When I was a child, I spent a lot of time alone. One day I walked into a bookstore and saw a golden magic book shining on a shelf. It felt incredible: magic was something supernatural, yet all you had to do was read that book to learn it. So I started practicing at home. I would try and try again, then show tricks to my parents—that was the beginning of my journey. Then, for no clear reason, I began to suffer from panic attacks and depression. It became difficult even to go to school; mentally, I was in a very dark place. My mother cared deeply about my education, and I attended private schools with the goal of becoming a veterinarian. But depression wouldn’t even allow me to read: I trembled, I couldn’t concentrate. Yet when I practiced magic and held cards in my hands, I felt calm. At least I stopped trembling. In that moment, I thought, “Maybe this is the only thing I can do.” So I told myself, “I want to become a great magician.” That was the true beginning of my path. At that time in Korea, there were no magic schools, so I started by watching videos online, especially of American magicians. I thought the best way to become a magician was to enter competitions with an original idea. I asked myself, “What can I create that is different from everything else?” And an image came to mind: an object dissolving into sand. That vision touched me deeply. My depression felt the same way—every day was a struggle, and the next always seemed worse. I felt like disappearing, or as if I had never existed. The object vanishing into sand was me. I identified with it completely. So I began working on that idea. It took five years to develop. In the first four years, I didn’t win anything—not even in national competitions. Continuous failures. I didn’t even have the certification to go abroad. But I didn’t give up. In the fourth year, I won a small prize. Then I started entering international competitions: in Asia I placed second, then third. The following year, in 2020, I competed at FISM, the world championship, and won first prize. That was the real turning point. After FISM, I began performing internationally, and by observing other artists, I grew tremendously. The character I bring on stage today is not the classic magician or manipulator, but a more archetypal figure—a kind of sorcerer. A creator of images who transforms the stage into another world. It’s not juggling or pure technique; it’s something more intimate. For example, my work with sand—it all comes from depression. I don’t take ideas from others; they all come from within me. When I hit bottom, I can’t do anything. But when I rise even slightly, that’s where images and ideas are born. I haven’t had formal teachers, but I have many magician friends with whom I exchange ideas. I don’t use others’ methods because I get bored easily with “typical” magic. For me, the most beautiful thing is also the most powerful for the audience. So I imagine dozens of effects, but only one or two are actually achievable. It can take me a year to develop just one. For me, the sand character is another “self.” I want to nurture it, help it evolve. Today, in Europe, Korean culture is everywhere—cinema, literature, art—and in magic, it all began about twenty years ago, when Choi Hyun-wook and Lee Eun-gyeol brought magic onto television every day. To young magicians, I say: there is no single right answer, no single path. Do what you love. And fail quickly. Because you learn from failure. And if you fail fast, you grow faster. As for the future… I dream of creating a show that is a true “genre,” like a film—a mix of horror, thriller, drama. I want to express something unique, something that is entirely my own, both emotionally and visually. I want to bring something new, not just to magic, but to the entire world of performance.
Published in Juggling Magazine Issue 107 in June 2025
Italiano english Quando ero piccolo passavo molto tempo da solo. Un giorno sono entrato in una libreria, c’era un libro dorato di magia che brillava. Mi sembrava incredibile: la magia era qualcosa di soprannaturale, eppure bastava leggere quel libro per impararla. Così ho cominciato a esercitarmi a casa. Provavo e riprovavo, poi mostravo i giochi ai miei genitori: quello è stato l’inizio del mio viaggio. Poi, senza una causa precisa, ho cominciato a soffrire di attacchi di panico e depressione, mi era difficile persino andare a scuola, mentalmente ero in un momento buio. Mia madre ci teneva molto che io studiassi e frequentavo scuole private per diventare un veterinario. La depressione però non mi permetteva nemmeno di leggere: tremavo, non riuscivo a concentrarmi. Ma quando facevo magia e tenevo le carte in mano mi sentivo calmo. Almeno non tremavo. In quel momento ho pensato: “Forse è l’unica cosa che riesco a fare”. Così mi sono detto: “Voglio diventare un grande mago. Quello è stato l’inizio vero del mio percorso. In Corea, allora, non c’erano scuole di magia e ho iniziato guardando video su internet, soprattutto di maghi statunitensi. E ho pensato che il modo migliore per fare il mago fosse partecipare ai concorsi di magia con un’idea originale. Mi chiesi: “Cosa posso creare che sia diverso da tutto il resto?”