SSG FOOD MARKET Magazine

A cover for the SSG FOOD MARKET Magazine 

which is one of 3 department stores in Korea.

B shots are belows and my favorite shot is on the top

i even do not know what is the final shot to be printed....

it was good to explore proper commercial field!  

신세계백화점의  SSG Market의 청담동 매장 내 일러스트 사인과 SSG 매거진 내지,별지커버 작업을 마쳤습니다.

덩치가 워낙 큰 일이라 의사소통과 스케쥴면세서 안타까운 부분들과 그림 상 타협해야했던 부분들도 많았지만

7월 초 청담동의 새로 오픈한 매장에 가 볼 생각에 제법 신이납니다! 가볼 수 있을까요?

Fresh market's pretty's

Some test shots for the Korean version of posh bio market which currently i am working on.
i think it would b long journey with all these groceries, fishs and meat as well.
i think my images r pretty yummy~ there is nothing feeling better than satisfying myself !!!!
and.... good money? had stopped some jobs to do unknown adventures and 
i think my intuition lightening the positive signal.
am very tired to keep the face and make it flow but that is why it is more exciting.

약만 올리고 될 듯 말 듯, 손만 닿으면 잡힐 거리에서 
얄밉게 지나쳐가던 욕심나던 일들....
그 부풀었다 바람빠진 풍선이 되는  반복 속
마음은 탄력을 잃고 있었고 나는 쉬러 왔다.

장학금도 안되고 차라리 잘 됫다 그래도 
붙은 걸 안가긴  너무 좋은 학교라 
욕심 많은 난 거의 멍멍멍멍멍이였는데.
집중해볼 일이 생긴 듯하다.

한쪽 문이 닫히면 또 다른 문이 열리는 법이라는 것,  
큰 방향만 맞다면  주어진 길목에 총총히 한발 한발 연습하기.
작업은 아이디어가 아니라 실습. 연습이니까.  

postcard for the poem ' it's grim'

Sorry that i was't consistency to keep up posts!

June was busy to do some commercial works and am chased by self- project now.

This is a new postcard design  in response to the  poet called "it's grim" for inc magazine.

Inc Magazine is a poetry and illustration magazine based in Hackney.

They had issue 5 in this June and i participated on project with many

talented writers and illustrations. 

the colour scheme was blue and white  

the poet titled 

"IT'S GRIM"

By John Hargate

Smashed potato hugs the stifled air;

Masked by a thin veneer of cheer

Indifferent, fixed smiles wheel surviving souls

Into glaring, neglected spaces of

Pine and plastic cushioned chairs.

Thimbles of bitter tea arrive reluctantly

In chipped and stained off-white china.

A faint, ever-so-faint moan escapes unnoticed

By the gel slicked, rushed twenty-somethings,

With accents unintelligible,

Tip-tapping in procession down bleach bright corridors.

The creaking cattle are rounded up for lunch.

“Just another minute darling,”

An old West Indian orderly

Croons to Mrs. Simpson, 94.