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Chapter 7: Real Paintings
TL: Enuma ID
“The deadline's doooone!”
So-young came out, flinging the studio door open.
It was the face of someone who'd pulled three all-nighters in a row. The shadows under her eyes were dark, and her hair looked like a bird's nest.
Lee Jun was sitting in front of a canvas in the bedroom.
Еn̄ûm̊ а.
This is the second canvas.
The first canvas, ‘The Starry Night,’ stood propped against the wall.
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The paint is still drying. The swirls are hardening.
On the second canvas, Lee Jun was taking on Water Lilies.
Rendering the light on the water in oil paint. It was nothing like pastel.
He was struggling. The problem was that the paints kept mixing and turning muddy.
Е̇nu m̂ a
[That's because you're putting paint on top before the underpainting dries. I keep telling you, you have to wait.]
The Shadow nagged.
He wants to paint it fast. That eagerness got the better of him, and he'd touched his brush to it before it had dried.
A five-year-old's patience wasn't a particularly admirable thing.
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“Jun! I'm done with my deadline, so today you and Auntie are gonna play!”
So-young came into Lee Jun's room.
Е̇n̈u̇ m̌ a .іd̀
Her eyes went wide at the sight of the two canvases.
“You painted these in just two days?”
Lee Jun nodded. He didn't set down the brush.
“Jun. Today Auntie's taking you somewhere good.”
“.......”
“A museum. A real museum.”
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Lee Jun's brush stopped.
“...Are there real paintings?”
“There are. Real paintings, painted by real artists with real paint.”
[Real?! Not knockoffs like at BEXCO?!]
The Shadow leaped up.
Lee Jun looked at So-young.
Èň ūmа́
“Not fakes?”
“No. Originals. Auntie looked into it, and apparently there are a lot of original oil paintings.”
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
The place So-young meant was the Sehan Museum.
A mid-size private museum in Hannam-dong. A place that held modern and contemporary Korean art along with some Western works.
So-young had been there once herself, for webtoon research.
Lee Jun set down his brush.
Ẇе b̃ṅó vеl̀ Èn̆.u_m а̄
The Water Lilies on the canvas was still wet.
It's fine. Oil paint doesn't dry quickly. He can come back and pick it up again.
[Whenever you go out, always bring your Conté and sketchbook.]
Lee Jun put the sketchbook and Conté into his bag.
Baca cerita ini hanya di situs resmi Enuma.id!
He'd have done it without being told. It was a habit the Shadow's nagging had built.
“Then let's go!”
Ẽṅ u m а
The Sehan Museum stood at the end of a hill road in Hannam-dong.
It was a three-story building of concrete and glass. Not large.
As they stepped through the entrance, the air felt quiet and cool.
The walls were white. The ceiling was high.
The lighting struck the walls precisely, as if it had been designed for the paintings and nothing else.
It was nothing like the immersive exhibition at BEXCO.
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No music, no video, no light projected onto the floor.
There were only paintings on the walls. That was all.
Just that, and yet.
Lee Jun stopped in front of the first painting.
It was an oil painting by a Korean artist. A landscape painting.
Just over a meter across.
Е̇.ṅŭ m а̌ . їd
Mountains and fields. An autumn scene. Red leaves hung from the trees.
Lee Jun stepped up close to the painting.
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Close enough that the tip of his nose nearly touched it.
[Hey, get too close and the staff'll yell at you.]
The Shadow said it, but Lee Jun wasn't listening.
The Shadow shook its head side to side as if there was nothing to be done.
Ě n uḿа. і d
He saw the painting.
The paint sat on top of the canvas.
Raised up off the surface.
Not ink on paper, but paint piled up on canvas.
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He could see the brushstrokes.
The track the brush had traveled, following the direction of the branches.
Е ňu m̂ а̌
On each single leaf, the mark where the brush had pressed down and turned away.
Where the paint was thick, it caught the light and cast tiny shadows.
Lee Jun held his breath.
What he himself had done on a canvas a few days ago. Laying paint down, leaving brushstrokes, building up thickness.
Here in front of him was the work of someone who'd been doing it for decades.
