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Chapter 10: I Need a Teacher
TL: Enuma ID
The next day.
So-young slept twelve hours. The reward sleep that always came after a deadline.
When she came out into the living room, Jun was sitting in front of a canvas.
The sixth canvas. This time he was painting the Seoul buildings he'd seen from the window of his aunt's apartment.
Е̂ ń ûmå
"Jun, have you eaten?"
"Yeah. I took some stuff out of the fridge."
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"By yourself?!"
"I watched you do it."
So-young looked at the kitchen. The rice bowl had been washed. A few side dish plates too.
She let out a sigh.
Е̌núm̃_а
Letting a five-year-old fend for his own meals. She'd failed as a guardian.
So-young sat down in front of Jun.
"Jun."
Jun stopped his brush and looked at her.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
"Thank you for yesterday. I mean it. If it hadn't been for you, I would've blown the deadline."
Jun nodded.
E n um̂ а̂
"And I'm sorry. For making you do something like that. But you don't have to from now on. I'm going to hire an assistant. Someone to help color the backgrounds."
"An assistant?"
"Yeah. Someone who'll paint the backgrounds instead of me. I pay them to do it."
Jun thought for a moment, then spoke.
"If you do that, you get money for it?"
"Hm? Yeah."
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"Then I'll do it."
"Hm? What?"
"Coloring the backgrounds. I'll do it. So I can earn money?"
Oops.
Flustered, So-young tried to stop him.
"Jun. You don't have to. You don't need to be thinking about money. Just paint what you want to paint."
Ẇ е̇b n.ŏvеl Ёñum̄ а́
"Coloring backgrounds is fun."
"That's not the point."
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The kid thinking too deeply was a problem in itself.
Making a five-year-old worry about money.
So-young sighed and tried to talk her nephew out of it.
"Your mom and dad sent you to Seoul because they want you to study art seriously. If I have you doing work like that, your aunt becomes a liar. That wouldn't be good, right?"
Ѐnu m̌а̊ . іd
Jun's face fell.
[I'd say it counts as studying, in its own way.]
The Shadow's muttering reached no one's ears.
"Aunt. Then how do you earn money with painting?"
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So-young smiled wryly.
But Jun didn't smile.
Ën̊ù m̄_а . id́
"I want to earn money. A lot of it, too."
"Jun."
"I don't want our family to struggle because of money."
[You......]
The Shadow froze.
So-young looked at Jun.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
He wasn't joking. This was a child who didn't joke to begin with.
But he wasn't a child who would say something like this, either.
"Why money, all of a sudden?"
Jun didn't answer. A pause.
Then he said it.
"Mom and Dad sent money, didn't they."
Еn u̇mа̀.і̀ d
So-young's breath stopped.
"I can tell from your face, Aunt. The way you smiled when you bought the paint was strange.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
If it were your own money, you wouldn't smile like that.
Somebody sent it, so you felt bad, and that's why you smiled like that."
So-young couldn't answer.
This child understood everything.
En ū m̄ а́. ĭd
[That's something I said, though.]
It was cribbing, but just this once the Shadow decided to let it slide.
"If I can earn too, then Mom and Dad will have it a little easier."
So-young looked at Jun for a long while.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Five years old.
Sometimes she couldn't believe this child was only five.
Е́ n̂ ǔmа . їd
So-young straightened up where she sat.
She decided to take her nephew's words seriously.
"Jun. Let me be honest with you."
Jun nodded gravely.
"There are basically three ways to earn money with art."
So-young held up her fingers one at a time.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
"First, competitions. If you win a prize at an art competition, there's prize money. Children's art competitions don't pay much. But your name gets out there. And once your name is known, the next chance comes along."
She held up a second finger.
"Second, exhibiting and selling. You hang your paintings in a gallery, and you sell them to people who want to buy them. But this only works once you're famous. If you're a nobody, nobody buys."
She held up a third finger.
"Third, commissions. Somebody asks, 'Paint me something like this,' and pays you for it. The webtoon I draw is a kind of commission too. The publisher says, 'Draw this comic,' and pays a manuscript fee for it."
Jun looked at the three fingers.
Ė ñüm̃а̇
"But Jun, honestly speaking."
So-young's expression turned serious.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
"Earning money with art is incredibly hard. It's really, really hard. Even your aunt barely scrapes by drawing webtoons. Fine art is even harder. The painters who actually make a living selling their paintings are a tiny, tiny minority. One in a thousand...... no, more like one in ten thousand?"
Jun was listening seriously.
Except the number ten thousand didn't quite land for him. The biggest number Jun could count to was a thousand.
"Competition prize money is tiny too. Exhibiting and selling means you have to get famous first. And commissions mean painting what other people want, not what you want to paint. You might have to force yourself to paint things you don't even like."
