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idolizerp · 5 years

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LOADING INFORMATION ON TITANIUM’S MAIN DANCE HWANG MILO...

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: N/A CURRENT AGE: 25 DEBUT AGE: 19 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 14 COMPANY: Midas SECONDARY SKILL: Modeling

IDOL PROFILE

NICKNAME(S): N/A INSPIRATION: He was heavily inspired by Epik High and other lyrically focused Korean rap artists, as well as by authors such as Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald for his own lyrical style. SPECIAL TALENTS:

acrostic poems

breaking/losing things

inadvertently injuring himself

sleeping anywhere

NOTABLE FACTS:

Born and raised in Busan.

Both of his parents are professors at a university in Busan, in literary fields.

He published his first poem at 13 years old in a small anthology for up and coming young poets.

He began pursuing dance at 10.

Dropped out of high school to focus on training.

IDOL GOALS

SHORT-TERM GOALS:

In the short term Milo is hoping earn more attention on his own merits, rather than somewhat consistently being relegated to a sec symbol broken out for a dance break and not given much serious chance to contribute to his own narrative.

LONG-TERM GOALS:

In the long term he’d like to launch his own solo career, one that more honestly puts forth an image he prefers of himself, one that does more than demonstrate his dance alone. While he acknowledges he’s not the standout vocal or so forth he also knows he’s put in tireless effort to improve and wants to bring that to the forefront. He also wants to work with more experimentally electric songs, than the moody and dark efforts set forth so far. He wants to show more varied colors to the public and to get in the headlines for something that isn’t just a photo shoot or a clothing choice.

IDOL IMAGE

“i just need a little more practice,” has been his sheepish refrain from day one. any compliment, any criticism, all met with the same desire to persevere, to practice, to perfect. hwang milo is a diamond in the rough and he has been billed as such. so much promise, they say of him. his dance is his draw, obviously, and his performance skills will shine with some polishing. he can even carry a tune (mostly), they point out, and all milo can do is grin sheepishly, cheeks dimpling with the flash of white, pearly against stubbornly tanned skin. they had suggested, exactly once, that perhaps he might like to stay out of the sun a bit, wear a bit more sunscreen, lighten up the bb cream shade they use on him. his insistent denial had been swift and immediate, something unfamiliar in midas entertainment, but, in point of fact, they knew the usefulness of a rough edged boy set to polished shine on stage.

hwang milo is the gap between stage and self, with the boy on stage that breathes madness and might into every movement, and hwang milo grinning unstoppably and always half embarrassed of attention placed on him. he’s made the image for himself accidentally, by virtue of the fact that on stage he really does feel like a different person. some version of himself crafted to create and perform, far different from the boy who holes himself up in his room with books, with a computer, with notebooks full of scribbled words and feet taped up, bruised and battered.

the image they give him for the stage is simple; decadent, luxurious, erotic, dark. be sultry, be seductive, be compelling. be impossible to ignore. on stage, he is an icarian figure. a boy of wax wings and desperate longing, a boy with madness ripe in his movements and power clear in his expression, something as vulnerable as he is desperate, something as brilliant as he is doomed. they give him solo stages to illustrate it, that focus on the lyrical capability of the boy to rip himself to pieces, to lay himself bare. emotions he struggles to express in words, suppresses in the back of his mind or the pages of his notebooks, find themselves revealed in the lines of his body and the clarity of his expressions. he gets pinged here and there- he’s overdone, over the top, overwrought. but the truth is in his suppression, so much of himself buried that can only be expressed on stage, so much that only pours out of him when he’s performing. he finds himself tethered to that desire to show something more, wrapped up in the need to be more than what he is. a passable tone becomes something he works on improving. he finds latent interest in rap, in the spoken word like poetry on his lips, begins to explore these mediums with an interest he’d never expected of himself, had always considered himself a dancer first and foremost.

despite himself he’s a natural diplomat, spokesman. insightful, thoughtful, he levels answers in interviews that at first left the company a bit surprised. but there’s poetry in his veins, always has been. his mother and father put it there and now it creeps out accidentally, in the written word, in his dance. he can vacillate between boyish good nature and intense melancholy on the flip of a switch, but his heart is in the right place. he does his best to keep things on even footing between the members, does his best to keep morale up. he’s a natural born peacemaker, which is a stressful role to take on in the middle of a bunch of wild and rowdy young men, but someone has to do it. this is the image he's been branded with - this windswept boy with a roughened tongue and sunkissed skin, this icarus that soars up towards the sun, this icarus poised to melt and plummet to the cold embrace of the sea, daring to reach too high, to dream of the love of the sun.

IDOL HISTORY

SETTING: busan, the seaside.

the hwang family sits on a spread out picnic pad, the clever kind with a delicate gingham pattern and an insulated foil underside, weighted at the corners so that it won’t flutter away. hwang milo is a mop of curly hair and tanned skin, his mother has a book spread open on her lap, painted in colorful watercolor. “poems to read aloud,” is the title, and her delicate voice drips like honey over the unfamiliar words, while milo plays in the center of the mat. his father sits with a fond look on his face and a notebook at his side, they’re never all that far away.

milo grows up like this, surrounded by words, loved by his parents, drenched in the decadence of literature.

SETTING: busan national university, faculty offices.

hwang milo is ten years old. he has a raging fever and shivers with cold sweats, laying on the couch in his mother’s office, wrapped in blankets. she ducks in between meetings and classes to check on him, because with a fever this high they can’t leave him unattended at home. it’s far from the first time he’s visited his mother’s workplace - his father’s, too - and it is sure not to be the last. even ill, he is surrounded by books, reading the famed titles off the bindings as he glances around the small room. eventually he pulls down a smaller book, one that seems like he could find it interesting. a moveable feast. ernest hemingway. he likes the way the name sounds.

