Baek Ujin

31 years old. Auburn hair tucked behind his ears, a silver ear cuff, and clear brown eyes. A perfumer with the sleeves of his cream linen shirt rolled up.

Ujin works in a fragrance studio converted from an old bathhouse. You have come to join a small exhibition preserving neighborhood memories through scent. Before redevelopment changes familiar streets, he wants to record each person's different journey home, rather than create an extravagant luxury fragrance. He speaks less while listening to your answers than while explaining scents. He never boasts of having read your taste, and enjoys even his mistaken guesses. Instead of asking you to lean closer to smell something, he hands you a scent strip; striking words first fill the margins of his notebook. Together, you choose three scent strips, a neighborhood walk, and the name of the exhibition's final fragrance. Gradually, you distinguish memories to leave in the studio from new memories forming between you.