A Thousand-Year Light Blossoming on the Black Hour — “In the End, This Light Remains”

“When I look at a finished piece, I sometimes ask myself, ‘How did I make this?’ It’s not emptiness that follows—it’s pride.”

In a quiet studio in Pocheon, Gyeonggi Province, Master Ahn Yu-tae—well past seventy—still steps to his bench before dawn. Onto jet-black lacquer he lays shimmering mother-of-pearl. Only after dozens of coats, curing cycles, and arduous polishing does a single piece come to life. The glow rising from his fingertips is more than craft. It breathes life into wood, guards tradition, and builds a bridge to the future.

Ahn entered the world of lacquer at fifteen. He calls himself “a man who knows no haggling or tricks, only work.” His path was anything but easy. Born in Uiryeong, one of eleven siblings, he was captivated by wood and lacquer from an early age. In Seoul he once ran a factory, supplying furniture stores and chasing success—until a cash-flow crisis wiped everything out. Overnight, the skilled technician became “a man with nothing.”

He did not fold. For a year he ran a tiny food stall, saving every fifty-won coin until he had enough to reopen a workshop. He grew to twenty employees, then chose to leave the bustle of Seoul altogether and settle in Pocheon. “I moved my household and even my ancestors’ remains. There’s no leaving now,” he says, with roots that will not be shaken. Pocheon became both a second hometown and the bedrock of his tradition.

For Ahn, an object is not merely to be admired. It must serve life. Raw lacquer—the sap of the lacquer tree—is a natural preservative, “a finish safe enough to eat,” he quips. Lacquered spoons and bowls resist bacterial growth, and even the elderly with weak teeth can dine quietly. History already testifies: armor that lasted centuries, the Tripitaka Koreana enduring a thousand years. True traditional technique offers durability and heat resistance while revealing the natural grain under mother-of-pearl.

Mother-of-pearl holds the sea’s light. Burmese shells flash vivid color; New Zealand shells offer generous size. Slicing abalone thin and setting patterns by hand is an art of exacting subtlety. Unlike urethane, lacquer emphasizes the material’s life and folds the history of use into beauty. Time does not make it shabby: the film hardens, and the sheen shifts gently along the path of the hand. Tradition is not “old” for this very reason.

Ahn’s success rests on mentors, neighbors, and family. He recalls the early years—barley mixed into rice—and his eyes moisten. “I survived because people believed in me.” His story reaches beyond personal virtue to a testimony of community. “You can’t learn it all in a lifetime. Perfection doesn’t exist.” He teaches generously—students, people with disabilities, anyone in need—continuing a line of transmission that stretches back to Goryeo.

Now he works less for livelihood than for duty. “I’ve earned enough. It’s time to pass this on.” After receiving the Minister of Culture, Sports and Tourism Award at the 12th Grand Invitational in 2016, he collaborated with the Josun Palace’s Itanic Garden to present contemporary mother-of-pearl boxes. His dream is to make Pocheon a home of lacquerware—without limiting his gaze to Korea.

“Korean hand skills are the best in the world,” he says without hesitation. Beyond the famed Japanese techniques and China’s scale, he points to Korea’s unmatched refinement. With export experience in the United States and France—and a mother-of-pearl cosmetics case once chosen as an APEC gift—he is mapping a global plan.

Yet the reputation of K-craft is under threat. In Insadong and elsewhere, cheap MDF coated with urethane is sold to tourists as “traditional lacquerware.” Urethane turns tacky or deforms under alcohol and heat and buries the texture of shell. Disappointed buyers carry home mistrust that taints the whole of Korean craft.

Here the fire of a 45-year path is blazing again. In talks with entrepreneurs focused on overseas markets, his vision is taking shape. He plans a limited, upgraded edition of a presidential-gift box—two months of handwork, top-grade paulownia and shell, with pricing now under negotiation. “Originality comes first in art,” he says, keeping turtle and crane motifs while layering modern design.

He is also pairing tradition with an AI-driven global strategy, reinterpreting the Silla crown and the classic gat (horsehair hat). “I still regret the lipstick case order that got away. It’s something every woman carries; it could have been a hit.” That regret fuels a new push: alongside large, high-end objets, the future lies in small, premium items people use every day—anchors for trust and repeat purchase worldwide.

To protect designs, he urges minimal domestic exposure and direct promotion abroad. It is a union of a master’s eye and modern marketing: the finest materials and orthodox process, limited runs with transparent pricing, meticulous production control, and after-care—translating quality into the language of operations and experience.

“Lacquer shines only when time and devotion are layered,” Ahn says. “Our tradition is the same. Someone has to keep lifting the brush if that light is to remain in the world.” He lifts it again today. From a life of upheaval, his brush now points beyond a narrow studio toward the world.

From a single coat in Pocheon to a living gloss in a Paris living room, a New York kitchen, a Tokyo dining table—each layer will add tomorrow to yesterday. Steady, never rushed; deep, never showy. That constancy is the most Korean speed there is—rooted here, reaching outward. May every stroke extend the frontier of K-culture, one luminous layer at a time.