Chapter 79: What is a masterpiece?

What is a masterpiece?

There is no definitive answer.

If you ask five people, you’ll receive five different answers, and choosing the best among them is no simple task. Each answer is shaped by the unique life experiences and realizations of the individual.

That’s the nature of a masterpiece.

Its meaning changes depending on who handles it, their mindset, and their approach. Even Director Go Tae-min, often called the “meticulous master,” was no exception. He quietly observed the chaotic scene before him, lost in deep thought.

Indeed, opinions on what constitutes a masterpiece differ from person to person.

“That much is clear just by observing the people around me.”

To Park Jun, who created The Sword, a masterpiece is loyalty.

He drew strength from those who trusted him the most and crafted his work as an act of gratitude to repay them. For Director Park Jun, a masterpiece embodies a sense of loyalty.

For writer Lee Geum-sook and PD Choi Heewon of Special Task Force 808, their masterpiece is akin to a stepping stone by a stream.

Each contributor places their own interpretation into the work, like stones laid one by one. Eventually, they form the shape of a bridge. Go Tae-min had recently witnessed their collaborative process firsthand.

To Kim Jun-ki, now a disgraced artist, a masterpiece is nothing but desire.

“He thought of it as pottery.”

He would manipulate it however he pleased, and if it didn’t take the shape he wanted, he would apply force to break it. He had often destroyed results that failed to satisfy him.

Finally, what does a masterpiece mean to me, Go Tae-min?

“To me, a masterpiece is…”

Go Tae-min didn’t take long to find his answer.

“…a ship.”

A ship navigating the vast sea.

To Go Tae-min, his work was like a ship. Everyone rowing in unison, moving forward together, until they reached the final destination of completion.

This obsession might be why Go Tae-min earned the title of “meticulous master.” He believed that every oar had to move in perfect harmony for a masterpiece to take shape.

And so.

Perhaps.

This chaotic situation, this burden of being a master, was now weighing him down.

“Things have become so complicated. It wasn’t like this before.”

Go Tae-min’s thoughts drifted to the past.

Looking back, his early days of filmmaking were simple.

Back then, his ship was no larger than a raft, and he was the only one rowing. No one interfered, regardless of where the current took him.

Then came a few hits, a few successes.

Even as the ship grew into a small boat, it was manageable.

Most of those who boarded were fans or loyal supporters of Go Tae-min. They stayed within his sphere of influence, rowing with the intention of fulfilling his vision.

However.

When he finally rose to the ranks of master filmmakers.

When his ship grew as large as it is now.

Go Tae-min glanced around.

Pianist virtuoso Ham Ah-yoon, production team members renowned for their skills in their respective fields, the talented rookie Lee Sua, and Mystic Entertainment’s CEO, Kim Yi-seo.

The meaning was clear.

The ship had grown too large, and its passengers had become too diverse.

Even from a visible perspective, this was the extent of it. Factoring in everything unseen, the scale was far greater. With the growing number of investors watching from the sidelines with folded arms, the complexity had only multiplied.

The more people on board, the more inevitable the conflicts.

As a result, the higher Go Tae-min rose, the harder it became to craft the masterpieces he truly sought. He was forced to aim for “perfect cooperation” among the ever-increasing number of people.

Of course, managing these people might be considered a director’s skill.

Go Tae-min knew this well. With his status and influence, he could exert control over the passengers to some extent.

But he had his own conviction against doing so.

“The moment you enforce something, true cooperation becomes impossible.”

Behind every act of coercion, resentment lingers.

Control is possible.

If Go Tae-min were to impose his authority and force others to row, the ship would move forward, but resentment and doubt would take root in the hearts of those coerced.

People rowing with bitterness and doubt cannot fully cooperate, and this would inevitably lead to imbalance in the ship. Go Tae-min despised the idea of producing a result under such circumstances.

For him, a masterpiece could only emerge when everyone shared the same destination in mind and rowed together with unified strength. Such harmony was what he believed defined true collaboration and artistry.

