When people hear “South Korea,” they often picture Seoul—high-rises, neon, speed. But when my partner and I moved here a year ago, we bypassed Seoul entirely and settled in Gwangju, her hometown, after years in Berlin and Paris. I had been here before, mostly for family dinners and formal introductions. You know, the kind of visits where you’re always slightly on stage. Living here is different. I didn’t come for a photography project; I came because life brought me here. The project arrived later, almost by accident, through a place that has always been my first point of contact with a city: the market.

The ordinary

Markets rarely attract attention because they are part of everyday life. They are spaces where a city eats, works, bargains, waits, and repeats itself. I am a sociologist by training, and that probably explains this attraction. I pay attention to routines, to small interactions, to what people do every day without comment. Photography is where I try to stay with that attention, not to elevate it, but to take it seriously.

The first time I walked into the covered alleys in Gwangju, I did not have a plan. I followed the flow: people carrying and stopping, scooters slipping through narrow passages, work continuing without pause. Nothing asked to be photographed, and that was precisely the point.

The camera as a constraint

I photograph these markets with a small fixed-lens camera: a Fujifilm X100-series body with a 23 mm lens (35 mm equivalent). I like the constraint. One lens means fewer decisions. It forces me to work with distance, timing, and framing instead of trying to resolve scenes by changing equipment. It also matters socially. A small camera is less conspicuous. In places where people are working—cutting, washing, carrying, preparing—being discreet is not a strategy but a condition. Not because I am hiding, but because I want the camera to interfere as little as possible with what is already happening.

Another constraint is language. I am still learning Korean. In the market, I cannot always explain myself, and I often rely on eye contact or simple gestures. At the same time, it is one of the most effective places to learn the language, because it forces me to put into practice what I study in books and to adjust through everyday interactions.

The fish alleys

The fish alleys are where the market feels most concentrated. The floor is wet. Light comes from several directions at once, from bare bulbs, open doors, and reflections on metal trays. Plastic curtains hang at the entrances to the stalls and shift constantly as people pass through.

Everything is temporary. Fish is laid out, weighed, rinsed, rearranged. A vendor folds a plastic bag without looking. A customer leans in to inspect a tray. In between, there are brief moments of stillness: someone waiting behind a counter, someone standing with their hands at rest, someone watching the aisle before moving again.

This is what I try to photograph here: work up close, without decoration, and the textures produced by the activity itself.

A pause for food

One of the places I return to most is not a stall, but the small restaurants tucked inside the market. They are simple rooms, often just a counter and a few tables, but they keep the whole place going. Sometimes you see someone eating alone, holding still for a moment. Through a window, reflections mix inside and outside.

Gukbap

In another restaurant, two women work behind a stainless steel counter under hanging bulbs. Behind them, a glass panel lists dishes in Korean: gukbap (국밥), sundae gukbap (순대국밥), meori gukbap (머리국밥), and other variations on the same idea, rice served in hot broth.

In the market, this is the kind of meal eaten during a short break. You step inside, eat, and go back out.

Returning

Over time, I came to see the market as a world of its own: narrow passages, signs, workspaces packed tightly together. Dense, practical, and ordinary.

These photographs are only a slice of what I have been making in Gwangju, but they follow the same thread: work, repetition, small encounters, and the quiet moments inside them.

I still go back. I am still learning Korean. I am still learning how to stand in a place without taking too much from it.

And I keep returning to the ordinary, because it is where most life happens.