asked about this, Hong explained,
“I didn’t use spaces because there are simply too many letters.”
That’s probably true, but considering that he had previously used normal spacing in his titles — like Woman Is the Future of Man or In Another Country — it’s also possible that this stylistic choice carries its own meaning.
Even if it wasn’t intentional, this title without spaces may prompt us to think differently.
It gives the phrase a more ambiguous, unified feel — as if “right now” and “wrong then” coexist in a single breath.
Rather than separating the two, it merges them into a continuous experience of time and perspective.
Both parts of Right Now, Wrong Then unfold in parallel, like two chapters that mirror and distort each other.
They share a similar setting and characters, yet the interactions shift subtly — creating a sense of déjà vu and difference at once.
The title’s structure, lacking spaces, reinforces this: it’s not about two distinct timelines but about how one moment can contain both rightness and wrongness, simultaneously.
In that sense, the film suggests that our judgments — of being “right” or “wrong” — are temporary, fluid, and tied to circumstance.
The phrase “RightNowWrongThen” could even be extended into “RightNowWrongThenRightLater” — a reflection of how human perception changes over time.
Perhaps the absence of spaces mirrors the seamless continuity of life itself — how time, emotion, and memory are never neatly divided but endlessly intertwined.
Hong’s cinema often revolves around the motifs of “difference and repetition.”
But unlike the mechanical repetition of similar events, his repetition always yields new nuances.
In the smallest gestures, the most trivial moments, subtle shifts in feeling emerge — showing that even near-identical experiences can diverge deeply in meaning.
Through such delicate variations, Hong invites us to reflect on how the same situations, the same days, and the same conversations can unfold differently depending on our awareness at that particular instant.
What feels more important in Right Now, Wrong Then is not the specific differences between the two stories, but the awareness that such differences exist.
That awareness itself is what makes the film quietly luminous.
And perhaps the essence of the film lies in that final line, when the protagonist says:
“I’m grateful you made me feel this way. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.”
It’s a line that captures the warmth, melancholy, and humility of Hong’s cinema — a quiet gratitude for the fleeting beauty of human connection.
Ultimately, Right Now, Wrong Then gathers countless repetitions and coincidences to show that within our present — the “right now” — there are small, shining moments of clarity that make our lives worth revisiting, again and again.
by. lee dong jin.
my thoughts…
The same people appear in the film,
but there are two different situations.
In one universe, they say different things to each other.
They go to the same restaurant and drink the same alcohol,
but their conversation changes —
and one small sentence from him moves her heart.
I can feel how powerful words can be.
How much of my true feelings are inside them,
how much honesty is actually spoken.
And even if I speak with honesty,
will that truth really reach the other person fully — 100 percent?
Not only words, but also nonverbal things —
my eyes, gestures, nods, posture —
they would all be different in another universe.
There are countless seconds in time,
and within each one, endless possibilities are born,
creating different versions of them.
While watching this movie,
I thought about the conversations I’ve had,
and the eyes I’ve met.
People are always my biggest inspiration —
the music they make,
the films they create,
the paintings they draw,
the time I spend with them.
All these moments come together and make me who I am.
I always try to speak with honesty.
I know I must create the best universe possible out of the ones I can make.
That’s why, sometimes,
I even tell lies with 100 percent sincerity.
It can be fun to make people confused or curious.
I believe drawings also hold both verbal and nonverbal expression.
The act of creating visual shapes in empty space with my hands
contains my thoughts and emotions in that exact moment.
The speed, thickness, color, and shape of my lines
all reflect my mental state.
That’s why I value deep focus when I draw —
because drawing is my way of speaking and acting.
I observe people and spaces for inspiration
and sometimes draw by following what I see,
but when I truly enjoy drawing,
it’s when I bring out something from inside myself.
I draw by pulling out the small emotions hidden in my memory.
It’s a kind of meditation.
Through drawing, I heal myself and become who I really am.
It’s the reason I live, and my happiness.
These are the thoughts I wrote
after watching the film —
connecting it to my own philosophy of art.
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