The Cost of Aesthetic Perfection — Behind Korea’s Culture of Overwork in Creative Fields

Seoul design studio at night with glowing signs and people working late

Seoul after dark — where beauty and pressure share the same glow.

These days in Korea, trendy pop-ups and cult-favourite brands seem to appear overnight and disappear just as fast. The ink on one success story barely dries before another name takes its place.

Only recently I had written about the exhibition of Ryo, the founder of London Bagel Museum — yet before that memory could settle, the news surrounding the same brand’s overwork controversy surfaced. Reading those reports brought back flashes of my own several hectic years working in Korea’s creative industry.

In my early twenties, I worked in Europe. In France, people still speak passionately about la vie équilibrée — the balance between life and work. There’s an insistence that rest is part of productivity. But in Korea, where I later joined one of the country’s biggest companies, things felt different. No one told me to stay late, yet the unspoken rhythm of competition made it almost impossible to leave. The office lights never went out.

Now, scrolling through TikTok or Instagram, we mostly see the polished surface — beautiful products, designer cafés, picture-perfect lives. But after reading about London Bagel Museum, I found myself asking a quieter question. What do we really live for? To impress others? To chase self-satisfaction? Or to keep up with an idea of success that never stops moving?

Writer’s note. Following recent coverage by Korea Economic Daily (Hankyung) on the ongoing discussions around London Bagel Museum’s labour practices, many in Korea’s creative scene have begun reflecting on the hidden cost of rapid growth. This piece does not aim to report or evaluate the case itself, but to look more broadly at what relentless perfectionism demands from the people behind beautiful things.

When design becomes performance

Seoul has turned design into performance. Cafés look like installations, bakeries like theatres, and even baristas move with choreography. People queue not only for coffee or pastries but for a few seconds of belonging — to photograph, to prove, to post. Every brand seems to whisper the same line: be part of this moment.

In that sense, perfection has become an aesthetic currency. From Gangnam to Seongsu, creative teams design experiences with obsessive precision. Every scent, logo, and tone of lighting is measured to trigger emotion. It’s inspiring, yet also exhausting. I’ve met designers who call it “emotional production”, a job that demands feeling as much as output.

There’s pride in that devotion. Many of us once believed this relentless pace was passion — that to love design was to sacrifice for it. But somewhere along the line, the boundary between love and labour blurred.

The invisible side of beauty

When I read about long hours behind some of these shining spaces, I wasn’t surprised. I’ve seen teams work until dawn before a launch, then clean the studio as the first customers arrive. In the photographs, it all looks effortless, but I can still smell the energy drinks and half-cold pizza boxes behind the scenes.

Korea’s creative industry runs on invisible effort — the endless refining, the last-minute changes, the quiet perfectionism that no one praises publicly. It’s a culture that celebrates results but rarely pauses to ask about rest.

Yet the contradiction is striking. Brands built on ideas of comfort, warmth, or self-care sometimes grow from environments that offer little of either.

A matter of rhythm

In Europe, I remember lunches that lasted, meetings that ended when the sun set, and colleagues who defended their weekends like sacred ground. France is now even reintroducing debates about shortening working hours and reclaiming public holidays.

In Seoul, the rhythm is different. The city moves at double speed. There’s a collective pulse that says “keep up”, even when no one speaks it aloud. That pace creates excellence — but it also creates distance between the person and the work.

Sometimes I wonder if Seoul’s beauty comes not just from design but from pressure itself. The intensity sharpens creativity. But what happens when constant sharpness starts to cut?

The cost of admiration

Concept illustration of a bagel symbolising Seoul’s café culture and perfectionism

Not a store photo — just a quiet reminder of how beauty and effort are always intertwined.

The London Bagel Museum controversy reminded many people that success stories can carry weight unseen by customers. No brand begins wanting to harm its people, yet rapid growth leaves gaps that idealism alone can’t fill.

It’s easy to romanticise the creative grind — the late nights, the adrenaline before a launch, the belief that everything must be perfect. But admiration without empathy can be dangerous. We praise the polished façade, not the people holding it up.

Even as an observer, I feel complicit. I’ve queued for those pop-ups, posted those perfect frames, contributed to the mythology of Seoul as a place that never stops creating.

When pride turns heavy

Abstract red heart artwork symbolising exhaustion and emotion

The heart stays heavy long after the applause fades.

For years I thought fatigue was proof of dedication. Everyone around me worked like that. To rest was to fall behind. But after leaving that world, I began to see fatigue for what it was — a symptom, not a badge.

The irony is that many creative workers genuinely love what they do. That’s what makes it complex. Passion hides exhaustion until the body catches up. You tell yourself it’s temporary, that the next project will be calmer. It rarely is.

A culture of comparison

Social media amplifies this cycle. Success is measured by visibility, not balance. The more perfect something looks online, the more invisible its labour becomes. People replicate trends faster than they can recover.

I’ve seen young designers with enormous talent burn out before thirty. Not because they lacked discipline, but because they never felt permission to pause. There’s always another brief, another opening, another client waiting.

Sometimes I think Seoul’s creative scene mirrors the city itself — brilliant, restless, endlessly remodelling.

Toward a kinder definition of creativity

What would it look like if creative culture valued care as much as innovation? If late nights were replaced by longer timelines, and applause for perfection replaced by respect for process?

There are small shifts happening. Independent cafés closing on Mondays. Studios setting “quiet hours”. A few brave leaders starting to talk about mental health out loud. It’s a beginning.

Real creativity doesn’t disappear when people slow down. Often, that’s when it deepens.

The new luxury: time

Maybe the real luxury isn’t a flawless brand launch or a viral café — it’s time. Time to think, rest, and make without rushing. Time to step away from the performance and remember why we started creating in the first place.

The pandemic briefly reminded us how silence feels, but the city soon accelerated again. I sometimes wish Seoul would breathe more slowly. It’s so beautiful when it does.

Closing thought

As I finish this piece, another café is probably opening somewhere in the city. A new queue will form, a new trend will rise. That’s the rhythm of Seoul — but perhaps our admiration can evolve. We can still celebrate beauty, while asking for fairness behind it.

Because perfection built on exhaustion isn’t truly perfect. It’s a photograph that needs light, and also shadow, to be real.

Context.

Topic. Reflection inspired by the London Bagel Museum labour controversy.
Focus. Korean creative culture, overwork, and the balance between design and wellbeing.
Author’s view. Personal observation drawn from years working across Europe and Korea’s design-driven industries.