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Chapter 11: The Test
TL: Enuma ID
The Painting Department building at Hongik University.
So-young walked down the corridor, holding Jun's hand.
She hadn't expected a reply this quickly.
The professor was famous for being difficult. She'd thought he might not even read the email.
Ēn ú mа
But the answer came right back. And not just that, he'd told them to come in person the very next day.
He had clearly read the email and looked carefully at the attached drawings.
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If so, that was promising. There was no way that professor could fail to read the genius she had seen in Jun.
The building was very old. Student work hung along the corridor.
Oil paintings, acrylics, mixed media.
Jun studied the paintings on the walls as he walked.
Е ń ûḿ а
[These are student paintings. College students. People a little younger than your aunt.]
The Shadow explained.
[The skill's all over the place. This one's fine, that one's not great, this one... I can't tell what they were even going for.
Hey, hey, don't look. You'll ruin your eyes.]
Baca cerita ini hanya di situs resmi Enuma.id!
Jun felt much the same.
Some of the paintings had paint that was alive, and in others it was dead.
Еñ um̆ а.і̇d
He couldn't have put the difference into words, but he could see it.
Fourth floor.
'Painting Department, Kim Yo-han's Office.'
So-young knocked on the door.
"Come in."
A low, dry voice. The same voice from the phone.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
She opened the door.
The office was cramped. One desk, two chairs, a bookshelf.
Paintings hung on three of the walls.
Oil paintings. All of them oil paintings.
The moment Jun stepped through the door, he stopped.
So-young stopped too. Because Jun wasn't moving.
Е̇ n u m̆а. ī_d
Jun was looking at the wall. More precisely, at the painting on the wall.
Professor Kim Yo-han sat behind the desk.
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Early forties. Lean build. Sharp eyes.
A black T-shirt smudged with paint here and there.
The professor looked at Jun.
He was small. Of course he was small. He was five years old.
Еn ūm̈ а .і d
More than that, he really was five years old.
There was oil paint still on his hands that hadn't washed off.
In a glance, he could tell this was a child who painted as a daily routine.
"Have a seat."
Baca cerita ini hanya di situs resmi Enuma.id!
The professor said it, but Jun didn't sit.
Instead, he walked over to the wall.
Е̃ nŭ ḿ ӑ. і̃d̃
"Jun?"
So-young called out, flustered, but Jun didn't hear her.
Jun stopped in front of the first painting on the wall.
It was a portrait.
A woman. A seated woman. From the waist up.
The background was dark, with the light gathered on the figure.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Jun leaned in so close it was as if he meant to press his nose against the painting.
Kim Yo-han started to open his mouth, then closed it.
He decided to watch what this child was doing.
[...]
The Shadow was silent.
Watching the painting along with Jun.
E n̈ úḿа .їd
It was a long silence.
Jun's eyes began to move.
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He took in the whole. He took in the parts. He took in the whole again.
He looked at the thickness of the paint. He looked at the direction of the brushstrokes. He looked at the order in which the colors were layered.
[What do you see?]
The Shadow asked.
Ĕǹu m а.. і̄d̊
"This person did four layers of underpainting."
Jun answered.
He wasn't talking to So-young.
He was talking to the Shadow.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
But he said it out loud.
Kim Yo-han's eyes shifted, just barely.
Е̄ n.u m̄ a
"The first was gray. The second was brown. On the third he put down the flesh tone, and on the fourth he put this color on top."
Jun pointed at the figure's cheek.
The paint was built up in four layers. The color of the lower layers showed faintly through the gaps in the upper ones.
"The fourth color is half see-through, so the third color shows through. That's why the skin looks like this. If you only painted one coat, you wouldn't get this color."
[Excellent.]
Kim Yo-han didn't move.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
He was right.
This painting had been finished with the glazing technique over four layers of underpainting.
Layering translucent coats of paint to create a sense of depth in the skin.
And he'd read it, not from a photo but seeing it in person, in a matter of seconds.
Jun moved his eyes to the next part.
He pointed at the figure's hand.
Êň u m а̊.ĩ d
"This part isn't brush. He scratched it with a palette knife."
Jun's finger pointed at the surface of the paint. He didn't touch it.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
"He scratched the paint off with the tip of the knife to bring out the color underneath. That's why there's a bright line on the knuckles."
Kim Yo-han's lips parted, just slightly.
Sgraffito. The technique of scratching away paint to reveal the color of the layer beneath.
Surely this child doesn't know the word.
Wѐ bńоv̊ ẽl Еnu m̀а
But he was reading exactly what had happened, right there in front of him.
