Hapjeong Chwihyangwan: Where Inspiration Once Lived — Even the Hippest Places Have Their Last Day

Hapjeong Chwihyangwan: Where Inspiration Once Lived — Even the Hippest Places Have Their Last Day

Near Hapjeong Station, there was a place called Chwihyangwan. Or rather, there used to be.

Chwihyangwan was a space that received a great deal of love before the pandemic. It emerged at precisely the right moment — just when the word "taste" was beginning to capture public attention — and cleverly combined salon culture with an offline community space.

Chwihyangwan aspired to be a community of taste built entirely for you.

From their website:

Chwihyangwan believes that a healthy community makes a better self. A cultural salon that reimagines the salon in a new way, Chwihyangwan is a members-only social club where you can find your own unique way of life and sensibility through reflection and conversation.

The "taste" (趣向) that Chwihyangwan defines goes beyond mere preferences — it means "the direction one wishes to move toward": a way of facing life, a sense of direction.

In a daily life depleted of time for the present self, we propose to collectively recover the "taste" we have forgotten while chasing performance and others' approval.

In a community of taste built entirely for you, we fill each day with the joy of questioning and discovering together.

— Chwihyangwan

In the age of social networks, what does "social" really mean? To build that meaning offline through a membership system — it was a romantic notion, though one that seemed nearly impossible to realize. Everyone wants to connect with artists and creators, to have their own refuge, but turning that dream into reality is no easy feat.

Chwihyangwan first opened in April 2018 and closed at the end of January this year — nearly four years and ten months in operation. I visited on the very last day, a homecoming party of sorts.

The space had received considerable media coverage — a large-yard house near Hapjeong Station, transformed in its entirety into a café-bar and gathering space. I had a personal connection: one of my colleagues knew the founder, which had made me curious about it from the start. During a soft-open period, our team even held a workshop here. Two of those same colleagues joined me on that final snowy evening.

Built in 1980, the renovated two-story Western-style house looked remarkably well-preserved for its age. The courtyard tree felt warm and familiar, and I found myself thinking: if I were to renovate an old Seoul house to live in, I'd want it to feel exactly like this. (Of course, in reality, every place like this eventually becomes a café.)

Stepping through the wooden door, you're greeted by the concierge desk. Perhaps because I'd seen photos from busier days, something felt a little bare — the pandemic had clearly taken its toll — but the concept itself remained deeply appealing.

The first-floor living area, I was told, had once been a space for spontaneous meetings and exchange. Our group settled into the first-floor café-bar side, each holding a welcome highball. The three of us had once worked on the same team, sharing every triumph and setback. Now we all worked at different companies. K, the senior colleague, had stayed but moved to a different role. J had made several moves and was now at a startup. And I had left a company I'd been with for over a decade to join a startup as well.

The café-bar area, I learned, had been where salon gatherings and conversations took place. Across the room, a group of former Chwihyangwan members sat talking — on average about ten years younger than us — yet their topics were ones rarely overheard elsewhere. I hadn't heard conversation about The Selfish Gene or Marxism in a bar since my college days.

After a few drinks, we went exploring.

The staircase to the second floor. If the ground floor was for spontaneous meetings and chance encounters, the second floor offered space for more organized gatherings. Whoever designed the space captured something appropriately casual yet refined — not lavish, but with a certain vintage warmth. (Though admittedly, the authentic patina of a truly old house wasn't quite there — more like an artfully crafted classicism.)

At the top of the stairs: the lounge and terrace. Raising the ceiling slightly opened up the space, and folding doors led to the terrace, making the compact second-floor lounge feel larger. The floor-to-ceiling windows gave a sense of airiness.

Then there was the media room — a tiered wooden floor like a small private theater, fully equipped for screening films and listening to music. Any member could use it freely, and I heard the pre-opening team workshop had been held here. The exposed concrete and brick ceiling lent atmosphere, though it felt slightly underutilized as a media room.

A strangely beautiful ceiling of brick and wood.

There were also two spaces called ateliers — rooms for conversation and creative work, used freely by visitors as studios, painting rooms, workshops. I heard that some members debuted as writers here, that albums were produced, exhibitions held, various projects born. As a gathering space, the scale and atmosphere felt cozy and inviting. I particularly liked the variety of chairs — and when I heard both chairs and desks were being given away, I was briefly tempted.

Anyway, we returned to the first-floor bar, shared a craft beer, and caught up after nearly six months. We talked about the sadness of Chwihyangwan's closing — including a story about how demand for a Gangnam branch had once been so strong that it nearly materialized. As time went on, I found myself thinking: my current company searches so hard for this sense of "taste" — couldn't a place like this be acquired, run well, and built into something lasting?

In the end, we moved on for the rest of the evening. Many visitors were continuing to arrive — people who held real memories of this place. Since we hadn't been regular members who came to form friendships here, it felt right to give them the space and time to remember.

Chwihyangwan has closed its doors. But I believe its ideas, its approach, and its footprint lit some small flame of romance in this city called Seoul. Creating something like this today — tying content to a physical space — is no easy task. But in time, I hope I might also build a place filled with people, connections, and stories worth recording. Farewell, Chwihyangwan.