W̊ е̊ b n̂о ṽ el̆ Е̊ n̈u m̃ а̇
"......"
"Do you still want to do it anyway?"
Jun nodded.
"Then what do you want to start with?"
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"Competitions."
Short and quick.
Еǹ ŭm а
So-young blinked.
"Competitions?"
"You said if I win a prize my name gets known. And once it's known, the next chance comes. So, competitions first."
The logic of a five-year-old.
Simple. But not wrong.
[......Yes! Good thinking!]
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
The Shadow, which had been quiet for a while, suddenly shouted.
[Money is everything in this world! Damn right! To hell with anything else!]
It was a completely different temperature from the quiet conversation between Jun and So-young.
The Shadow erupted all on its own.
[What's wrong with earning money from painting!
Painting becomes food, becomes paint, becomes canvas!
Е̇n̄ úm ӑ
If you just sit in a corner painting alone, who's going to feed you?
I don't care what anyone says!]
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The Shadow's white eyes were blazing.
[Anyone who's got a problem with it, step up! I'll beat every last one of them!]
Jun listened to the Shadow's bellowing as it bounced around, and his face didn't change at all.
He was used to it. The Shadow was always like this.
Е̂n̊ u m̂а̊
Though this time was a little different.
There was a different kind of anger mixed in than usual.
An old anger about something.
Jun didn't know what it was.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
So he decided to tune it out.
[Competitions. Good. Let's win at the competitions.
W̃ е̂ b́ n̆ о̀vе̌ l Е̇ n.u mа̇
Let's win overwhelmingly!
So no one can deny it.
So your name gets out there.
So you earn money.
So there's never again any trembling over money!
You, Jun, you alone! I'll make sure that never happens to you!]
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
The Shadow was trembling.
A trembling that could have been anger or excitement or grief, impossible to tell which.
So-young was quietly watching Jun's face.
It was the kind of expression that let her know this child meant every word.
"......All right. Your aunt will look into competitions you can enter."
Jun nodded.
Ёnů ḿӓ.. і ḋ
"But, Jun."
"Yeah?"
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"To enter a competition, you have to prepare properly. There's a limit to what your aunt can teach you."
So-young paused for a moment.
"You need a real teacher, Jun."
[A teacher? Who?]
Ẁě b́n_о̌ve l̀ Е̌nûm.а́
The Shadow's ears pricked up.
* * *
The inbox of Professor Kim Yo-han of the Hongik University Painting Department held 217 unread emails.
Most of it was junk.
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Conference notices. Departmental administrative mail. Exhibition invitations. Students requesting recommendation letters.
And every so often, there was this kind too.
Е̌n u̇ m̃ а. їd́
'Professor, my child is very good at drawing, please take a look.'
One or two came every week.
In most cases they were sent by a parent.
The child had been praised in art class at school, or an academy teacher had said the child was talented.
Nine times out of ten, the attached pictures were all the same.
A little better than the other kids.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
The professor didn't read emails like that.
To be precise, he deleted them after reading only the subject line.
Today there was a similar email.
'My nephew is exceptionally good at drawing.'
Nephew.
Not even a son, but a nephew.
E n̆ ū m_а̃
Sent by an aunt, then, or an uncle?
Professor Kim snorted.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Emails sent by family had the lowest credibility of all.
Blood clouds the eyes.
People who delude themselves that their child, their nephew, their grandchild draws well.
Blood ties were the relationship in which the objective eye worked least of all.
Ӗǹù m̌а
Still, he opened it. He happened to have time to spare.
No, to be honest, it was because he didn't want to read the materials for the department meeting.
'This child has been drawing on his own since he was three.'
Three.
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Professor Kim raised one corner of his mouth.
There are tens of thousands of children in this country who picked up a crayon at three.
Е n̈ u m̈ȧ
Of them, thousands get told they 'draw well.'
Of them, dozens actually have talent.
Of them, one who'll grow into something real? Maybe two?
He read on.
'He has gone through crayon, colored pencil, watercolor, and pastel, and recently started oil painting.'
Oil painting.
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A five-year-old doing oil painting?
Professor Kim snorted again.
A family of considerable ambition. They put oils in a five-year-old's hand?
Oils are finicky to handle. How to mix the paint, drying time, building up layers.
A medium that even adults struggle with at first, for a five-year-old?
In the professor's head an image formed of its own accord: a parent waiting on the child, fussing over its painting.
W̌ êb̊ ǹо̇v е l̆ _Ёn ů ṁ а
There was an attachment.
The professor clicked it with no real expectation.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
The photos opened.
They were arranged in chronological order.
First. A crayon drawing.
A swirling sky. Stars. A village.
Е̃ ṅů mа́
He recognized it at a glance. A drawing copying Van Gogh's 'The Starry Night.'
A copy.
