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Chapter 14: Grown-Up Business
TL: Enuma ID
A traditional Korean restaurant in Jongno.
Kim Yo-han had picked it. If he was going to 'treat someone to a meal,' he had to show the appropriate formality.
But pick somewhere too fancy, and he'd only hand the other man something to needle him about.
A private room on the second floor of the restaurant. The other man was already there.
Wе b́ñ ov е̄ ĺ Е̊nů m̈ à
Park Sang-hoon.
Round glasses. A neat cashmere coat draped over the back of his chair, sipping water.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
When he saw Kim Yo-han, he set down his glass.
"You made it."
"Yeah."
A curt greeting. It had been three years.
Е̄ nǔm̌ ӑ .іd
In that time, Park Sang-hoon had become a director of the Korean Art Association, while Kim Yo-han was still off at the university teaching kids.
Kim Yo-han sat down across from him.
The side dishes came out. Small plates filled the table.
Both men picked up their chopsticks.
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It was awkward.
What had happened three years ago, at a department meeting, still hung in the air.
W е̂b n оv е̊ l Е̂ num̌ а
Kim Yo-han's remark: 'Art education is being made subservient to market logic.'
Park Sang-hoon's rebuttal: 'Don't follow market logic and the students starve.'
'Aren't you just lining your own pockets and using the students as an excuse?' 'You were never even in the field, what would you know?'
Both their voices had risen, and in the end the meeting fell apart.
Two men who faced in exactly opposite directions.
Which was precisely why each of them knew exactly what the other was thinking.
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"You been well?"
Park Sang-hoon asked first, picking at the seasoned greens.
"Can't complain."
"And the lectures?"
"Same as ever."
"Your painting?"
Е̌ n̈um а́
"Still at it."
Kim Yo-han's answers were short.
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Park Sang-hoon lifted his eyes a little.
"You always were a man of few words, but is that any way for a guy who offered to buy lunch to act?"
"......"
"Call me up after three years to say you'll buy me a meal. Not drinks, a meal? You still don't drink, right?"
Еn̈um â
"I don't."
"Right. You were always like that."
Park Sang-hoon let out a thick laugh. Not a light one.
"When I asked what had gotten into you, you said it was 'better news than a terminal illness,' didn't you?
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
There's not much I'd rate as better news than Kim Yo-han coming down with a terminal illness. So what is it?"
Kim Yo-han set down his chopsticks.
Ẇ е̂bn̄ ô v е̌l Е̃ ǹu_mä
He'd taken only two spoonfuls of rice.
The sparring ended there.
Drag it out any longer and his own temper wouldn't hold.
"There's something I want to show you."
Kim Yo-han pulled a tablet from his bag.
He turned on the screen and opened the gallery.
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The photos were arranged in order.
Chronologically.
The crayon swirl, first.
The colored-pencil swirl, second.
The watercolor Aquarium.
The pastel Water Lilies.
Е nŭ m̌ а . і̆ d
Oil painting. Alley. Aquarium. The mountain with negative space.
He slid the tablet over to Park Sang-hoon.
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"Look at them one at a time."
Park Sang-hoon took it up.
He pushed his glasses up and looked at the first photo.
A crayon swirl.
Е ň ùm̃ а̊
"A Van Gogh copy."
A flat reaction.
Next. Next. Next.
Colored pencil. Watercolor. Pastel.
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The pace at which Park Sang-hoon's finger swiped through the photos was steady.
Neither fast nor slow. A professional's pace.
Ẃë b̄ṅ.ӧvеl̄ Е̄.n̄ u m.å
At the oil paintings, the pace slowed a touch.
On the Aquarium, his finger paused for a moment.
But he soon moved on.
On the mountain with negative space, he stopped once more.
Two seconds. Then he swiped on.
The last photo.
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A Conté drawing.
Kim Yo-han's face.
Park Sang-hoon's finger stopped.
Five seconds. Ten seconds.
And then a sound came out.
"Pfft."
Е̄n ǔ m̈ а
A laugh. A laugh he'd tried and failed to hold in.
"Hah! Hahahah!"
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It burst out of him before he could stop it.
He laughed clutching his stomach, loud enough to make the little room ring.
"What's funny?"
Kim Yo-han narrowed his eyes.
Ê n ŭ m̃а̄ . їd
"Ah, hold on. Hold on a second."
