Sometimes, it feels like the city moves faster than we do. Like you blink, and your favorite corner store’s turned into a 24-hour dessert bar. Or that gallery you swore you’d visit “next weekend” is suddenly gone—replaced by something brighter, shinier, and vaguely soulless.
That’s kind of why Post Seoul started. Not to romanticize everything, not to fight the change—but just to remember. To hold a camera or a voice recorder up to this city and say: “Look, this was here. This mattered. Even if just for a moment.”
We didn’t set out to be a magazine, not in the traditional sense. No glossy editorials. No celebrity spreads. Just stories. Of ceramic artists in Mapo-gu who open their studio windows every morning before they make anything. Of an old jazz bar that never figured out how to market itself on Instagram, and maybe never should.
It’s about catching the in-between. The way modern and old Seoul don’t blend so much as they coexist—awkwardly, sometimes beautifully. It’s the neon and the rust. The overpriced pour-over in a hanok café and the woman selling tteokbokki two alleys down who’s been there since ’92.
There’s this quote someone once painted on a wall in Mullae: “We document so we don’t forget what it felt like.” That’s it, really. That’s what we’re doing here.
We try not to over-edit the photos. Sometimes the words ramble. Sometimes the lighting is weird. But that’s life. That’s Seoul. It doesn’t always line up. But it’s always alive. And we want to tell it like that.
If you’re reading this and wondering what kind of site you’ve landed on—it’s a quiet one. Not trying to shout louder than the rest. Just trying to notice things that feel like they might slip away otherwise.
So maybe this is less of an introduction and more of an invitation. To pay attention. To remember. To walk a little slower next time you’re in Seongsu or Sinchon or wherever you are. Because something beautiful is probably about to disappear, and you might be the only one who sees it before it does.