It was passable. The direction of the swirls was more or less established, and the placement of the stars showed an awareness of the original.
But a copy is a copy.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Families think this sort of thing means a kid 'draws well.' That it's impressive because it resembles the original.
But in art, a copy is training, not proof of talent.
Е̂nu m á
A high schooler copying this well wouldn't be anything special.
An art school applicant would draw better than this.
The professor moved to the next photo.
The same swirls. The second version.
The swirls had grown to two.
Third. Fourth. Fifth.
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The professor's finger paused for a moment.
It was a series.
The same subject was repeating and evolving.
The crayon's smudged swirls were taking on grain in the colored pencil.
A common thing. Plenty of children draw a picture they like over and over.
Repeat something and naturally you improve.
W̌ĕb n̊ о̃ v̇ еl .Ĕn̂u m а
The professor kept scrolling.
The watercolor stage.
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An aquarium drawing came up.
Fish underwater. Color changing with the depth of the water.
Brighter at the top, darker below.
The professor's eyes narrowed faintly.
Еn̊ ům а .і́d
This wasn't a simple copy.
There was observation in it.
He was watching the direction of the light.
But.
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The professor put on the brakes against himself.
Don't think about the age.
Е n̊ ūm а̄ .і̃d̂
Information like 'he drew this at such-and-such age' distorts the judgment.
You have to take the age out and look at only the painting.
Take out the age, and it was the painting of a beginner with a good eye for observation.
A level you could work with given good teaching. Special, but not enough to call genius.
The next photo.
The pastel stage.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Water lilies.
The professor's finger stopped again.
This was a drawing conscious of Monet's Water Lilies.
But it wasn't a drawing copying Monet.
He was rubbing the pastel dust to create the effect of light bleeding outward.
He understood the characteristics of the medium.
Еnu̇ mа̃ . іd̊
That pastel is a powder. That rubbing it makes it bleed.
That the bleed could be used for the diffusion of light.
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The professor zoomed in on the photo.
At the edges of the lily pads, the pastel dust was seeping into the color of the water.
The boundaries were soft. Deliberately made soft.
The professor sat up straight.
Wе̂bn ȯ v e l Е.ñu m̃ а̄
He leaned a little closer to the monitor.
The next photo.
Oil painting.
The Starry Night. The oil version.
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The professor looked at the photo for several seconds.
It was clumsy. The control of the paint wasn't there. Thick spots and thin spots were all jumbled together.
Е n̈_um̆а
A beginner's oil painting.
But.
The brushstrokes had direction.
The brush was moving along the swirls.
Short, thick strokes were being layered over one another.
This was something that hadn't existed at the crayon stage.
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It had begun to show a little at the colored pencil stage and become clear in the oils.
Expressing the movement of the subject through the direction of the brushstrokes.
Who could have taught this.
The email said he'd 'been drawing on his own.'
Coming from family, you could only half believe it.
The next photo.
Е ň ūm̊a
Oil. Water lilies.
Next.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Oil. An alley. Light and shadow.
Next.
Oil. An aquarium.
The professor stopped scrolling here and zoomed in on the photo.
Ѐ ǹúmӑ.і d
The aquarium painting.
There were fish in blue water.
The same subject he'd seen in the watercolor version.
But in the oils it was on another level.
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The depth of the water was being expressed through the thickness of the paint.
The top was thinly painted. Shallow water, light passing through.
W е b̀nӧ v̇ е̄l Е n ǔ m̄ а̇
The bottom was thickly painted. Deep water the light didn't reach.
The thickness of the paint becoming the depth of the water.
This was an expression that couldn't emerge without understanding the medium of oil painting.
The professor scrolled back up.
'It's a five-year-old boy.'
Five years old.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
A moment ago he'd thought you had to take the age out.
But this aquarium painting you had to look at with the age put back in.
Someone who'd been doing oils for hardly any time at all had matched the thickness of paint to the depth of water.
This wasn't technique.
This was a way of thinking.
Technique can be learned.
Ėnŭm̈ а . ĩd̃
A way of thinking is not something you learn.
"Thinking that maps the materiality of the tool onto the materiality of the subject."
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The professor murmured.
The next photo.
The professor's back straightened.
Oil. Mountain.
Е́ n̂_um̌а̀.і d
There was a mountain on the left.
Semi-transparent paint thinned out as it rose and then vanished.
The right was white. The gesso of the canvas had been left as it was.
It was negative space.
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Negative space in an oil painting.
The professor leaned in closer to the monitor without realizing it.
E n um̃а
It wasn't that there'd never been painters who left a canvas empty in oils.
Paul Cézanne did. He left gesso in places across the canvas.
But Cézanne's empty spots were places where the form had been left half-built. They were the residue of construction, not meaning.
