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Chapter 22: Things Other Than Painting
TL: Enuma ID
In front of the officetel in Mapo-gu.
Park Sang-hoon's car pulled to a stop.
A black sedan. The nicest car Lee Jun had ever ridden in.
Thanks to it, Jun had ridden over in comfort.
Ѐ ṅ u̇mа
At first Jun had thought he was a strange man, but he didn't seem like a bad person.
"This the place?"
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
"Yes."
Lee Jun got out. So did Park Sang-hoon.
He looked up at the building. An old officetel.
Fifth floor. Unit 508.
Еṅ ũm̈ a
Lee Jun punched in the door code. The door opened.
"Auntie, I'm home."
"Oh, already? What about Ji-su-ssi──"
So-young, coming out of the kitchen, stopped short.
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Because a man she didn't know was standing behind Lee Jun.
Round glasses. A neat knit sweater.
Е́ n̆u ṁ a. ï d̀_
A cashmere coat was draped over his arm.
It was an outfit that didn't belong in a shabby officetel.
"Hello. My name is Park Sang-hoon."
Park Sang-hoon greeted her first. A soft voice.
"I'm a director of the Korean Art Association and an old colleague of Professor Kim Yo-han. I sat in on Jun's lesson today. And since I was bringing him home anyway, I thought I'd take a look at the paintings he's done."
Flustered, So-young bowed her head.
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This was a guest she hadn't planned for.
"Oh, yes... I'm Han So-young, Lee Jun's aunt. Would you like to come in?"
A cramped entryway.
Lee Jun's sneakers sat on top of the shoe cabinet. They were smudged with paint.
Beside them, So-young's slippers. That was all.
Park Sang-hoon didn't take off his coat. There was nowhere to hang it.
Ėnů m а
He went inside with it still draped over his arm.
A living room doubling as a kitchen. Cramped.
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The studio door stood open. A tablet and a monitor were visible. So-young's workspace.
"And Jun's room?"
"Over there."
So-young pointed toward the bedroom.
W ӗb̄ n̄ оv е́.ľ Еǹ ũḿä
Lee Jun had already gone in and was setting the size 15 canvas down on the floor.
Park Sang-hoon stepped up to the bedroom door.
He stopped.
The room was small.
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One bed. Beside it, canvases stood propped along the wall.
A palette on the floor. The paint was covered in plastic wrap.
Ӗ n̊ u m̊ ӑ
Brushes sat soaking in a jar of turpentine.
The smell of linseed oil filled the room.
There was barely space to set a foot down.
Lee Jun had been painting while sitting on the narrow strip of floor between the canvases and the bed.
Park Sang-hoon looked at the canvases against the wall.
The Starry Night. Water Lilies. Alley. Aquarium. The Mountain with its negative space. Sky.
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He had seen them all in photos.
Things he'd swiped through on a tablet screen.
The real things were different.
Park Sang-hoon stood before The Starry Night.
In the photo, it had been a clumsy copy. A study with poor control of the paint.
In person, the paint rose off the surface.
W̊.е́ b ñо̄ v̌ѐ l̊ Е̌ňũ ṁ а
The center of the swirl was thickest. Light was reflecting off the surface of the paint.
This was something a photo could never show. The materiality of paint.
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Water Lilies.
Where the paint ran thin, the canvas's gesso showed faintly through.
That faint show-through had become the transparency of the water's surface.
The Mountain with its negative space.
Еǹŭm̊ а .іd̈
The place where the mountain's translucent edge bled into the negative space. A mist-like white.
The gesso of the canvas was catching the room's light and glowing faintly.
In a photo it had been no more than an 'interesting attempt'; in person it was something else entirely.
The effects created by the materiality of oil painting could only be seen in the real thing.
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Park Sang-hoon stood there for a long while.
Then he looked around the room.
Е́ n u ḿа
There was one window. It faced west.
In the afternoon, direct sunlight will come pouring in.
Direct sunlight.
When direct sunlight hits oil paint, the colors change.
Cadmium Yellow fades, and Ultramarine Blue cracks.
The canvases stood leaning against the wall.
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They were touching one another. Close enough for the paint surfaces to meet.
Some canvases weren't fully dry yet, either. The Sky painting.
Humidity.
In this room, linseed oil gets used every day and brushes get rinsed in turpentine.
For ventilation, that one small window.
Park Sang-hoon's expression hardened.