It was on another level.
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Lee Jun's Starry Night had bumpy, uneven paint, sure, but it was clumsy.
In this painting, the very thickness of the paint carried meaning.
The thick places were where light fell. The thin places were shadow.
It was creating light and shadow through the thickness of the paint.
[......Magnificent.]
The Shadow said quietly.
Е̌.n u m̄ а
This time it didn't grumble ‘knockoff,’ either. Because this time it was the real thing.
Lee Jun walked to the next painting.
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And the next painting.
And the next painting.
With every artist's oil painting he looked at, the brushstrokes were different.
One artist had painted in a single pass with a broad, rough brush.
Е n ŭ m̄à. і́d̆
One artist had layered dozens of coats with a fine brush.
One artist had scraped the paint with a palette knife to build texture.
Same oil paint, and yet every one of them was different.
[This one held the brush upright and dabbed it on. That one laid it flat and dragged it.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
This one used so little paint the weave of the canvas shows through. That one built it up so thick the weave's completely covered.]
The Shadow explained each one.
Е n uḿа
This time its voice was confident. When it came to oil painting, it was self-assured.
The Shadow, which sometimes stumbled with other media, never once faltered in front of oil paintings.
Lee Jun went up to the second floor.
A few Western works hung there.
They were artists whose names he didn't know, but oil paint was oil paint.
Lee Jun came to a stop in front of one of them.
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It was an abstract painting.
It had no form. A mass of color.
Red and orange filled the canvas.
The boundaries were blurred. The colors had bled into one another as if soaking through.
[This is.......]
Even the Shadow, which hadn't faltered once on oil paintings, faltered for the first time.
Е̇nu mа
[It's painted with nothing but color. There's no object. The color itself is the painting.]
Lee Jun didn't understand.
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Until now, a painting had meant depicting something.
Swirls, stars, a village, water lilies, an alley, an aquarium.
This one depicted nothing at all.
But.
Е nû m̃а
Standing before it, he felt something.
It was warm. The color was warm.
It was as if the red were glowing from within.
Lee Jun stood there for a long while.
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He didn't understand it, but he didn't dislike it.
“......Is this a painting too?”
Еn̂ û m a
Lee Jun asked So-young.
“Yeah. It's an abstract painting. It's not about depicting something; the color and the form themselves are the painting.”
Lee Jun looked at the painting again.
The color itself, the painting.
He still didn't understand it. But somewhere in his head, it took root.
Up on the third floor, a special exhibition of contemporary Korean art was underway.
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Lee Jun went from room to room, looking at the paintings.
Beside him, the Shadow analyzed without pause.
[This is acrylic. Not oil. You can tell from how fast it dries.
That one's oil, but with a lot of medium mixed in. The surface is smooth.
This one...... what is it? Something's stuck on top of the paint. That's what they call collage.]
Lee Jun walked around with his mouth hanging open.
Wеb nоv̌е l Enūṁ ä
Each painting was a different world.
When he stepped into one of the rooms.
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Someone was already in that room.
A girl. A girl a whole head taller than Lee Jun.
A neatly tied ponytail. Tidy clothes. She wore a bag on her back with a small sketchbook inside.
The girl was standing in front of a Korean painting on the wall.
Е̊ nŭ m̂ â . іd
An ink landscape painting. Mountains and a river rendered in ink and light color wash.
Lee Jun walked up to the painting too. Naturally.
He could see the ink's tonal gradation. Dark ink and pale ink. It's all controlled by the amount of water.
It was like watercolor, but different. The way the ink soaked into the paper was different from watercolor paint.
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[This is Korean painting. You paint on rice paper using a material called ink.
It's completely different from Western painting. Since it's ink and not paint, there's almost no color except black.
Wе b̆ ñ ǒ_ṽ еl Ѐ n̈ ũ m̀ а̊
Instead, the ink's tonal gradation...... uh, this isn't really my field.]
The Shadow trailed off. Korean painting clearly isn't its strong suit.
“Hmph.”
A sound came from beside him.
The girl was scoffing.
Lee Jun turned his head.