Park Sang-hoon wiped the corners of his eyes and put his glasses back on.
Then he looked at the tablet again.
The Conté sketch. Kim Yo-han's face.
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A simplified outline. A sharp jawline. Deep-set eyes. A tightly shut mouth. Anger folded into the creases.
"This is you to a tee."
E n ů m̃ а̇
Park Sang-hoon said it, smacking the tablet.
"Look at the eyes! That glare. A total pigheaded grump. And the mouth? Clamped shut like it's saying, 'Everything I say is right, so everyone shut up.'"
"......"
"I've never seen a picture nail you this precisely. Who drew this? A student of yours from the university? Are you introducing him to me?"
Kim Yo-han didn't answer.
"No, wait, a student of yours wouldn't need help from me, would he? You could just back him yourself, so why bother?"
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Park Sang-hoon let his laughter settle and set the tablet down.
"But, let me be honest with you."
Park Sang-hoon shifted to sit up straight.
The professional's eyes returned.
"The earlier photos, crayon all the way up through oil. I can tell there's an eye for observation. There's an ability to grasp the materiality of the tools, too.
And that oil painting with the negative space is experimental, which is interesting. But."
Е̃n ŭ m̌ а̌ .і̇d
Park Sang-hoon tapped the tablet screen with his finger.
"This isn't enough to call me out over, Kim Yo-han.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
There are art college applicants with this kind of eye. He's just a bit good. To start talking about genius over this......"
"Five years old."
Park Sang-hoon's finger stopped.
"......What?"
Ĕ ñ u m ã. í d̃
"The crayon piece, three years old. The colored pencil, four. He first picked up oil at five.
That Conté sketch, he drew in twenty-seven seconds. A five-year-old, less than a month into oil painting. Right in front of me."
Park Sang-hoon didn't move.
Behind his glasses, his eyes were fixed on the screen.
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"......Five years old?"
"A five-year-old who's never had any formal art training. Purely self-taught."
W е̄ b ńоv̄ е l̈ E ñ ŭ m̂ а̇
Park Sang-hoon's gaze went back to the crayon swirl.
His eyes were different from when he'd first looked.
'A three-year-old did this?'
The colored-pencil Aquarium.
'A four-year-old, the direction of the light?'
The oil-painting Water Lilies.
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'A five-year-old, depth from the thickness of the paint?'
The Conté sketch. Twenty-seven seconds. Five years old.
Park Sang-hoon's mouth closed.
He took off his glasses and wiped them. Put them back on.
"You're lying."
"It's true."
Е̊ nŭ m̃ ã
"Don't bullshit me! Five years old? My ass!"
Park Sang-hoon jabbed at the nose in the sketch and shouted.
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"This is a five-year-old? Never had any art training?
You think I can't see straight? You think Park Sang-hoon's some kind of fool?"
Park Sang-hoon shouted, spit flying.
But Kim Yo-han's expression doesn't change.
Ė ň ũ m̀а́. і́ ḋ
He opened his mouth, that blunt face unchanged.
"I know you can't believe it. I didn't either, until he drew it right in front of me."
"......"
"Before he met me, the kid didn't even know who Van Gogh was. And there's no doubt he taught himself to paint."
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Park Sang-hoon stared quietly at Kim Yo-han.
He was a man Park couldn't stand, a man who grated on him every time they met, but for all that, his eye for a painting was exceptional. He wasn't the type to eat an expensive meal and then talk nonsense, either.
Е̂n̂ ümã . і̀d
Which meant this was really......
Park Sang-hoon swallowed dryly.
"......Why are you only showing me this now?"
"Because he's only been my student for a week."
"Your student?"
"I teach him once a week. Private lessons."
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Park Sang-hoon picked up the tablet again.
He swiped through from the start again. Slowly, this time.
One photo, then another.
When his second pass was done, he set the tablet down carefully.
As if there were a child inside it.
"So. Did you call me out just to brag that you'd landed yourself a hotshot student?"
Е̄ńǔ m̀ ӓ . i̊.d̆
Park Sang-hoon was in no mood to keep talking in circles either.
Kim Yo-han said,
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
"The children's art competition. The one held nationwide, you know it."
"The National Children's Art Competition, hosted by the Korean Art Association."
"That's the one. There's the recommender system, right? Where a working artist puts their name on a submission as a recommender."