In the past, when he spoke of such ideals, people around him would scoff, saying he pursued something too unrealistic. But whenever he heard such comments, Go Tae-min would respond the same way:

“Creating a masterpiece is about shaping something that doesn’t already exist in reality. So, isn’t it worth striving for the unreal?”

A path where everyone moves forward together.

That was the philosophy behind his collective, “The Right Path.”

It was with this belief that Go Tae-min decided to test Sua in front of everyone. He thought that by showcasing Sua’s insight, he might sway the hearts of the production team members.

However.

“…Perhaps it was too much to ask.”

There was an overwhelming obstacle.

“Ham Ah-yoon is too big of a name.”

Ultimately, Go Tae-min’s attempt to persuade them failed. While the team seemed to acknowledge Sua’s discernment, most still considered Ham Ah-yoon superior.

He couldn’t entirely blame them. They valued proven piano skills over untested talent.

Go Tae-min continued to rack his brain.

“Is there no way to foster cooperation without imposing authority? The moment resentment lingers in someone’s heart, the finished masterpiece will be tarnished. Is there no optimal solution?”

Then it happened.

“You heard Ah-yoon’s performance just now. You still think you can compete?”

“Yes. I’m serious about playing Kim So-hee. I’m also passionate about music and confident I won’t fall behind.”

Thus began the open conflict between the manager from AWA Entertainment and Sua. What surprised Go Tae-min most was Sua’s attitude.

“Sua’s audacity is nothing like a rookie’s.”

Or perhaps it was the kind of boldness only a rookie could show.

Speaking out against Ham Ah-yoon’s side was something no one else here would dare attempt. Especially given how many members of the production team were aligned with Ah-yoon.

No one had anticipated this, so no one thought to intervene beforehand.

No one—including Go Tae-min—had imagined that Sua would step forward so fearlessly. The expressions on the others in the room mirrored his own astonishment.

“This is maddening. I need to find an answer…”

Go Tae-min quickened his pace of thought. A clash between the two sides wasn’t ideal. Sua was the rookie he had taken an interest in, and Ham Ah-yoon was a figure he deeply respected.

The very existence of this conflict made him uneasy.

However.

“Only Ah-yoon has performed so far. Shouldn’t I get a turn too, for fairness?”

“What… This isn’t about whose turn it is right now!”

As the tension escalated further, Go Tae-min, for the first time, decided to compromise his principles.

“No. This can’t go on. Intervention is necessary.”

While his ideal was to achieve unity through cooperation, he couldn’t allow the situation to spiral into chaos. Sometimes, settling for second-best was the only option.

He would have to abandon his perfect vision. But it was better than letting the ship completely fall apart. In this case, exercising authority and imposing order seemed like the only solution.

But then.

Something unusual happened.

“Fine.”

When Ham Ah-yoon stepped in and brushed aside her manager.

“Then let’s do this.”

From the moment Ham Ah-yoon and Sua’s gazes locked and the two began seeking a compromise themselves, Go Tae-min hesitated to intervene.

“Lee Sua and Ham Ah-yoon… Or rather…”

Suddenly, the two of them began to look different in his eyes.

“…Kim So-hee and Park Min-seo?”

Kim So-hee, the character with Savant Syndrome.

Park Min-seo, the elite prodigy.

Go Tae-min’s keen director’s eye zoomed in on the two of them, overlaying their current forms with the characters they were to portray. In his mind, the image of two musical geniuses clashing on their respective pianos began to take shape.

“This… doesn’t seem bad at all…”

And then, Ham Ah-yoon’s suggestion was surprisingly reasonable.

Given her status, she could have easily used her influence to crush Sua, but she chose not to.

“Competing through piano performances would be unfair.”

Despite her piano expertise, she acknowledged that she hadn’t won the director’s approval. She promised to step aside if Sua could simply demonstrate her talent.

Instead of interrupting, Go Tae-min crossed his arms and observed.

It was his instinct as a master filmmaker.

Everyone had their own oars, their own direction, and their own meaning to contribute. While the ship of Crescendo Begins Tomorrow was buffeted by turbulence, something about this moment seemed poised to reveal the answer.

And it didn’t seem like it would take long.

At most, three minutes. The decision would be clear by then.