Mother and son sharing a bowl of noodles / Courtesy of Noonbit Publishing
The late photographer Choi Min-sik’s polarized legacy is revisited in his posthumous photobook “Human,” the 15th installment in his namesake series. The recently published volume features some 300 carefully selected black-and-white photographs taken over the course of his five-decade career.
The collection reflects the gifted artist’s complex fate as a documentary photographer.
Abroad, Choi earned a strong reputation, exhibiting his work in numerous countries — a rare achievement for a Korean photographer in the 1970s. British photographers even nicknamed him “Rembrandt” for his masterful use of light and shadow. His soulful portraits of people living in poverty evoke the dramatic chiaroscuro of Rembrandt, particularly in their striking contrasts between darkness and illumination.
Choi’s realistic yet philosophical approach quietly narrates the realities of Korean society at the time his photographs were taken. In one image featured in the new book, a mother and her young son share a bowl of noodles while she cradles him against her chest. The composition captures both intimacy and hardship. The thought-provoking image serves as a visual testament to unwavering maternal love, while also hinting at the poverty that defined the era — and the strong family bonds that helped people endure the hard times.
Thanks to his distinctive blend of realism and artistry, Choi became one of the most sought-after Korean photographers of his time. His critically acclaimed works were published in prominent European journals and exhibited internationally.
At home, however, his work sparked heated debates about the nature of photographic artistry. Choi focused on society’s most impoverished citizens, revealing their resilience amid harsh, rugged lives. His images provoked varied interpretations, and some Koreans felt uncomfortable with his unfiltered portrayal of the working class. Critics even labeled him a “beggar artist” — a term he regarded as a deep insult.
During the 1970s, under an authoritarian government eager to promote Korea as a rapidly modernizing nation, Choi’s stark realism was seen as an embarrassment. Officials feared his photographs would tarnish the country’s image abroad. As a result, he faced a travel ban. Although invited to exhibitions in several countries, he was denied a passport and prevented from leaving the country.
Despite these hardships, he remained steadfast in his dedication to photography. Eventually, his perseverance was rewarded when he received a cultural medal under the liberal Kim Dae-jung administration.
In a 2009 book, Choi wrote that he cared little about public criticism. Yet he said he was deeply hurt by disapproval from his own family.
He recalled how his rebellious daughter once bluntly asked him to stop giving interviews, saying she felt uncomfortable with his frequent media exposure. She accused him of hypocrisy, claiming he exploited the poor to gain fame.
Heartbroken, Choi confessed that he blamed himself for failing to make even his closest family understand him. “People in my photos and I share one thing in common: We are trapped in poverty. For this reason, I consider them another self, rather than others,” he wrote.
Opposition also came from his wife, who reluctantly became the family’s breadwinner, bearing the responsibility of raising their four children — three sons and a daughter.
“It’s true that my mother didn’t like her husband spending time taking photos without a steady income to support the family,” the couple’s second son, Choi Yoo-jin, told The Korea Times. “She looked at me suspiciously whenever she saw me with a camera.”
Like his father, the younger Choi showed an early talent for photography. But aware of his mother’s deep resentment toward what she saw as impractical artistic pursuits, he concealed his passion for a time.
As an artist, he believes he shares a similar fate with his late father — a sense of being misunderstood. “It was in my 40s when I first showed about 200 photos to my father,” he recalled. The images were taken in Southeast Asian countries, including Thailand, Cambodia and Laos, where he had lived in the 1980s. “He carefully looked through them, selected 35 and told me they were good.”
His father also offered him a lasting insight: “Good photographs are those that contain humanism,” he said. “Photos without affection for humanity are not truly photographs.”
The younger Choi hopes to publish his own collection someday, though he admits he still lives in his father’s shadow.
“Whenever I look at my father’s photos, they feel alive and powerful — capable of moving people’s hearts and minds. Compared to his work, mine falls short. I still have a long way to go,” he said.
