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Chapter 31: The First Finished Work
TL: Enuma ID
Morning.
Lee Jun stood before the easel again today.
The same routine, every day.
But this time was a little different.
W.еb́ n о̄v̈ е l̊ Е́ ňüm̄a
Today wasn't underpainting.
Paint sat squeezed out across the palette.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Ultramarine and Prussian Blue.
For the underpainting he'd used only those two colors. For nearly a month.
Today, new colors joined them.
Titanium White. Cadmium Yellow. Burnt Sienna. Ivory Black.
Èń u m̀а̀
A canvas aglow with dozens of layers of blue.
A sky deep at the top, bright at the bottom, its boundary nowhere to be seen.
A month's worth of sky, built up day by day, sat there.
Now he paints on top of it.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Lee Jun picked up his brush.
[Nervous?]
Ẁ еb̊n_ō ṽ.е̃ ľ Ӗ ńumä
The Shadow asked, teasing.
"A little."
[From here on you can't make mistakes.]
Lee Jun knew that too.
Once thick paint goes on over this underpainting, there's no taking it back.
One wrong move, and he could ruin a canvas a month in the making.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
[But there's no need to be scared. You're not the same as you were a month ago.]
True.
The Lee Jun of a month ago and the Lee Jun of now were not the same.
His straight lines had grown precise. His ovals no longer wavered. He could split chiaroscuro cleanly.
He could stack several objects and tell front from back. He could paint the refraction of water. He could see the light inside a shadow.
Every day he went outside and looked at the world.
Ẇеb̃ ṅ о̊v̇еl Е n ûm̂а̊
He looked at trees. The pattern of a winter tree's branches splitting apart. The rhythm of them swaying in the wind.
He looked at people. The shoulders of someone walking, their back, their shadow.
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He looked at light. That morning light and evening light are different. That shadows on a cloudy day differ from shadows on a clear one.
His eye had changed. His hand had changed.
Now it was time to prove it.
[Start with the clouds.]
Е̌ nǔ m̈ а̀
The Shadow said.
[Up top. The highest part of the sky.]
He took up a broad brush.
He loaded it with Titanium White.
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Into it he mixed just a touch of Ultramarine. Not a pure white, but a white tinged with sky.
The bright part of the cloud.
Е nu ḿ a . id̄
He set the brush to the top of the canvas.
The paint went up over the underpainting. Thick.
The underpainting was thin. Dozens of layers, yet each one thin as water.
The paint going on over it was thick. Thick in a single pass.
A contrast emerged.
Thick clouds over a thin sky.
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The sky receding inward, the clouds coming forward.
[Good. That's the feeling.]
The Shadow said.
[Don't lift the brush. Push it all in one go. Clouds are round, remember. Turn the brush.]
He turned the brush.
The paint traced a curve across the canvas. A thick curve.
Е ṅ u m̆а .і̌ d̈
The outline of a cloud took shape. A softly rounded form.
[Soft on the edges. Where sky and cloud meet. That's the important part.]
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Lee Jun pressed the brush tip down lightly.
At the cloud's edge, the white bled out over the blue.
The point where thick paint met thin underpainting.
The boundary softened. As if the cloud were floating in the sky.
Ѐ ǹŭ.m_ӑ. і́d
[Now the shadow. Underneath the cloud. Mix a dark color.]
He mixed Burnt Sienna into Ultramarine.
A dark violet. The color of the cloud's shadow.
Laying the brush flat, he painted the underside of the cloud.
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The cloud took on weight.
Bright above, dark below. The light is coming from overhead.
W̆ӗ b nо v е̊l̂ Ё ňu m̃ а
[Second cloud. A little lower. Smaller than the first.]
Lee Jun painted the second cloud.
Smaller than the first. Lower down.
Perspective emerged. The upper cloud large, the lower cloud small.
Near things big, far things small. The basics of perspective.
[The third. Smaller still. Lower still. Near the horizon.]
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The third cloud.
Very small. Close to the horizon.
The paint thinned out too. A distant cloud, after all.
Near things thick, far things thin.
This too was something he'd learned in the fundamentals.
But Lee Jun knew it by instinct.
W е̄ bǹ о v̈ е̊ ľ Ѐn um.á
Because the clouds he'd seen over the sea in Busan had been exactly like that.
The far clouds had been small and thin, clinging to the horizon.
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[...Good.]
There was a tremor in the Shadow's voice.
[Now the grass.]
Lee Jun switched to a fine brush.
Е̊n ŭ.ma
Viridian. Cadmium Yellow. Burnt Sienna.
He mixed green, yellow, and brown on the palette.
The bottom of the canvas. Below the horizon.
He painted grass.
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With the fine brush, he strokes upward. Grass grows from the ground up, after all.
One line. Then another. Short strokes, packed tight.
Е ňu m а̀.іd
A field of grass emerged.
If a wind were blowing, the grass would lean to one side.