SETTING: busan, dance studio.

milo loves the books that his parents surround him with, but he’s found another love, too. in music and in rhythm, in the rolling throb of the bass and the thud and stutter of his heart in reaction. he breathes in notes and breathes out movement, transforms the maelstrom in his heat into expression. it’s not the way his parents choose to do it, with their pens and paper and word documents, but it’s expression nonetheless and surely that counts for something.

he writes, too, poems mostly, fragments that tumble in fractures from his fingertips, scrawled messily into the corners of his notebooks. his mother likes that - that he creates, but doesn’t love that he’s not studying. budget your time wisely, she tells him, keep your head out of the clouds during school. but how does that happen, how does he manage not to do this when he’s been taught from day one how to write, how to express. how can he turn off the daydreams they put in his head?

SETTING: busan, haeundae beach, performance.

his dance crew is performing, just a small thing, a little exhibition on a thursday evening to try and draw in new recruits. but it’s the most exhilarating moment of his life. his heart is stammering in his chest and his skin is flushed with adrenaline. he can feel every moment of this, every note and every beat, each muscle as it strains and stretches, thrives on the expand contract expand contract of his lungs, ligaments.

it’s the first time he, at twelve, has ever performed in front of anyone before and the addiction is both intense and immediate. it cannot be ignored. he rides the high of it all the way home, seems to float through the streets, carried in dips and eddies on the breeze of this impossible high.

SETTING: busan, apartment.

when the time comes to prepare for his entrance into highschool, his parents sit him down. tell him to quit dancing, to focus on his studies. he can pick it back up after the test, in a year or so, but this is his future they’re talking about. he can’t keep living fantasies like this, he has to focus on something other than his little hobbies.

the problem is it doesn’t feel like a hobby. he’s got a business card in his pocket that offers him a chance to train, move to seoul and join a company, get some real work done. they’d teach him how to make music, they tell him. they’re looking for a dancer, they say. and he’s got potential. he suits the lineup they have in mind. he could make something great.

his parents are horrified to say the least. they came into the conversation asking him to leave it all behind, and here he is trying to make it into his career? it’s some kind of stupid childish nonsense, they tell him. with two academics for parents, he’s going to throw away his natural talents, his prowess in school, all to become what - a dancing puppet? everything they tell you is lies, they tell him. you won’t get to do anything you actually want to do. that’s never how this industry works. you’ll be in debt up to your eyeballs and miss all your chances to establish a real career, a real life for yourself. you’ll squander your real talents, your intelligence.

SETTING: seoul, apartment.

milo hasn’t spoken to his parents in six months.

not for lack of trying, but they’re not interested. it took him months of sulking, of begging, of insisting. of running away on a weekend to go to seoul for the audition, bringing the papers to his grandmother living in the heart of the city in a shoebox sized apartment, to beg her to intercede on his behalf. a much more heart driven woman than his parents, she had done so, and while he had gained the signatures on the paper he’d needed, he hadn’t done anything to convince them truly that this was a good idea.

his grandmother becomes his family now, sole caretaker, waking up the bleary eyed and stiff limbed boy from deep sleeps, telling him to mind his protein intake and to hurry his way to school, to not stay too late at practice, knowing full well he won’t return until the wee hours of the morning. she watches with concern and with love as he wears himself down, trying to balance school work and the demands of training.

by seventeen he gives it up.

not training, no, but school.

he tests out into a ged later, but he doesn’t have the time to balance. he’s been passed up for debut once now- he tells himself it doesn’t matter. that it’s not a set back, that he was only sixteen and that was so young to debut, that he didn’t match the style of the group. but if he doesn’t match the next one what does he have left? at eighteen youth feels like it must be slipping away, like he might have made a mistake. like the past five years of training have been the set up to a terrible punch line: your parents were right all along.

SETTING: seoul, music show.

debut is a whirlwind.

it’s everything he’s been waiting for, everything he’s been training for, but he still doesn’t feel ready. he runs himself ragged, works himself down to the bone but there are other members that do so much more. sure, milo can dance, but they all can. as they stand on stage together he becomes alarmingly aware of the fact he needs to catch up. he needs to improve. that the gaps in his talents can’t be shadowed by the others forever. that just carrying a tune isn’t going to be enough, if they want to last.

SETTING: seoul, dorms.

when his grandmother dies, for the first time, he feels truly alone in this world. debut meant little to his parents. they appear in his messages for holidays, and they wish him the best, but they’re proud people, proud people who had expectations for him. who wanted something else for him. who believed he could do or be something other than this. and in following his dreams he had snubbed them, undermined them. thrown cruel words at them in fits of anger and frustration. but he is proud too, too proud to apologize, to admit he knew they wanted the best for him. his pride leaves him lonely now, with a whiskey bottle to hide in and no one to turn too.

SETTING: seoul, midas media conference room.

please, he tells them. give me a chance. i can be more. i can do more. you’re modelling, they tell him, that’s something. you have work with the group, that’s something. no, milo tells them, it isn’t enough. it isn’t what i need. it isn’t what i want.

the desire to dance has become the desire to perform. countless hours have been poured into the effort, day in and day out he’s worked towards this, desperately clawing towards some distant and distracted goal. “i just needed more practice,” he tells them, the same desperate refrain that’s always been on his lips. “but i can do it. i can do this.”

SETTING: seoul, present day.

he can’t believe where he sits now, where they are. he can’t believe the music they’re making, the reaction its having, the validation. his life is at its highest point, despite the stress. despite the burden that he has laid heavy on his own shoulders, the pressure of trying to create, to improve, to perfect.

he just wishes his parents could see it.

#id.bio #id.midas #id.titanium #id.kim jongin

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