Small Spaces Change a City
Jo Min-hyuk always entered City Hall quietly. He never wasted words, yet there was nothing timid about him either.
This time, too, he arrived carrying nothing but a thin sketchbook — no oversized blueprints in hand.
"Mayor, this is the remodeling proposal you requested last time for the spaces around the Car-Free Street. I've organized it in sketch form, and I'm still in talks with the artists."
I nodded and took the sketchbook, spreading it open.
One page, two. Nothing about them looked remarkable at first glance. No flashy curves, no bizarre sculptural monuments. And yet, strangely, my eyes kept lingering.
Circulation paths tucked into every corner, walls that preserved the old structure as it was, skylights adjusted to let in natural light, and entryways that blurred the boundary between inside and outside. What felt fresh, ironically, was how little the designs tried to show off.
The traces of someone who had asked not "how will this building look?" but "how will it be used?" were unmistakable.
"I'm still aligning directions with the artists. They'd rather have space for hands-on work and programs with residents than a place focused on exhibitions."
He added the explanation plainly, without a hint of embellishment. I tapped the desk a few times to organize my thoughts, then called in Cho Yeon-woo, head of the Citizen Space Design Division.
When the division head arrived a few minutes later, his face was tense, as if he had no idea what I was about to bring up. Every time I'd summoned him in a hurry so far, some enormous problem had erupted, and he'd endured all manner of hardship because of it — so I understood completely.
"Over the next two years, we're building at least two cultural spaces in every district."
"Two?"
"One will be a library. The other, a space run in collaboration with local artists."
The division head fell silent for a moment. I used the pause to keep going.
"Until now, everything built in the name of culture has been a memorial hall, a sculpture exhibition hall, a building made purely for displays. But there isn't a single space where citizens can actually sit down and read a book, write quietly, or take their kids out to listen to music. We're done going down that road."
And then I added, without missing a beat:
"Each building should have a different character. Same color palette, same glass facade, same design just because the city built them — enough of that."
The moment I finished, Cho spoke up.
"New construction will strain the budget."
It was the reaction I'd expected. I nodded.
"Which is why all of it goes the remodeling route. We re-survey every existing building with sound structure and fix them up one by one."
Noh Chae-eun, head of the Planning and Budget Division, who happened to be sitting nearby, quietly took notes before slipping naturally into the conversation.
"With remodeling, we can run it on city funds alone. Depending on each space's size and programming, we could also tie in some subsidies."
"If we drive it through local contractors, it'll create at least some jobs."
I nodded.
"Let's go with that direction. It's nothing special — it's just common sense. Build the spaces each neighborhood needs, inside the neighborhood, for the people who live there."
The meeting room went quiet.
Jo Min-hyuk said nothing more. Instead, he gave a small bow of his head and picked his sketchbook back up.
That single gesture was enough.
"If until now we've focused only on 'building' places, let's shift to worrying about 'how they'll be used' first."
With that, I rose from my seat.
The meeting was over, but my mind had already moved on to the next stage. The city's worn-out spaces needed to be flipped, one by one, and brought back to life.
To anyone else, it might have seemed like nothing. But the way I saw it, this was the most practical way to change a city.
The reasoning behind the policy was simple.
A grand art museum, a large theater. They sound impressive when you hear about them, but in reality they're far removed from citizens' daily lives.
Most people visit places like that once a year, if that. When a prestigious exhibition or performance comes to town, the local press will make a sensation of it — but the people actually filling the seats are a tiny fraction of the population.
If a space doesn't change everyday life, what's the point of it?
'Let's attract foreign tourists.'
'Let's become a world-class cultural city.'
Every so often, local power brokers or former politicians would spout that kind of nonsense.
It was laughable. Without so much as a proper three-star inn, let alone a five-star hotel, what foreign visitor was going to stay in this city? An international event, in a town that could barely sustain an intercity bus route?
That kind of talk only works in a city with the infrastructure already in place. This city wasn't it.
So we had to go the opposite direction.
Instead of grand, imposing cultural spaces — small ones, close by.
Not dazzling, but places people return to again and again.
Not the city's center, but near where people actually live.
Within walking distance for a mother holding her child's hand.
Neighborhood libraries, alley culture rooms, workshops, small performance venues — a cluster of spaces that naturally breathe vitality into a community.
That was what we were going to build.
Honestly, politically, this was far better too.
If I wanted re-election in two years, the results had to be tangible — felt in people's own skin. Votes in an election don't come from dreamy policies; they come from change people can see right in front of them.
That kind of change is exactly what sways a voter's choice.
A mother raising a child says this:
'These days I'm at the library all the time. A workshop opened up too, so my kid and I take classes there every weekend.'