Lee Jun angled the strokes slightly to the right.
The wind is blowing from right to left.
[There's wind in the grass.]
The Shadow murmured, delighted.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
He'd seen it Tuesday, at the park. Grass bent by the wind. Blades lying flat to one side.
He'd sketched it then. The wind's direction, in lines.
And now he was putting it onto the canvas.
The color of grass isn't uniform.
The grass up front, bright. The grass behind, dark.
Through the middle he worked in a few strokes of yellow grass. Grass with a little autumn still left in it.
Е̊n̈ǔm ӑ
[Put light on the tips of the grass.]
Lee Jun took the barest bit of Cadmium Yellow on his brush tip.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
He touched dots onto the grass tips. Just a few.
The grass tips gleamed. Like morning dew.
Lee Jun took a step back.
And looked over the canvas.
W̃ ë.bn̂ оv̄ el̃ Е n̊.ǔm̂.а
There was the sky.
A deep blue of dozens of layers. A sky glowing from within.
There were the clouds.
Thick paint. Clouds bright on top, dark beneath.
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There was the grass.
Grass bent by the wind. Grass with gleaming tips.
W еb̈nóv̊ е̄l̃ E n um̈ a
Two kinds of light coexisted on the canvas.
The sky shone from within. Glazing. Light rising up from between one layer and the next.
The clouds shone from without. Impasto. The thickness of the paint catching the light in the room and glittering.
The light within and the light without.
On one and the same canvas, the two lights were meeting.
[.......]
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
The Shadow was lost for words.
All of it, this child had made on his own.
The depth he'd learned from seeing Rothko at the Leeum.
The fundamentals he'd learned from Kim Yo-han.
The wind he'd watched at the park and painted.
The clouds he'd seen over the sea in Busan.
Ẽ n̆ŭ m̃ а̇ .id
All of it was in here.
[It's not finished yet.]
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The Shadow barely got the words out.
[The silhouette.]
Lee Jun nodded.
A fine brush. Ivory Black.
Ẁ e b nо̃ v̊ el E n̄úm̃ ā_
The bottom of the canvas. Above the grass.
He painted a small figure.
A person standing. A person with head tipped back, gazing up at the sky.
The form was simple. No detail.
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A black silhouette.
A person-shaped shadow looking up at the sky.
É nu̇ ṁa
He took Titanium White onto the fine brush.
He set two dots where the silhouette's face would be.
Small white dots. Eyes.
Two white eyes were looking up at the sky.
[.......]
Two white eyes on the canvas.
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Two white eyes beside Lee Jun.
They were the same eyes.
This painting had a shadow in it.
A shadow standing beneath Lee Jun's sky, gazing up at Lee Jun's sky.
No one would ever know.
Not the judges, not the viewers, not Kim Yo-han.
W е̂ b̀n о̃ ve_l̄ Еn ū m̀ä
No one knows who this black silhouette is.
Only Lee Jun knew.
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And only the Shadow.
A story no one would ever know was there inside this painting.
Lee Jun gazed quietly at the canvas.
This was still only the beginning.
Е n ú m а
He'd only blocked in the shapes of the clouds, nothing more. There was no detail.
The grass was still sparse, the silhouette still rough.
But the shape of the painting was beginning to show.
[That's enough for today. We have to wait for the clouds to dry.]
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Lee Jun nodded and set down his brush.
His arm ached. The arm of a five-year-old, with no muscle to it.
Е́ n̊ u m̂ а̀
The underpainting took only a few minutes, but today's work had run more than two hours. He hadn't rested once the whole time.
Worn out, Lee Jun sat down on the floor and looked up at the canvas.
The second stage of the painting.
Its first day was only just done.
*
He waited two days.
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The paint on the clouds had set a little.
He pressed it gently with a finger. Nothing came off.
Not fully dry, but dry enough to paint over.
[That'll do now. Let's lay it on.]
The third day.
He laid highlights onto the bright parts of the clouds.
Е́n_ù m̀ă
Titanium White, with a single drop of Cadmium Yellow.
A warm white. The crown of a cloud catching the sun.
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He dabbed it on with the tip of the brush, tap by tap.
Thick dabs settled onto the clouds.
The paint rose up. The brightest place was the thickest place.
When light hits it, this will be the first part to gleam.
Е̄nù ma
He refined the clouds' shadows too.
Over the violet he'd laid down at first, one more layer of Ultramarine.
The dark deepened. The undersides of the clouds grew heavier.
Clouds warm above and cool below.
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[Touch up the far clouds too.]
The third cloud, near the horizon.
Е̇n̆ ǔ mā . i d̃_
It was too sharp. A distant cloud should be hazy.
With a dry brush he rubbed gently at the edges. The boundary blurred.
Moisture in the air makes far things look hazy.
He hadn't learned it from theory; he'd seen it with his own eyes over the sea in Busan.
[Good. The grass next.]
The grass.
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The wind-struck grass from the first day.
