This Month’s Theme is
My First Show
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My First Show •
My First Show
- Re-Emerging
By Namoo Chae Lee
Soon, I will turn forty-four. In Korea, the number four carries an ominous weight, its sound echoing the word for “death.” This year marks my “double death” birthday. Yet instead of ending, I find myself beginning again—preparing for my first full production as a director in the UK.
Ten years ago, I thought I had already lived enough theatre lives. I had studied in the US, worked in Korea, stepped away from the stage, and returned to familiar rhythms. I remember telling myself I was grateful for the many “firsts” I had already encountered—my first rehearsal, my first collaborators, my first audiences. At the time, I thought I was old enough to know better.
But life kept handing me new “firsts”—so many that, at one point, I felt overwhelmed by them, longing instead for something steady, something I could hold without having to learn it anew. And yet here I am again, standing before my first full production in this country. The strange thing is—it always feels like the first time. First play. First theatre. First collaborators. First, first, first.
I still remember the very first time I entered a theatre as a maker. I didn’t feel I belonged. That feeling has never really left me, even after working in theatre for almost two decades. Everything still feels like the beginning—like standing on the edge of something I don’t yet fully know.
Maybe that’s what I must carry with me—not the certainty of belonging, but the continual act of beginning. To live as a person who does “firsts.” That’s what my double-death year reminds me of.
Park Go-Tae
By Suyoung Park
My very first performance was in 2002, as a backup dancer for the Park Go-Tae Project.
Park Go-Tae was a project group formed by two comedians in Korea.
For two months, I rehearsed the choreography every single day—eight hours a day. I would always return home on the first morning train or by taxi. Every Monday, I had to step on the scales. If I gained even 500 grams, I was forced to run ten laps around the studio.
Shoes had to be exactly 235 mm.
Costumes had to be strictly size 44.
I moulded my body to fit the clothes.
I shaped my mind to fit the style of Korean broadcasting.
Mistakes were simply not allowed.
In my head, I kept singing Ave Maria.
Pinocchio and Ophelia
By Minhee Yeo
She first encountered the stage when she was five years old.
Holding her mother’s hand tightly, she stepped into a theatre that was both strange and sparkling — like a world of dreams.
As the lights dimmed and music began to flow, a wooden puppet appeared on stage.
Pinocchio.
His nose grew longer whenever he told a lie.
A gentle blue angel whispered to him.
A giant whale swallowed an old man whole —
a magical tale.
She couldn’t take her eyes off the stage.
A mysterious flame ignited in her small heart.
The world on stage felt more real than reality itself.
That day, Pinocchio planted the seed of a dream inside her.
Years later, in sixth form, she encountered Shakespeare’s Hamlet.
She had heard of the play before — its tragic prince, its famous soliloquy “To be or not to be” —
but this was her first time seeing the story unfold live on stage.
Like petals scattered by the wind,
Ophelia moved lightly and sadly,
draped in a simple dress of flowing white fabric,
her voice rising in a mournful chang (창唱),
a traditional Korean vocal chant.
The stage transformed into a ritual.
Actors in masks moved to the rhythms of samulnori —
the powerful percussion of drums, gongs, and cymbals,
breathing fierce life into every gesture.
Hamlet, wearing a mask instead of wielding a sword,
expressed his sorrow and rage through his whole body.
The boundaries between classic and folk, East and West, blurred.
The stage exploded with the energy of a shamanistic rite.
She held her breath.
For the first time, she realised Shakespeare could be reborn —
through Korean rhythm, movement, and spirit.
A second flame ignited within her:
Stories can be told like this, too.
And now,
as she prepares for the first show of her own theatre company,
she looks out at the empty stage and quiet rows of seats,
remembering.
Five-year-old Pinocchio.
Ophelia singing chang in her white dress.
Without them, this stage would not exist.
Now, it is her turn to speak.
“This is my story —
and our story.”
Let the play begin.