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The girl was looking at Lee Jun. More precisely, at the painting behind him.
“Korean paintings are second-rate.”
Her voice was clear. Full of confidence.
“My dad says Korean art is a hundred years behind the West.
The techniques are simple, there's less color, and the expression is limited, he says.”
Lee Jun looked at the girl.
Ẇ е̃ b̈n̆ оv̊е̇l̈ Е́ ñ ũ m̄ а̇.
The girl was more than a head taller than Lee Jun.
Her eyes were big and clear. Eyes certain of every word she spoke.
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“Tacky, right? Nothing compared to what's in European museums.”
Lee Jun didn't answer.
He looked at the Korean painting again.
The ink's tonal gradation. The place where the mountain's outline faded softly away.
Ĕn uṁа̌ . і d
The negative space, like mist spreading over the river.
Lee Jun liked that negative space.
A place where nothing was painted. And yet it isn't empty. It isn't nothing.
It was a different approach from the abstract painting he'd seen on the second floor, but in this much they were the same: the unpainted places held meaning.
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“You think so too, right?”
The girl sought his agreement. As if it were obvious.
W ě b̌.ň ó v̌е̌ľ Е̄ n.ū m̀а̂
“No.”
Lee Jun said. Curtly.
The girl faltered.
“No?”
“This painting's cool.”
Lee Jun said it while looking at the Korean painting.
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He didn't look at the girl.
“It's painted in one go with a brush. Powerfully.
And this empty part here. The part where nothing's painted. I like that too.”
[Right! This is negative space. In Eastern painting, negative space isn't empty.
It might be mist, it might be sky, it might be water.
The viewer fills it in. Huh, where did I learn this?]
Ẃ е̄ b̂ṅӧv_е l̆ Е̄ǹ ǔ mа̄
The Shadow, too, was startled by its own words.
The girl stared at Lee Jun intently.
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“How old are you?”
“Five.”
“A five-year-old, and you even know what negative space is?”
“I don't know. But I like it.”
E ňǔm а̃
The girl looked at Lee Jun for a long while.
He was a strange little kid.
For a five-year-old, his eyes were strange.
The way his eyes moved when he looked at a painting was different from other kids. But it wasn't like adults either.
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Somehow it felt like meeting a creature she'd never seen before. Like an alien that just happened to look human.
“...I'm Yu Ha-na. Fourth grade. This is my mom's museum. My mom's the director here.”
Ŵе̇ b̃ñо̀vе l Е̄ n̈ u m̈а̂
Lee Jun nodded.
He wasn't very interested. The paintings were more important.
“You?”
“Lee Jun.”
“Lee Jun. Five-year-old Lee Jun?”
Ha-na looked Lee Jun up and down.
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The paint on his hands hadn't all come off. His clothes carried a faint smell of oil paint.
“You paint?”
Lee Jun nodded.
“With what?”
“Oils, right now.”
Ha-na's brow furrowed.
Ѐ n̈ ū ma
“A five-year-old, oil painting?”
“Yeah. Haven't been doing it long.”
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Ha-na thought for a moment, then pulled a sketchbook from her bag.
She quickly drew something in pencil.
A still life.
She'd drawn the exhibition brochure and ballpoint pen lying beside her.
Е̇nú_m̆a_
The lines were precise. The proportions were right. The chiaroscuro was natural.
It was a level hard to believe came from a ten-year-old.
She finished it in under three minutes.
She held the sketchbook out in front of Lee Jun.
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“I can draw this well. You?”
[Oh, not bad.]
Е̌ n̈ umà
The Shadow nodded its head, conceding the point.
Lee Jun looked at Ha-na's sketch.
It was well drawn. Precise. The fundamentals were solid.
Lee Jun pulled his own sketchbook from his bag.
And took out a Conté.
Pierre Noire.
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A black, soft stick.
He looked at Ha-na.
[......!]
The Shadow caught its breath.
And then it changed.
It wasn't the usual playful Shadow.
Е n̆ũm̀ a. іd
Nor was it the desperation from the first time he touched oil paint.