Е̊ ň ǔm̂ а̃ . і̄ d̀
"Han So-young-ssi."
So-young looked over from the doorway.
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"He's been doing oil painting in this room?"
"Yes... ever since we came to Seoul."
"And ventilation?"
"I keep the window open every day."
W̃ e̊ bn о ṽẽ l Е̄ň ū m а̃
Park Sang-hoon looked at the jar of turpentine. A considerable amount had been used.
"Turpentine is an organic solvent. Breathing it constantly in an enclosed space is harmful. For an adult, and even more so for a five-year-old."
So-young's face went white.
"And these canvases."
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Park Sang-hoon pointed at the canvases propped against the wall.
"They're touching each other. Oil paintings take weeks to months to dry. If half-dried paint sticks to the canvas next to it, both are ruined."
W̄ ĕ b̀_n̆о̄v̈ е.l̆ Е̇ nu̇ m̀а̄
So-young couldn't answer.
She had thought about it, but she hadn't found a solution. It's just that Jun raced ahead too fast, before she could find one.
"Direct sunlight is a problem too. Afternoon sun comes through that window, doesn't it? When direct sunlight hits an oil painting, the paint cracks. It takes some time, but it can't be undone."
Park Sang-hoon looked around the room once more.
Lee Jun was already sitting on the floor, drawing something in a new sketchbook.
He was adding crosses to the ellipses he'd learned today. He had no interest in the adults' conversation.
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[That man sure nags a lot.]
The Shadow muttered.
Not a word of it was wrong.
But the Shadow, too, tended not to trouble itself with trivial matters.
Same with Lee Jun, and same with Kim Yo-han.
They were all the breed of people who believed that as long as they could paint, nothing else mattered.
Ẽ ńu m а.іd
"You can't store paintings like this."
Compared to them, Park Sang-hoon was a relatively functional adult.
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"Do you have any idea what these paintings are worth?"
So-young shook her head. Of course she doesn't. She'd never sold one and never thought about selling one. They're paintings by a five-year-old, after all.
"Right now they have no price. He's unknown. But once this child places in an art competition and his name gets out, that changes. These early works will be the first to rise in value."
So-young looked at Park Sang-hoon.
Ë_n̊ǔ m а
She knew that what this man was saying was realistic.
But at the same time, it made her uncomfortable. The way he talked, converting Jun's paintings into money.
"This isn't about money."
Park Sang-hoon, perhaps reading her expression, changed tack.
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"It's about the time this child has put into these paintings. From the age of three until now, he's painted every day. That time is in these canvases. If you let direct sunlight and humidity destroy them, you're throwing that time away."
So-young closed her mouth.
W̃е̂b n̆о̊v̌ е̌.ĺ Ё nũ m̆ а̃
He was right. There was no arguing it.
"There's an art storage facility I know. In Hannam-dong. The Art Association uses it often. Temperature and humidity controlled, and the canvases can be stored upright, individually."
"The cost......"
"I'll cover it."
So-young tilted her head.
"Why?"
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It was a natural question.
This was a man she had just met. When someone like that offers to pay even the cost of storing the paintings, suspicion is the normal response.
And the man's whole air was suspicious to begin with.
"Professor Kim Yo-han asked me a favor. To put my name down as a co-recommender for a children's art competition. While I'm at it, I've decided to help this child in my own way."
Had he ever acted out of such pure goodwill before?
Park Sang-hoon felt an odd swell of pride and fulfillment. The satisfaction of recognizing and supporting, early on, a boy who might become a future master. Who knew, his own name might even earn a line in the history of world art.
E nûḿ a
But So-young's suspicion didn't fade.
Professor Kim Yo-han, she can trust. She was the one who'd sought him out and asked for help in the first place.
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But not this man. Above all, everything from his expression to his manner marked him as a suspicious character.
Maybe not as well as Lee Jun could, but So-young knew how to read people too.
"One moment. I need to make a call."
Park Sang-hoon nodded. As if he'd expected it.
Wéb̄n̆ оvе l Еňúm̃а̇
So-young went toward the kitchen and took out her phone.
She dialed Professor Kim Yo-han's number.
"Hello."
"Professor, it's Han So-young, Jun's aunt."
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"Yes. What is it?"
"Park Sang-hoon-seonsaengnim is at our place. He's suggesting we keep Jun's paintings at an art storage facility. And he says he'll pay for it himself."
