#34 The People of magazine ybp

editor: Min-kyung

The editors of magazine.ybp observe the world.

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I’ve often caught glimpses of the instant when these found fragments turn into words. They like us—young, broke, not yet successful. The ones swaying between passion and fatigue, managing to hold our own while discussing philosophy over convenience-store beer.

The way magazine.ybp looks at us is like an old manual camera: never aiming head-on, but watching from slightly off to the side, hesitating before pressing the shutter. It doesn’t capture emotions in sharp focus, nor does it intrude too directly. And yet, because of that slight blur, the result feels even more real.

Over wine with the editor of magazine.ybp, I once heard a reflection—half confessional, half wistful—that just ten years ago, admitting what you liked wasn’t so easy. Thinking back, this magazine is a space that breaks down such barriers. They're accustomed to expressing their love cautiously yet firmly. They express it by bringing out the moments they've meticulously collected one by one.

Thanks to this, we as readers often encounter our own tastes and unspoken feelings in their sentences before we ever recognize them in ourselves. The playlist we return to again and again, the perfume we stubbornly cling to, the clothes and colors we instinctively choose, the dish we love without reason, the book or artist we keep close for years. Not because someone else said they were good, but because they feel right for us.

And in imagining days filled with these things—things that are truly ours—I found myself naturally recalling old preferences, old loves, that once defined me too.

Minkyung's story

It began in Hong Kong. Back then, I lived each day as if it were a hazy strip of film, moving too quickly to focus. Language, people, even myself—all blurred around the edges. And yet, there were moments that cut through with sharp clarity: late-night drinks and conversations with friends at the edge of a Central alley, music spilling from the street, the damp weight of evening air.

During my internship, every morning carried a mix of tension and anticipation. I didn’t know much, but I learned a lot, and by the end of each day I felt, in some small way, that I had grown. A phrase overheard in a meeting, a lesson learned from a mistake—each became a fragment, new and exciting, that slowly pieced me together. The work was demanding, and I was eager to prove myself, but that intensity never felt heavy.

In those unfinished, energetic days, I often listened to honne. Looking back, it was a fairly mainstream choice, but at the time I liked how the music didn’t demand anything of me—it simply moved alongside my pace, like a background current woven into the scenery of those years.

Reading the Hong Kong edition of magazine.ybp, I felt those nights return: the noise and scents of the streets after work, the fragments of time I had let pass without notice. Moments I once hurried past now ask to be held, lingered over, and seen again with care.

A few years later, living in Singapore, I often wonder what kinds of moments and tastes I’m gathering now. Life here feels more refined, quieter—and my emotions carry a different density. The city moves to its own rhythm, people’s expressions and words feel distinct, and above all, my career has grown more grounded. Unlike the days when everything was new, I now find myself honing my role within a familiar routine. It’s less about learning and more about building. The anxieties have softened, replaced with a steadier ease.

Perhaps because of this, the way I explore taste has shifted—so has my music. Instead of passively looping playlists, I choose what emotion I want to summon in a given moment. My listening is less about genre or style now, and more about how I listen. A single song or an entire album, played all the way through, can shape the tone of a day. Sometimes, I find myself lingering on a single sound or image much longer than before.

Following that instinct, one artist naturally came to the forefront: London-based Issy Wood (@isywod). I first fell for her work two years ago at an exhibition in Seoul. I remember being unexpectedly arrested in front of paintings I might have otherwise walked past. They seemed intent on capturing fleeting instants. Up close, they felt hesitant, blurred; but from a distance, they became startlingly vivid. That rawness—the refusal to be overly precise or “pretty”—was what I loved most.

The music in that exhibition space felt uncannily right, and only later did I discover it was hers too. Her paintings and her music didn’t exist in parallel—they dissolved into the same atmosphere. The sight and the sound were bound by the same thread, lingering with me long afterward. Even her album covers use her paintings, not as adornment but as continuation.

Since then, I sometimes listen to her songs while recalling her paintings, and at other times a track brings an image back to me. It’s not a quick or flashy charm, but one that keeps returning, insisting gently that you return too. And somehow, it fits me perfectly now. These days, I find myself liking people, music, and all the things I let in—even more deeply.

If I had to name my current taste, it would be simply this: Issy Wood.

I still listen to Honne now and then. In Hong Kong, each day felt like it simply passed me by. I wasn’t trying to preserve or remember anything—I was just busy getting to the next day. Music was the same. It wasn’t about what I listened to; just putting on earphones was enough, a kind of familiar rhythm. Back then, Honne was background. Now, I choose what I listen to deliberately, and the songs I play can shift the mood of an entire day. Even in the way I pick music, I can see I’ve become a little more self-aware.

Often, I find sentences in magazine.ybp that capture these quiet shifts in taste and feeling. Strangely, it feels as though they’ve already written down what I was about to think—or what I hadn’t yet found the words to express. As I follow their lines, fleeting scenes sharpen, and unnamed emotions take form. Words like memory dividends or oil drops organize what once felt scattered. And the more we arrange and revisit these moments, the steadier we become, the less easily shaken. In that way, magazine.ybp feels like a tether, binding us to the “favorite moments” we’ve gathered.

Slowly, this magazine carves out a small place in its readers’ daily lives. Through that space, experiences seep in, and tastes take shape. In turn, magazine.ybp comes to know us—catching glimpses of ourselves we might otherwise overlook, writing them down before we do. There’s comfort in being documented like this, in knowing someone is quietly paying attention.

That’s why their words always arrive a little slowly. And that’s why I hope magazine.ybp lasts a long time—continuing to carefully collect and preserve the moments we once let slip away.