1. I Write With Presence

I write from memory, because the moment has already passed — and if it didn’t leave something behind, it doesn’t belong in the review. I observe with care and respect the effort made, even when results vary. I describe moments that moved me, not to center myself, but to show how performance connects to lived experience. When I judge performers, it is by their presence and contribution, not by their fame.

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2. I Believe Listening Is Personal

Everyone hears differently, shaped by memory, taste, and expectation. Fame doesn’t always reflect vocal skill; popularity often arises from appearance, marketing, or momentum. Still, human ears share some common ground: phrasing, resonance, and emotional pacing can often be described and studied. While all ears are different, the principles of tension, pacing, and phrasing can be shared. I write from what I feel and explain what I heard.

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3. I Know My Role

Performers take risks, and critics interpret. I stay grounded in humility, knowing I could never match the dedication and vulnerability required on stage. Even when disappointed, I respond with awareness of the performer’s courage.

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4. I Critique Honestly, Not Harshly

Some critiques may seem demanding or detached from production realities, but I speak not to attack — only to engage with the performance honestly. Occasionally, I suggest alternate stagings or arrangements, but only as one personal viewpoint.

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5. I See Myself in My Reviews

Oscar Wilde once wrote, “Critics reveal more about themselves than the works they critique.” Over time, I’ve found this to be true. My reviews reflect my perspective, shaped by what resonates most clearly in the moment. A performance may be fixed in time, but reviews are living lenses. I do not claim objectivity — only sincerity, and the courage to scatter parts of myself through these reflections.

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6. I Respect the Power — and Risk — of Change

Change, whether through reinterpretation, adaptation, or translation, is never neutral. It can renew or alienate, clarify or distort. Watching musicals in both their original and Korean forms has reminded me how tone, phrasing, and sync affect emotional truth. Shifts in language or delivery may not be wrong — but they alter something essential. Without courage to evolve, art stagnates. This site reflects both the bravery of adaptation and the tensions it creates.

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7. I Seek Balance in Voice and Presence

I’ve long prioritized vocal ability, but stage presence can move me just as deeply. Subtle, intentional acting often speaks louder than a perfect note. Singing and acting must be balanced — one elevates the other.

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8. I Am Cautious About Fame-Based Casting

I have mixed feelings about multi-casting and idol casting. Star power sells tickets, but it may compromise long-term artistic value. Musicals are flexible, vibrant works — not sacred relics — but flexibility shouldn’t mean lowering standards. If celebrity overshadows artistry, we risk losing something vital — not just quality, but possibility.

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9. I Remember What It Costs

Some artists carry their brilliance like a burden. Chester Bennington, Kurt Cobain, Jonghyun — their talent came from a place of deep perception, but that same sensitivity made life heavier. Fame isn’t always good. It’s good for those who can carry the pressure, and not everyone can. Artists are wired with a special circuit — one that can produce the unimaginable or eat away at them from the inside. I don’t romanticize suffering, but I don’t ignore it either. Behind every performance is a person. Behind every perfect note or trembling silence, someone is trying to hold it all together. I write not just to critique, but to bear witness — to the courage it takes simply to step on stage.

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I don’t write to judge. I write to witness.