Еnu̇ ṁа̄. ї d
"......Is that so?"
"Is he someone I can trust?"
So-young's voice dropped. So Park Sang-hoon wouldn't hear.
But it was a small home. He heard everything.
Kim Yo-han said nothing for a long moment. Then he spoke.
"That man...... cares about nothing but money."
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So-young's face stiffened.
"But where money is involved, he's a man you can trust. If he says he'll properly store paintings that will be worth money, he means that too."
"Then......"
"The fact that storage even became an issue is my fault for not paying attention. I'm sorry."
So-young hesitated, unsure how to answer.
"Hold on."
Е̄n̆ũ m̂ ǎ
Park Sang-hoon came over to So-young. He held out his hand.
"Let me talk to him, please."
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So-young hesitated, then handed over the phone.
Park Sang-hoon took the call.
"It's me."
"......What."
En̄.u m̃ а̌ .і̂d̂
Kim Yo-han's voice dropped a register.
"Hey, Kim Yo-han. You're supposed to be teaching this kid to paint, aren't you?"
"And?"
"So you teach him painting and wash your hands of everything else? You know turpentine's bad for the body, right? A five-year-old is breathing it every day in a sealed room. One window for ventilation, that's it. Did you leave it like that because you didn't know?"
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"......"
"The canvases are touching each other, some of the paint isn't even dry. Direct sunlight coming in on top of that. This is the room of a kid you're teaching? Is painting really all that matters to you?"
Е n ů mа́
Kim Yo-han didn't answer for a long while.
"......I knew."
"If you knew, why didn't you do anything?"
"......"
"Nothing to say, huh? I don't care how well you teach painting, this is basic. Basic! The child's health comes first, the painting comes after. How can painting be the only thing in your head?"
Kim Yo-han's voice went quiet.
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"You're right. It's my fault."
Park Sang-hoon paused a beat.
It was rare for Kim Yo-han to admit fault this readily.
"I'm a man who knows nothing but painting. Outside of painting, I couldn't care less about anything. That's how I missed this."
"......What is this, confession time?"
"Do it your way. On storage, your judgment is right."
W̄еb̌ n̂о v́_е̇ l Е n̈u m̀ а.
The corners of Park Sang-hoon's mouth lifted.
That Kim Yo-han had just said he'd follow his lead. It didn't feel half bad.
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"But, Sang-hoon."
"What."
"While you're handling storage, there's one more thing."
"......What is it?"
Ĕ n ù mа...і̊d
Kim Yo-han's voice had changed, subtly.
"The studies Jun has done. Crayon, colored pencil, watercolor, pastel. Everything he's drawn since he was three is still there, all of it."
The pictures he'd seen on the tablet flashed through Park Sang-hoon's mind.
Gulp.
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The pictures Lee Jun had drawn since the age of three. The very history of the human being called Lee Jun. Just what on earth would they be worth?
"......How many pieces?"
Е́n ů ṁ_а̄
"Hundreds."
Park Sang-hoon froze.
"Hundreds?"
"Backs of flyers, calendar pages, delivery slips, fish wrapping paper. That's what he drew on. He'd hidden them under the dresser, inside the bedding closet, in the gaps under the floor vinyl."
"Wait, wait. Fish wrapping paper?"
"It's a sashimi restaurant in Busan. Jun's family home."
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"Busan?!"
Park Sang-hoon took off his glasses and wiped them. Put them back on.
A habit. One that came out whenever his head got tangled.
"Those need storing too, but honestly, I couldn't bring myself to tackle it. The papers are all different sizes, some are folded, and some are probably in poor condition."
"......"
"Knowing you'll take care of it puts my mind at ease."
Ӗň um̌ а̃
Park Sang-hoon stood frozen, phone in hand.
His own words from moments ago came back to him.
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Don't you even know the basics? Don't you know what comes first? How could you store them like this?
He'd talked big. Boldly.
And what Kim Yo-han was saying now was this:
'There are hundreds more in Busan, so you deal with them.'
E ńŭm̂а̊
That pigheaded, prickly grouch.
He hadn't meekly admitted his fault at all.
He'd pretended to admit it while dumping the whole thing on him.
"......Hey."
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"What?"
"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"
Е̃ ńum̄а.і d́
"Doing what?"
"You let me run my mouth on purpose so you could dump hundreds of pieces on me, didn't you?"
