Chapter 1 — The Chair

There wasn't much worth revisiting about the path that led me to join the design team.

Choosing industrial design had been my attempt at a life-changing leap—me, an oddball mechanical engineering major who'd gambled on studying abroad like everyone else chasing a miracle. That decision was what made me who I am today.

Computers quietly handed me the thread of hope, even though I couldn't draw to save my life. Because of them, I ended up straying far from my original field, stepping onto the strange, winding path of a designer.

Then again, not everything in car design is done on a computer.

Everyone knows you need an art background at minimum—you have to master the fundamentals, then apply them to structural mechanics, fashion, and sensory intuition just to survive in this industry.

Back then, I was still an ignorant art student who didn't even understand what they meant when they told me to prepare a portfolio for interviews.

It took nearly two and a half years before I stopped fearing every grade I received—before calluses even began forming on the fingers that held my pencil.

I went through every single hardship others faced, without exception.

First, I had to spend an enormous amount of time discarding myself.

While studying the basics of art, I was shocked to realize how deeply connected the hand is to the brain.

Whenever I tried sketching—a live model, a plaster cast—I always ended up drawing faces that looked like mine.

I couldn't shake it. It took endless hours to break free from the unconscious, instinctive obedience of my hand, to finally step toward objective precision guided by my own judgment. And even then, I often regretted having ever entered this path.

While narrowing my focus within industrial design—specializing in product design with an emphasis on automobiles—

I was unbelievably lucky to land a part-time job at one of America's most renowned design firms.

Frog's design legacy was astonishingly brilliant.

Most of the people working in their studio were graduates of Germany's Bauhaus, exceptionally talented individuals.

Nearly every iconic design we've ever admired—the ones that make us raise our thumbs in awe—had passed through their hands. It wasn't an exaggeration.

The denim brand's jeans, the sunglasses brand's sunglasses, the computer company's PS/2 model, the technology company's iMac…

Legendary works, each instantly recognizable by name alone.

Even just having worked there as a temporary assistant surprised me—it turned out that back in Korea, such experience counted as elite pedigree.

On my first day at the design studio, a full-blown fight was erupting inside.

"Look, I understand your opinion, Team Leader, but I have to use a different material instead of that leather!"

"No, it's not that I don't get it—but if we do that, the MC (material cost) goes up. How the hell am I supposed to justify that to upper management?

Planning will obviously oppose it, and eventually Sales will throw a fit demanding we remove the expensive seats. You know this—so how can you push so hard?"

"I don't care. I must use that leather. Otherwise, I can't stand by and watch something completely contrary to my design intent roll out. That's where I draw the line."

"If we follow your suggestion, David Yoon, and it gets rejected in final review—