Chapter 14
The phone I used was propped up on the sofa’s wide arm, and despite the increasing warmth of the season, I felt cold enough to have draped a blanket over myself. I held my mug close to my face, inhaling the warm scent of the freshly brewed coffee.
Mum hadn’t been the only one to benefit from Dad’s gift, the freshly ground arabica beans a vast improvement from the drip coffee I’d existed on in LA.
Through the small screen and earbuds, I watched in silent admiration as the group drilled again and again. What looked perfect to me was apparently sub par.
They were practising without their dance instructor, but Sungmin – the group’s best dancer – filled the role. He was more commonly known as the group’s clown, but in a setting like this, it was clear to see that he was also quite the task master when it came to choreography.
GVibes was preparing for an online performance, along with several other groups and soloists.
It was billed to be a full two-day event – effectively a festival.
The only difference was that there were no in-person attendees.
All the tickets were virtual. The event was a completely new type of show, but what made it so cool was that not a lot had to be changed from the original set-up.
The original festival had been scheduled months ago. The venue had been mapped out, sets designed, equipment delivered. Tickets had been scheduled to go on sale but halted when the world took a nosedive into isolation.
Then, someone had the ingenious idea to go ahead with the festival – but virtually.
Obviously, the original plans had needed to evolve, but what was amazing was that the only real changes the organisers had needed for the venue itself was to use the space in front of the stage to include additional camera routes – effectively a whole kind of visual choreography, where specially-mounted cameras could be remotely controlled in sequence to follow the movements of the groups.
It meant the performers needed to follow their cues even more accurately, as the cameras would follow a strict set of sequences to ensure each person got the right amount of airtime.
With the absence of a in-person audience, the whole stadium was now being used in zones to host all the different groups, instead of cramming everyone in backstage. The scale of it was mind-blowing.
Jihoon had taken me on a tour of the venue last night, and the array of movable setups had been incredible.
The staging was awe-inspiring. Not much had been changed in terms of the set and props, but the back wall of the stage was now an enormous, stories-tall screen that would display the video input of a select number of viewers – people who had bought the virtual tickets, and had consented to being filmed.
On the day, the screen would be filled with thousands of fans.
I marvelled at the ingenuity of including fans in such a way.
The concert was meant to be the last event they were booked for before the world tour, and from the literal blood, sweat and tears that was going into it, I could tell they were using this event as an outlet for the grief they felt at being forced to cancel on their fans.
Because what no one was saying, was that their world tour would probably have been the last time they’d have the chance to tour the world before they enlisted for their military service.
I watched their practice for well over an hour, falling into a sort of daze as their repetitive movements lulled me into a sense of calm.
I’d been repeatedly assured by Joon and Sungmin that it wasn’t weird to watch.
All of their practices were filmed or live streamed.
Sometimes the recordings were used as ‘relay challenge’ footage for social media, sometimes parts were used in music videos, behind-the-scenes commentaries, all sorts of things.
The more I saw the group behind the facade of their public image, the more I realised there really was no such thing as down-time for them.
Unless they were in private, their homes, cars, family homes, there really was no permanent off switch for them.
Not only were their dance practices filmed, but their vocal training, their exercises with personal trainers.
Even their vacations were used as an opportunity to film – as scripted as any drama.
Everything was potential footage, especially now during lockdown.
The company had seen fit to ramp up the way in which they made their artists ‘consumable’. Nearly every aspect of an artist’s life was fair game, but no one seemed to say what seemed so obvious to me. Where did that stop?
It was only now that I realised how much Jihoon had shielded me from.
Most of the other members filmed their live segments in their apartments, or cars, or hotel rooms, just wherever they happened to be.
Jihoon had always limited his lives to his studio at ENT.
The only time he ever appeared on a live outside of his personal studio had been during another member’s live in their shared apartment, while I’d been safely downstairs.
Even now, this practice that I was watching, I wasn’t alone.
Other cameras and devices were propped up next to Jihoon’s phone as he video called me.
Other observers included their managers, a company executive and a dance assistant to take notes.
Jihoon had told me as such, when I’d shyly told him it felt voyeuristic to watch them, while I sat silently, but he’d said he liked that I was there with him, so I’d swallowed my awkwardness.
Despite his reassurance, there was a part of me – a nagging voice that kept reminding me I wasn’t really interacting with him. I was watching. I was no different from the fans who had bought a ticket to their virtual concert, except for the fact that I got to watch their ‘private’ practices.
It made me reflective, even in my morose mood.
My mind kept going back to the earlier conversation I’d had with Dad – about finding joy within.
As I watched the group, I saw it. They were panting, sweating in what had to be a blisteringly hot studio, doing the same moves again and again, but it was so clear that this was it for them.
The looks on their faces… even beneath the sheen of sweat and clenched jaws, it was obvious this was their joy.
I was reminded of something Jihoon had said, in another world, on a beach five thousand miles away, about finding his purpose – which was surely just another way of saying joy? This was their purpose – their joy.
I envied them. Not their money, not their fame. I envied their purpose. I envied their joy.
From that kernel of thought, that understanding, came a different kind of thought – a train of idea more storytelling than abstract concept.
I watched – suddenly more keenly – at the way they pieced together the steps, turning them from individual beats into pieces that slotted so neatly together it was like one single movement.
The idea began to form in my mind, moving from ephemeral to tangible the way snowflakes formed in a cloud.
I watched as dance mirrored the music, not just body movements choreographed to hit the corresponding beats, but a kind of music in its own right.
My mind was a mercurial flow, shifting from one thought to another.
My mind began… to write. To choreograph a series of words, expressions that linked together to express a concept – the corresponding beats of an idea.
I sat up straighter, mind clicking away almost as tangibly as the clacking of a typewriter.
I saw the music in the background as clearly as I saw the way their bodies moved, and accordingly, I began to piece together bits of a sentence, questions, speculation.
One thought led to another until eventually, by the time dance practice was done, I had the blog – the essay – almost fully written in my mind.
I felt like I’d woken up from a long nap, and now that I was awake, I had thing to do.