Jun moved his eyes to the background.
"The background was made rough on purpose. The figure is soft but the background is rough. That's why the figure looks like it's coming forward."
Kim Yo-han had leaned his back against his chair.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
His arms were folded.
His face was blank.
Ěn̂ ü ḿа.. іḋ
But the tips of his fingers were pressing into his forearm. There was force in them.
Jun walked over to the second painting.
It was a landscape. A city.
Light was coming down between the buildings.
Jun looked at that one for a long while too.
"Is this the same person who painted that other one before?"
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
He'd asked So-young.
So-young looked at Kim Yo-han. Kim Yo-han didn't answer.
"...Everything hanging here, it's all the professor's paintings."
So-young said carefully.
Jun looked at the landscape again.
"The same person painted it, but the brushstrokes are different from the one before."
Е̂ ṅǔ m̂ a
Jun said.
"The one before was painted slowly. Carefully. Building up layers.
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But this one was painted fast. All at once. There are lots of places where the paint is thick, and lots of scratched places too."
Kim Yo-han's eyes narrowed.
"The one before was painted because he wanted to finish it."
Jun pointed at the portrait.
Е nüḿ а
"But this one was painted because he was angry.
No, like he was about to burst? Angry?"
Jun tilted his head over the city painting.
So-young held her breath.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Kim Yo-han didn't move.
Jun went on.
Wеb nо v̂е̊ l Е̂n̆ŭm а̃
"The brushstrokes are angry. Here, this part, the roof of this building. The brush was pressed down hard so the paint got crushed.
This wasn't painted under control. It wouldn't go the way he wanted, so he hit it hard."
Jun turned around and looked at Kim Yo-han.
For the first time, straight at the professor's face.
"Were you angry when you painted this?"
Kim Yo-han looked at Jun in silence.
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Just five years old. A child barely taller than the desk.
And that child had read anger in his painting.
That landscape had been painted in New York.
The night a gallery rejected his exhibition for no clear reason. He'd come back to his studio, set up the canvas, and painted.
In three hours. Swinging the brush as if to tear the thing apart.
That anger had stayed in the paint.
W̊_е_b̆ nоv̂е̊ľ Еn̊ū mа
It had hung on the wall for over ten years, and no one had ever read it.
Students called it 'dynamic.' Fellow professors called it 'expressionistic.'
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
This child was the first to read it as anger.
Kim Yo-han looked at Jun for a long while.
And then he spoke.
"That's right."
Е̃ ńùmà
Briefly.
Jun nodded.
And then he walked over to the third painting.
[...Jun.]
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The Shadow said quietly.
[This person's paintings, they're something.]
En̆ u m a.i d
Jun knew it too.
They were different from the paintings he'd seen at the museum.
The museum's paintings were finished. Composed.
In this person's paintings he could feel something else.
Unsettled emotion lived inside the paint.
The third painting.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
It was a landscape close to abstract. The forms were blurred, and the colors were flowing.
Jun looked at it for a long time.
"This one... is sad."
Jun said.
It was a small voice.
"The person who painted this has somewhere they want to go back to."
W̌ еb̆ ń.о́ v̌ е̄ l Е̄ n̊ùm а.
For the first time, Kim Yo-han's expression changed.
Just barely. But it changed.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
That painting had been done right after he returned to Korea.
Remembering his last atelier in Paris.
A place he could never go back to. Lost glory. A future trampled underfoot.
Kim Yo-han rose from his seat.
Е̇ num̀.а . іd̆
He opened a desk drawer.
He took out a Conté. Pierre Noire.
And a sheet of paper.
He set them down in front of Jun.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
"Draw."
Jun looked at the Conté.
Ē ňu m̊а̌
He had the same Conté in his own bag. But he took the one the professor handed him.
"Draw what?"
"Me."
Kim Yo-han sat down in his chair.
He folded his arms and looked at Jun.
"Draw me."
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[...!]
The Shadow drew in a breath.
And then it came right up beside Jun.
It was the same as when he'd drawn Ha-na at the museum.
A calm, still, certain voice.
[Look at the face.]
Ẅеb̃ n ō vе l Ёnûṁ a
Jun looked at Kim Yo-han's face.
Sharp eyes. A gaunt face. A mouth with the corners turned slightly down.
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A face with anger folded into the creases.
[The jawline. Draw it in one go.]
Jun's hand moved.
The Conté slid across the paper.
W̃ еb ṅӧṽе̃l̆ Е nu mа
The jawline. It was sharp.
It was different from Ha-na's soft jawline.