"There is. The judges take it into account."
Еńu mа̃. i d̂
"Put your name down as a co-recommender."
Park Sang-hoon's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Co-?"
"If it's just my name, some of the judges are bound to be biased, aren't they? There are plenty in the art world who can't stand me."
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Park Sang-hoon snorted a small laugh.
"Well, that's fair enough. Me, for one."
W̃ е b̌ ñо̀v̄ еĺ Enumӑ
"But it's different with a line of Park Sang-hoon added in too. Who's going to carelessly tear into a submission recommended by a director of the Korean Art Association?"
"......So you're asking me to be your co-guarantor here?"
"All you have to do is put your name on it. I'm not asking you to rig the judging. The kid paints on his own merit, and the judges evaluate him fairly. I just want to keep this kid from being penalized because of my name. That's all."
Park Sang-hoon leaned back and looked at the ceiling.
"Put my name on it and my reputation's on the line too. You get that?"
"I do."
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"If the kid bombs in the competition, I'll hear, 'That's the best the kid Park Sang-hoon backed can do?'"
"That's why I showed you."
Kim Yo-han pointed at the tablet.
"You look at those paintings and still think he'd bomb? This isn't a domestic level."
Park Sang-hoon didn't answer.
Instead he picked up the tablet again and looked at the Conté sketch.
W е b n̈ о̃v̂ ě l̃ Е n̂ ūmа̌
Twenty-seven seconds. Five years old.
A sketch that had captured the very essence of pigheaded, short-tempered Kim Yo-han.
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"......Honestly."
Park Sang-hoon spoke.
"It's mouthwatering material."
His eyes changed.
W е̄b̊ nò v̆ е.l Ė ň uṁa
From eyes that saw art to eyes that saw a market.
"A five-year-old genius. Self-taught. Oil. Conté. This narrative is no joke. Raise him right, and......"
He let the sentence trail off.
Then he looked at Kim Yo-han.
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"But I can't be expected to do it for nothing, now."
Here it came.
Е̊ n̂ u̇m̌_а . ǐ d
Kim Yo-han had known it. This man never moves for free.
"If I put my name on as a recommender, that gives me a way in to the kid, doesn't it?
Down the line, with exhibition planning, media exposure, that kind of thing, I'd get to......"
Kim Yo-han rose from his seat.
"Wh-what, you're leaving already?"
Park Sang-hoon looked up, flustered.
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"Guess I'll go see Kang Ji-won sunbae, then."
Park Sang-hoon's face stiffened.
Kang Ji-won.
Vice president of the Korean Art Association.
A generation above Park Sang-hoon.
And a man who stood on the opposite side.
Е ñumа̄ .і̂ d
There were two broad paths in the art world.
Park Sang-hoon's side was market-centered.
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Art fairs, galleries, collectors.
Paintings get placed where they sell.
Kang Ji-won's side was institution-centered.
National and public art museums, biennales, public art.
Еn̄u m̃ а
It's where government budgets and academic authority do the moving.
The two had clashed inside the Art Association for over a decade.
Over the director's seat, over the makeup of the judging panels, over the direction of exhibitions.
For now Park Sang-hoon had risen to director, but Kang Ji-won was a vice president. The power lay with the other side.
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And Kang Ji-won was a sunbae who shared the same teacher as Kim Yo-han.
He was one of the few people Kim Yo-han hadn't cut ties with, even while loathing art-world politics.
Еṅǔ m̆ а̄.і̃d̄
"Hey, hey, hold on."
Park Sang-hoon shot to his feet.
"To Kang Ji-won? You're saying you'll go to Kang Ji-won sunbae?"
Park Sang-hoon's voice rose.
"If it's Kang sunbae-nim, he'll put his name down as a recommender. He's a vice president of the Art Association, so it'll carry more weight than your name, too."
Kim Yo-han said evenly,
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
"And Kang sunbae-nim loves a truly talented child. 'A painting prodigy born of Korea', nobody would be more delighted by that."
It was a jab. Pushing talented children to the front to skim government grants was Kang Ji-won's playbook.
But by the same token, it was true that he loved a 'talented child.' If Kang Ji-won caught wind of material like this, there was no way he'd leave it alone.
"Hey, hey."
Park Sang-hoon grabbed Kim Yo-han's arm.
"Sit. We're not even done talking, where do you think you're going?"