But it lacked density.
Gaps showed between the blades. The blue of the underpainting peeked through.
Lee Jun filled in the grass with the fine brush.
One stroke at a time, delicately.
It wasn't all one green.
Wе b̈ ṅоv́ е l Е̃ ṅ ů mа
Up front, plenty of yellow worked into the Viridian, kept bright.
Behind, Burnt Sienna worked into the Viridian, kept dark.
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The field gained depth. Bright in front, dark behind.
[Should we put a few little flowers in among the grass?]
The Shadow asked.
Lee Jun thought about it. For a moment.
Е̃ n̆ um а̇
"No."
[Why not?]
"The sky's the main thing here. The grass can't be too pretty."
The Shadow laughed.
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[Good call.]
The center of the picture. Where to lead the eye.
Еnŭm̊ а̃. іḋ.
Lee Jun knew it by instinct.
In this painting, the sky is the lead. Everything else is there to support it.
The grass is the ground that lets the sky exist; the silhouette is the gaze that beholds the sky; the clouds are the sky's expression.
Dress the grass up too much, and the sky dies.
Lee Jun was a child who understood restraint.
Next.
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He looked at the silhouette again.
The black silhouette. A figure standing on the grass.
A figure with its head raised, gazing up at the sky.
Too big, and the figure becomes the lead.
Too small, and it vanishes.
The size it was now was just right.
Е̃n u m̄ȧ
Small on the grass, yet plainly visible.
He refined the outline. He cleaned up the rough parts with the fine brush.
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The line of the shoulders. The angle of the lifted head. The standing pose.
He added no detail. It was a silhouette, after all.
Only the two white eyes he left sharp and clear.
[Knowing when to stop, that's your strength.]
Еńů m а.ìd̄
The Shadow said.
[Holding back when you want to paint more. Taking out what needs to come out.
That's the hardest thing there is, and I didn't even have to tell you.]
And so that day's work came to a close.
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Day four. Day five. The painting got a little better each time.
And on the sixth day.
Еn ù m a. іd
He stepped back and took in the whole.
He backed away from the easel as far as he could go. All the way to the far wall of the room.
From there he looked at the canvas.
Sky. Clouds. Grass. Silhouette.
[Well?]
"The clouds are a little heavy."
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[Where?]
"The left. The left cloud's bigger than the right one, so the whole picture leans left."
Lee Jun brightened the highlight on the right-hand cloud a touch more.
The eye goes to the bright spots, after all. Brighten the right, and the balance comes back.
He stepped back and looked again.
"......That's it."
Wĕ b̃nо vе̌ l̃ E nǔm̂ ӓ
[The grass?]
"It's fine."
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[The silhouette too?]
Lee Jun looked at the silhouette.
A tiny shadow gazing up at the sky.
"......It's fine."
W̊e b̈ nȯ vе̊ ĺ Е̃ńu m а̀
[Then.]
The Shadow said.
[It's finished.]
Lee Jun came back up to the canvas.
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He looked at it up close.
The blue of the sky was glowing from within.
W e̊ b̄n о̇ ve l Ё n ù m̆а
A depth made of dozens of layers.
That same light Rothko had shown him at the Leeum.
The paint of the clouds was shining from without.
Thick white paint catching the light of the room and glittering.
That same light Van Gogh had shown him.
Two kinds of light, on a single canvas.
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The grass leaned in the wind. Its tips were gleaming.
The silhouette stood there. Small. Gazing up at the sky.
Its two white eyes were shining.
It was the painting Lee Jun had wanted to make.
It was Lee Jun's sky.
A deep, glowing, serene sky.
Еň ŭ ḿ ӑ . і d̆
With clouds drifting below it, grass swaying, a shadow gazing up.
Lee Jun sank down onto the floor.
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"......It's done."
he said, in a tired voice.
[Yes. It's done.]
The Shadow answered. As if proud of him.
É n̂ û mà
The room was quiet.
The hum of the air purifier running.
The sound of wind blowing outside the window.
Lee Jun looked up at the canvas.
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The Shadow looked up too.
He thought back to the time he'd seen Rothko's painting at the Leeum Museum.
E ńu m а
That painting, with its astonishing light pouring out of it.
A month and a half since then.
Every day, he laid down a layer.
Every day, he drew his lines.
Every day, he looked at the world.
All of it was held inside this canvas.
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Fifteen ho.
Lee Jun's first work.
'Sky.'
Not a copy of anything, but a painting that was his own from start to finish.
The first painting he would send out into the world under his own name.
[Jun.]
W eḃ ń оv̇ е̌l Ѐ n̆úm а.
"Mm."
[You really painted it well this time.]
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Lee Jun smiled.
For the first time, it was the face of a boy who'd painted something he was happy with.
[Should we show your aunt too?]
The Shadow asked, teasing.
Ẽn̆u m а
"Mm."
Lee Jun answered, smiling.
*****
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
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