Kim Yo-han didn't answer.
Not answering was an answer in itself.
"You son of a......"
Park Sang-hoon ground his teeth.
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But he couldn't back down.
He'd made guarantees. He'd even yelled at him about not knowing the basics.
If he said 'hundreds of pieces is a bit much......' now, he'd lose face.
He'd be backing out of a game he himself had set up.
And.
Every study from age three to the present, all of it still intact?
Ě n umа . і d̈
A different calculation began turning in Park Sang-hoon's head.
From the early crayon pieces all the way to oil painting. The entire course of one child's growth survives as artwork.
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This was a record. An art-historical record.
Once this child becomes famous, these studies, taken together, become a single narrative.
It was easily enough material for an entire exhibition.
The gains beat the losses.
Ӗń û mӓ . id
Park Sang-hoon's arithmetic was quick.
"......Fine. I'll handle the Busan ones too."
"Good. Thanks."
A trace of a smile flickered through Kim Yo-han's voice.
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Park Sang-hoon didn't miss it.
"Hey, you just laughed, didn't you?"
Е̄n ūm̊ а̌ . і̇ d̂
"I didn't laugh."
"You did! You rotten bastard!"
"I said I didn't. Put Jun's aunt back on."
Park Sang-hoon handed the phone back to So-young.
A vein stood out on his forehead.
So-young took the phone.
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"Professor?"
"Han So-young-ssi. Do as he says. When it comes to storage, Park Sang-hoon knows better than I do. He'll take care of the ones in Busan as well."
"The ones in Busan, too?"
"Yes. Get in touch with his parents and have them gather up Jun's drawings. Park Sang-hoon-ssi will go down to Busan himself, collect them, and store them properly."
She heard Park Sang-hoon shouting something at the phone, but couldn't make out the words.
"And about the turpentine and the ventilation, I'm sorry. At the next lesson I'll tell you about a non-toxic substitute solvent. Switch to that."
W ė b̆ n̈ӧv ѐĺ Е ǹũmа̌
"......All right. Thank you."
The call ended.
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So-young set down her phone and looked at Park Sang-hoon.
Park Sang-hoon had taken his glasses off and was wiping them. Again.
The man who'd been shouting at Kim Yo-han only moments ago spoke with a weary face.
"Let me be honest with you."
En̆ŭ ḿ a
Park Sang-hoon straightened up.
"I want to invest in this child's future, too. Professor Kim Yo-han teaches him painting; I take care of everything else. Storage is one part of that."
"Invest?"
"Yes. What Professor Kim teaches is purely painting, nothing more. But painting alone isn't enough. The work has to be put out into the world. Exhibitions, art competitions, everything that comes after. That's where I can help Jun."
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So-young looked at Park Sang-hoon.
His eyes never stopped moving.
Е̂n̆u m̃ а. і̀d̃
Small, beady eyes.
They were calculating something.
But calculating didn't make a person all bad.
Whether this man saw Jun's paintings as money or as anything else.
If he kept Jun's paintings safe and cared for, that was something to be grateful for.
So-young glanced at Jun for a moment.
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Jun, as always, is absorbed in his canvas.
He still had no interest in anything other than painting.
A child like this probably needs someone like him, too.
So-young quietly lowered her head.
"......Thank you. Then we'll be counting on you."
Park Sang-hoon nodded.
W̃ѐ b n о v̊ ẽl̂ Е̄ nu̇ ḿа̂
"I'll call in the company people sometime this week. They'll collect the canvases, move them to the storage facility, and I'll have an inventory drawn up as well."
So-young bowed her head again.
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She was grateful. But she wasn't entirely at ease.
Jun's paintings are leaving this home.
Into someone else's hands.
She knew that was how it should be.
E n.u m̊ ӓ
The day she'd first pulled the drawings out from under the dresser came back to her.
The swirl on a crumpled flyer. Hundreds of drawings.
The things this child had hidden away, all on his own.
All of them are passing into someone else's hands.
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It made her somehow wistful, and worried too.
"Please take good care of them. Our Jun's paintings."
Е̇n̄.ú m̀а̂. іd_
"Don't worry. The day those paintings sell for billions of won, you'll be glad you stored them properly."
The oil paintings here can be moved easily enough.
The problem was the studies in Busan.
First things first, he had to plan a business trip to Busan.
Park Sang-hoon's head throbbed.
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