Е num а
Kim Yo-han looked down at Park Sang-hoon.
What Park Sang-hoon had said first was 'mouthwatering material.'
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He'd looked at the five-year-old genius from the market's point of view.
Played right, there's no telling how much money the kid could bring in.
But if Kang Ji-won got to this kid first, it's over.
Kang Ji-won's people raise the kid, back him, debut him. With the Republic of Korea itself for backing.
Ě n̄ ü m ä .і d
Then there's no opening for Park Sang-hoon to squeeze into.
It gets snatched away. 'Mouthwatering material' like this. Before he's even begun.
"Come on, sit down already. What's the matter? Between us, of all people."
Park Sang-hoon's tone grew a touch warmer.
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Kim Yo-han sat down slowly.
"No conditions, nothing like that. I'll put my name down as recommender. Conditions, between us? Please."
Е́ num̊ă. і̇d
"Tsk."
Kim Yo-han clicked his tongue. Should've played it that way from the start.
"But."
Park Sang-hoon raised his index finger.
"Let me see him once, too. Whether he's the real thing or not. I should get to see him with my own eyes, shouldn't I?"
Kim Yo-han looked at Park Sang-hoon.
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It was a condition, if it could be called that. But it was different from before.
What would happen if this man met the boy?
He was a man who cared about nothing but money, but in that sense he might be exactly the person Lee Jun's goal needed.
The kind of man needed to make the boy not a Modigliani but a Picasso.
"......Fine."
Kim Yo-han nodded.
Wе̌.b nŏv ѐ l̇ Еṅ um̆а
Park Sang-hoon sat back down and drank some water.
Then he picked up the tablet again.
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The Conté sketch.
To his eyes, this picture looked like 'mouthwatering material.'
So what did Kim Yo-han's eyes see?
Kim Yo-han, who'd offered to buy a meal.
Ӗ ň.um̀a . i d̂
Kim Yo-han, who'd cut off contact for three years.
Kim Yo-han, who'd played the Kang Ji-won sunbae card.
For this pigheaded, short-tempered man to go to these lengths, what did that mean?
"Hey."
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"What."
"This kid. Is he the real thing?"
Ӗ nù ḿ á
Kim Yo-han scooped up some rice.
He took a spoonful, then answered.
"Would I be sitting here eating with you if he weren't?"
Park Sang-hoon didn't laugh.
He was looking at the Conté sketch on the screen.
The face of pigheaded, short-tempered Kim Yo-han.
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A face with anger and sorrow folded into its creases.
But it was strange.
It had been funny before.
Now it wasn't.
The more he looked, the more he felt something in these lines.
The soft, dense lines of Conté.
Е̄ ṅ ŭ m̊а̀
Curves drawn in a single stroke.
Lines that looked like something he'd seen somewhere.
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A five-year-old had drawn these lines.
In twenty-seven seconds.
Park Sang-hoon had painted for half his life, too.
He knew well enough how hard a thing that was.
Wе bnо_v ӗl̊ Е̊ňû m а
Park Sang-hoon set the tablet down and began to eat.
No more words were needed.
The two ate in silence.
In the small room of the traditional Korean restaurant.
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When the meal ended, Kim Yo-han paid.
This man really did buy lunch.
W̊ е̃b̆ ṅ о̊ v̊ е́_ľ Е̇ n̆_u m̊ а̃
It felt like he could go three days without food and not be hungry.
"Hey."
Park Sang-hoon called out as they left.
Kim Yo-han turned around.
"That Kang Ji-won sunbae. You meant to bring him up from the start, didn't you?"
Kim Yo-han didn't answer.
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He put on his coat and went down the stairs.
Park Sang-hoon watched his back and clicked his tongue.
"Same as ever, that guy. Pigheaded, short-tempered."
And as he did, he pulled his phone from his pocket.
The National Children's Art Competition, hosted by the Korean Art Association.
He checked its schedule again.
Én umа̌ . і d́
There was still time before the recommender registration deadline.
"Hey! Wait up! What did you say the kid's name was?"
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Park Sang-hoon's voice calling after Kim Yo-han was friendlier than it had ever been.
A pair who might have been enemies until just yesterday.
But from here on, they'd be steering the same boat.
A precarious boat, carrying a small passenger named Lee Jun.
W̌ е̃b nоv̌ёl̀ Е ńù m.a
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