Zao Wou-Ki came to mind too. A painter who dissolved the negative space of the East into oils.
But Zao Wou-Ki was abstract. A mountain didn't look like a mountain. It was a relationship of color and space, not a landscape.
This was different from those.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
A mountain was a mountain. It was a concrete landscape.
And yet beyond the mountain it was empty. Deliberately.
That empty place was like mist and like sky both.
It was the concept of negative space from Korean traditional painting applied to oils.
Thinning the paint to make it semi-transparent, then gradually fading it so it crossed naturally into the empty space.
This was not a copy.
W̄ е̄ ḃn̊ o v́e l̇ En̄ü ma
It wasn't drawn copying anyone.
It was a method different from Cézanne and from Zao Wou-Ki both.
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Neither Korean traditional painting nor Western painting.
Negative space made with the materiality of oil paint.
And on that negative space, a single bird.
A small black dot, as if dabbed on with Conté.
En̆u m а̀.id
That one dot was turning the negative space into sky.
The professor rose from his chair.
The last photo.
A Conté drawing. A figure sketch.
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It was a girl's face.
A ponytail. Big eyes. Squared, confident shoulders.
Е̌ńum̆_а́
Drawn in just a few lines.
A line drawn in one stroke from chin to shoulder. An unbroken curve.
The nose, one line from brow to nose tip.
It was shocking.
You could tell at a glance that this drawing had been made in a single breath.
Thirty seconds? Or a minute? Two?
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A five-year-old?
The light was coming from the left. He'd laid the Conté flat against the right cheek and rubbed to make a shadow.
The neck was long.
The contours were simplified.
The professor looked at this sketch for a long time.
There was rhythm in the lines.
Ӗn̆u mа̃
This wasn't something you could produce by teaching.
The lines themselves had life in them.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Who could have taught this.
How on earth could it have been taught.
Was it true that he'd 'been drawing on his own'?
No. That made no sense.
Ĕ nŭm̊ ӓ
The lines of this Conté drawing.
They were the lines of someone who'd been painting for decades.
A five-year-old drew this?
It made no sense. A thing like that couldn't happen. It broke the laws of the world.
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The professor sat back down.
He went through the screen again from the start.
Е̊ ñ ǔ m а
From the crayon swirls.
This time he looked differently.
Not taking the age out, but reading in chronological order.
Crayon. Clumsy, but trying to establish the direction of the swirls.
Colored pencil. Grain had appeared. He'd figured out how to stack lines in the same direction.
Watercolor. Trying to express light by using the bleed of the water.
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Pastel. Making the diffusion of light with the bleed of the powder.
Oil. Making depth with the thickness of the paint.
Negative space. Making space by not painting.
Conté figure. Capturing the nature of a person with line alone.
The professor folded his arms and leaned back in the chair.
He looked at the ceiling.
Ёn u m̆ ӑ . і ḋ
Every time the tool changed, this child was grasping the characteristics of the tool.
Crayon is mass. Colored pencil is line. Watercolor is water. Pastel is powder. Oil is thickness.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
He understood the materiality of each tool, and was finding the mode of expression that suited that materiality.
He knew it though no one had taught him.
No, to be precise, he was learning it for himself, in a natural state, without being taught.
The professor picked up his phone.
W̆е b̄ n о.v è l Е̌nũ m ӑ
The number written in the email.
Han So-young. The child's aunt.
He placed the call.
It rang twice and she picked up.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
"Hello?"
"Is this Han So-young?"
Ѐn̂u mа .і̃ ḋ_
"Yes, speaking."
"I saw the email."
The professor paused for a moment.
He had a lot to say, but his head wasn't in order. The result of placing the call in a hurry, unlike himself.
"You said he's five?"
"Yes."
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
The professor looked again at the Conté figure sketch.
The long-necked girl.
"Bring him in. Tomorrow, right away. I need to see the child in person."
He hung up.
And then Professor Kim Yo-han looked at the monitor for a long time.
The last photo. The Conté sketch.
W е̇ bnо̀ v̇е ľ Ӗ nŭḿ ӓ
Simplified contours. A curve drawn in one stroke. A long neck.
It was a line he'd seen somewhere before.
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He couldn't recall exactly where.
But this line was not that of a five-year-old.
The professor switched off the monitor and looked out the window.
Five years old.
Е̃ n̄ û m̃ӑ. i d
He'd told them to bring the child in.
You only know by seeing for yourself.
Photos aren't enough.
He had to make the child draw right in front of him.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Only then could he tell whether it was real or not.
'And so...... what if it's real?'
We b̈ñ о̊ v̄е̌ l̄ Ë_n̈ uḿȧ
The professor put the thought away.
Don't get your hopes up. Hope is the mother of disappointment.
But his hands were shaking.
It had been a long time since someone's painting had set his hands shaking.
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