Jun's hand followed that sharpness. The Conté passed over the paper as if scratching it.
[From the forehead to the nose. One line. Don't break it.]
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Forehead. Nose. One line.
Kim Yo-han's nose was long and straight. The Conté came down from top to bottom.
Ẃеb̊ nо v̈ е̄ ĺ Ĕ ṅũm а̊
[The eyes. This person's eyes are deep. Make the eye sockets dark.]
Jun laid the Conté on its side and rubbed it around the eyes.
The shadow deepened. The eyes looked sunken in.
[The mouth. It's closed. A closed mouth is one line.]
The lips. A single line drawn across. A tightly shut mouth.
Jun set the Conté down.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Twenty-seven seconds. That was how long it had taken, when Kim Yo-han checked his watch.
Kim Yo-han was there on the paper.
It was the same way he'd drawn Ha-na.
The neck was slightly long, the contours simplified, and there was rhythm in the lines.
But it was completely different from the sketch of Yu Ha-na.
Ha-na's sketch was bright. A girl brimming with confidence.
Еṅ.û mã .і́d̈
This sketch was dark. A man with anger and sorrow folded into his creases.
The same Conté, the same method. Yet the weight of the lines changed depending on the subject.
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The soft curves of drawing Yu Ha-na had turned, in drawing Kim Yo-han, almost to sharp straight lines.
Kim Yo-han picked up the paper.
He looked at it quietly.
He looked at it for a long, long time.
Е̂ǹú ṁа́. іd.
The simplified contours. The long neck. The nose drawn in one stroke. The Conté shadow around the eyes.
There was rhythm in the lines. An unbroken curve.
He had seen these lines somewhere.
He'd felt it when he saw them in the photo too. That these were lines he'd seen somewhere before.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Kim Yo-han hadn't majored in art history. He was a painter.
But he didn't need an art history degree to know where these lines came from.
W̆ eb̈ n̂ov̇ е́l̊ Ѐ ṅ u m̂ а
It hadn't come to him yet. Like something caught on the tip of his tongue.
Simplified forms. A long neck. The soft line of the Conté.
Kim Yo-han set the paper down.
"Who taught you these lines?"
Jun shook his head.
"Nobody taught me."
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"You came to draw like this on your own?"
Jun nodded.
Kim Yo-han looked at Jun.
These weren't the eyes of someone lying.
But these were not lines that could come from someone on their own.
These were the lines of someone who had painted for decades.
Е́num a .і d́
They had come from the hand of a five-year-old, but they were not the lines of a five-year-old.
Kim Yo-han looked at So-young.
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"This child, has he really never learned to paint?"
"He hasn't. Really. I've never taught him either. He just painted on his own, switching tools as he went."
Kim Yo-han looked at the sketch again.
And then he looked at his own painting on the wall.
Еn̂ǔ ṁ а
This child had read the number of underpainting layers in his work.
He'd read the technique.
He'd read the anger.
He'd read the sorrow.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
He'd read that there was somewhere he wanted to go back to.
And when he picks up a Conté, lines like these come out.
Е̄n u mа̇
Kim Yo-han looked out the window.
For a long while.
And then he said to So-young,
"I'll teach him."
So-young's eyes went wide.
"It won't be a university class. Privately. Once a week, he comes here."
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
"Professor, the tuition, we should..."
"Don't be absurd."
Kim Yo-han looked at Jun.
"If I took money from this child, I'd be disgracing my own teacher's name."
Jun was looking at Kim Yo-han.
He liked this person's paintings. Paintings with something raw still left in them.
Ê nũ m̌ ä.ǐ d̆
[It's him.]
The Shadow said quietly.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
[He'll do.]
Jun nodded. To Kim Yo-han.
"I'm in your care."
It was the kind of greeting a five-year-old would give.
Ѐ n̈ u m̌ à
The corner of Kim Yo-han's mouth lifted, just barely.
It was too small to call a smile, but it was the most this person was capable of.
"Every Saturday. Ten in the morning."
Kim Yo-han picked up the sketch again.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
His own face, drawn by Jun.
Even after the door closed and Jun and So-young's footsteps faded away.
Е ǹũ mа̌
Kim Yo-han went on looking at the sketch.
The simplified contours. The long neck. The nose drawn in one stroke.
'Where did I see this?'
These lines.
He had definitely seen them before.
Kim Yo-han began pulling art books from the bookshelf.
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One. Two. Three.
He hadn't found it yet.
But he would.
The source of these lines.
Kim Yo-han turned the pages of the art books all night.
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