That one sentence is enough.
This city had been barren for far too long. Nowhere to rest, nothing to enjoy, no space to breathe.
Which is why the people who lived here understood better than anyone just how tedious and stifling everyday life had become.
So we decided to build. Small spaces with a clear purpose.
Two per district.
One library, one space for cultural activity.
The pilot case had already been beautifully designed by architect Jo Min-hyuk. All that remained was speed.
It had to proceed quietly, without going public.
A plan to purchase idle spaces across the city and remodel them into cultural spaces might look small from the outside — but spread across every neighborhood, it would ultimately change the city's entire constitution.
Of course, it would take time.
And we had to move without being noticed. Because even the smallest matter could send land prices into a frenzy.
If word got out that public funds were being poured into even a modest plot purchase, people would assume a major development was coming.
Then speculators would reap the windfall while ordinary citizens bore the cost.
So I summoned the responsible departments separately: the Citizen Space Design Division, the Planning and Budget Division, the Property Management Team, and the Urban Regeneration Team.
The meeting wasn't announced publicly; it was scheduled under the name of an 'informal working coordination.'
As soon as I sat down, I opened my mouth.
"Let's assume we're planning for the next five years and compile a list of about ten sites per district. We don't need to acquire them all now. One or two a year, starting with the ones in the best condition."
A quiet stillness settled over the meeting room.
The first to speak was the head of the Citizen Space Design Division.
"Mayor, if we run this as a full-scale project, we'll need to consult the council. Property acquisition isn't something that passes easily."
I nodded.
"Which is why this isn't a full-scale project. Organize it under an internal term — a 'Space Acquisition Plan.' Link it to the cultural regeneration planning and community support programs, and work within the bounds of what the relevant ordinance allows. Formalization comes later. For now, the point is simply to have everything ready."
The Property Management Team leader raised a hand.
"Real estate acquisition is sensitive to market prices. Even our review alone will set the neighborhood abuzz. There are sharp-eared people on the residents' autonomous councils... We'll need to approach this carefully."
"Which is exactly why we're not making it public."
I cut in, firmly.
"The Planning and Budget Division will draw up the list alongside the budget simulation. I need you to analyze how far the feasible range extends, and how many acquisitions we can absorb per year."
Noh Chae-eun nodded without a word. As always, in any stretch that demanded calculation, she was the fastest and clearest of us all.
"Approach land purchases strictly on the basis of appraised value. Never negotiate at market price — the city holds the appraisal adjustment authority. For sites we can't buy, consider converting to leases."
"Which budget account should we book it under? If we tie it directly to the shared property management account, it could attract attention."
It was Noh Chae-eun's question.
I considered for a moment before answering.
"Fold it into the existing urban regeneration budget under an 'expansion of basic living infrastructure' line item. Frame it as securing neighborhood-level infrastructure rather than buying buildings. And don't bundle the cultural space projects together. Break them apart — public library expansion, village workshop cultivation, everyday culture support — and scatter them across separate items."
The meeting room went quiet again.
"There's no shortage of spaces. Vacated storefronts, buildings used as warehouses, shuttered daycares, idle storage facilities... As long as the condition's right, they're all usable. Let's make this the pilot foundation for redesigning the city. Don't start grandly. Start quietly. Two or three years from now, citizens will be walking through their neighborhood and suddenly say—"
They were all still sorting things out in their heads. I slipped one more remark into that gap.
"'Oh? There was a space like this here?' That one line is all we need."
I turned back toward the Planning and Budget Division.
"Noh Chae-eun, split the budget into small parcels and book them. Quietly — but thoroughly."
Noh Chae-eun gave a slight nod, then asked another question.
"Spending at this level means I'll have to rework the calculations, and the city council's approval is absolutely essential. How do you intend to handle that?"
Ordinary civil servants don't usually put that question directly to a mayor.
But right now, they trusted me. Their eyes said they wanted to know what I was thinking and how I planned to work it out.
That alone was a change I found rather pleasant.
I answered without hesitation.
"The answer's already in what I just said. Because their neighborhoods have no spaces, residents keep filing complaints with the council members — asking for spaces of one kind or another. They keep telling the members it's inconvenient because there's nowhere to go, and those complaints keep getting passed on to me."
I took a breath.
"The council members have no reason whatsoever to oppose this decision. In the end, it helps them too. They'll be resolving their constituents' complaints."
The air in the meeting room shifted, almost imperceptibly. The tension seemed to loosen a little.
I added one final thing.
"Don't worry — just move fast. If a problem comes up, tell me immediately. I'll handle it myself."
And with that, the meeting came to an end.