. E mi venne in mente un’immagine: un oggetto che si dissolve nella sabbia. Quella visione mi toccava profondamente. Anche la mia depressione era così: ogni giorno da affrontare era una fatica e il giorno dopo sembrava peggiore. Avevo voglia di sparire, o di non essere mai esistito. L’oggetto che svanisce nella sabbia ero io. Mi ci identificavo totalmente. Allora ho cominciato a lavorare su quella idea. Ci sono voluti cinque anni per svilupparla. Nei primi quattro anni, non ho vinto nulla. Neanche nei concorsi nazionali. Fallimenti continui. Non avevo nemmeno la certificazione per andare all’estero. Ma non mi sono arreso. Al quarto anno ho vinto un piccolo premio. Poi, ho partecipato a concorsi all’estero: in Asia ho ottenuto un secondo posto, poi un terzo. L’anno successivo, nel 2020, ho partecipato al FISM, il campionato mondiale, e ho vinto il primo premio. Quello è stato il vero punto di svolta. Dopo il FISM, ho cominciato a esibirmi all’estero e lì, osservando gli altri artisti, sono cresciuto moltissimo. Il personaggio che porto in scena oggi non è il classico mago o manipolatore ma una figura quasi archetipica, uno stregone. Un creatore di immagini, che trasforma la scena in un altro mondo. Non è giocoleria o tecnica, è qualcosa di più intimo. Per esempio, il lavoro con la sabbia. Tutto è nato dalla depressione. Le idee non le prendo da altri: vengono tutte da dentro di me. Quando tocco il fondo, non riesco a fare nulla. Ma quando risalgo anche solo un po’, è da lì che nascono le immagini, le idee. Non ho avuto insegnanti veri ma tanti amici maghi con cui confronto le idee. Non prendo metodi altrui perché mi annoio facilmente con la magia “tipica”. Per me, la cosa più bella è anche la più potente per lo spettatore. Quindi immagino decine di effetti, ma solo uno o due sono realizzabili. Ci metto anche un anno per svilupparne uno solo. Per me, il personaggio della sabbia è un altro “me stesso”. Voglio nutrirlo, farlo evolvere. Oggi, in Europa, la cultura coreana è ovunque: cinema, letteratura, arte e per la magia tutto è cominciato vent’anni fa, quando Choi Hyun-wook e Lee Eun-gyeol l’hanno portata in TV ogni giorno. Ai giovani maghi dico: non c’è una risposta giusta, non c’è un solo percorso. Fate quello che amate. E fallite in fretta. Perché si impara dal fallimento. E se fallisci in fretta, cresci più in fretta. Quanto al futuro… sogno di creare uno spettacolo che sia un vero “genere”, come un film. Un mix di horror, thriller, dramma… Voglio esprimere qualcosa di unico, solo mio, sia a livello emotivo che visivo. Voglio portare qualcosa di nuovo, non solo nella magia, ma nell’intero mondo dello spettacolo. Pubblicato nel numero 107 di Juggling Magazine nel giugno 2025 When I was a child, I spent a lot of time alone. One day I walked into a bookstore and saw a golden magic book shining on a shelf. It felt incredible: magic was something supernatural, yet all you had to do was read that book to learn it. So I started practicing at home. I would try and try again, then show tricks to my parents—that was the beginning of my journey. Then, for no clear reason, I began to suffer from panic attacks and depression. It became difficult even to go to school; mentally, I was in a very dark place. My mother cared deeply about my education, and I attended private schools with the goal of becoming a veterinarian. But depression wouldn’t even allow me to read: I trembled, I couldn’t concentrate. Yet when I practiced magic and held cards in my hands, I felt calm. At least I stopped trembling. In that moment, I thought, “Maybe this is the only thing I can do.” So I told myself, “I want to become a great magician.” That was the true beginning of my path. At that time in Korea, there were no magic schools, so I started by watching videos online, especially of American magicians. I thought the best way to become a magician was to enter competitions with an original idea. I asked myself, “What can I create that is different from everything else?” And an image came to mind: an object dissolving into sand. That vision touched me deeply. My depression felt the same way—every day was a struggle, and the next always seemed worse. I felt like disappearing, or as if I had never existed. The object vanishing into sand was me. I identified with it completely. So I began working on that idea. It took five years to develop. In the first four years, I didn’t win anything—not even in national competitions. Continuous failures. I didn’t even have the certification to go abroad. But I didn’t give up. In the fourth year, I won a small prize. Then I started entering international competitions: in Asia I placed second, then third. The following year, in 2020, I competed at FISM, the world championship, and won first prize. That was the real turning point. After FISM, I began performing internationally, and by observing other artists, I grew tremendously. The character I bring on stage today is not the classic magician or manipulator, but a more archetypal figure—a kind of sorcerer. A creator of images who transforms the stage into another world. It’s not juggling or pure technique; it’s something more intimate. For example, my work with sand—it all comes from depression. I don’t take ideas from others; they all come from within me. When I hit bottom, I can’t do anything. But when I rise even slightly, that’s where images and ideas are born. I haven’t had formal teachers, but I have many magician friends with whom I exchange ideas. I don’t use others’ methods because I get bored easily with “typical” magic. For me, the most beautiful thing is also the most powerful for the audience. So I imagine dozens of effects, but only one or two are actually achievable. It can take me a year to develop just one. For me, the sand character is another “self.” I want to nurture it, help it evolve. Today, in Europe, Korean culture is everywhere—cinema, literature, art—and in magic, it all began about twenty years ago, when Choi Hyun-wook and Lee Eun-gyeol brought magic onto television every day. To young magicians, I say: there is no single right answer, no single path. Do what you love. And fail quickly. Because you learn from failure. And if you fail fast, you grow faster. As for the future… I dream of creating a show that is a true “genre,” like a film—a mix of horror, thriller, drama. I want to express something unique, something that is entirely my own, both emotionally and visually. I want to bring something new, not just to magic, but to the entire world of performance. Published in Juggling Magazine Issue 107 in June 2025