It was calm. Still. And full of certainty.
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[Look at her face.]
Lee Jun looked at Ha-na's face.
[The line from the jaw to the shoulder. Draw it in one stroke.]
Lee Jun's hand moved.
Еn u m а̀ . ї d
The Conté glided across the paper.
A soft, dark line was left behind. A line with weight, unlike pencil.
[Eyes later. First the outline of the face. An oval. Long.
The nose in one line. From the brow to the tip of the nose, don't break it.]
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His hand sped up.
There was no telling whether it was Lee Jun's will or the Shadow's.
Е̌ń_u m a . і́.d
The Conté was dancing across the paper.
Jawline. Neck. Shoulders.
The flow of the ponytail.
Eyes. Big, clear eyes. Eyes full of confidence.
[The light's coming from the left. Leave the left cheek bright.
On the right, lay the Conté flat and rub. That becomes shadow.]
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Lee Jun laid the Conté flat and rubbed.
Soft black powder soaked into the paper.
A soft shadow settled over Ha-na's right cheek.
Thirty seconds.
Maybe a minute.
Lee Jun set the Conté down.
Wеb̂ ň о̇ vѐ l Е̂ ń um̆ а̃
Ha-na was there in the sketchbook.
It wasn't a photographically precise face.
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The neck was a touch too long. The outline was simplified.
But Yu Ha-na was there.
Big, clear eyes. Proud shoulders. Confidence.
With just a few lines, the girl's whole air had been captured.
Еn u̇ m â
The Conté's soft, dark lines expressed Yu Ha-na.
Each line had rhythm. Smooth, unbroken curves.
There was light. Light from the left fell across Ha-na's face.
The contrast between the bright side left undrawn and the dark side rubbed in.
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Ha-na was lost for words.
Her own sketch was precise. The proportions were right. The chiaroscuro was natural.
Еn̄ ů mа .і̆ d
Textbook perfect.
This little kid's sketch was crooked.
The proportions weren't accurate. The neck was too long.
The nose was just one line. Anatomically wrong.
And yet.
The figure was alive.
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Ha-na's still-life sketch had objects in it.
Lee Jun's figure sketch had a person in it.
A person named Yu Ha-na.
“......This.”
Ha-na's throat tightened.
Lee Jun didn't answer.
Е̊n̂ ům а̌
He was gazing quietly down at the sketch he'd drawn.
[.......]
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The Shadow couldn't say a word.
It was trembling.
This was it.
Drawing a person with Conté.
W еb̂ǹov̆ е̄l Е̄ǹu m a
Looking at the person in front of him, capturing that person's essence in line.
It was the first portrait this little artist had ever drawn.
The Shadow couldn't stop trembling.
Ha-na couldn't take her eyes off the sketch.
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Her own face was there.
She was there.
W ёb̈n ö v̄еl̄ Е̇ nũmа̌
With just a few lines.
“This...... this is me?”
Lee Jun nodded.
“Light comes from the left. So the right side's dark.”
It was a flat, matter-of-fact explanation.
As if it were nothing.
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Ha-na's eyes reddened.
The still-life sketch she'd drawn in three minutes. Precise and clean.
Her own face, drawn by this little kid in thirty seconds. Crooked, but alive.
She could see the difference.
The techniques she'd learned from her dad. The skill that had swept up prizes at competitions. The certainty that she was the best.
Something other than all of that was in this sketch.
Ẁе̃ḃ ǹo v̂е̇ l̂ Е̊ num̂ӓ
“I can too! I can draw this well too, you know?!”
Ha-na shrieked.
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Her voice cracked.
“If I drew it properly I could draw like this too! This is just a sloppy scribble! The proportions are even wrong!”
Lee Jun looked at Ha-na.
Tears were welling up in Ha-na's eyes.
Е̊ ǹ ü mȧ. і d
“Why's the neck so long?! This is wrong! It's anatomically wrong!”
Ha-na spun around and ran out.
Kicking the exhibition-room door open.
Her footsteps echoed down the hall and faded away.
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Lee Jun looked at the door Ha-na had vanished through, then back down at the sketch.
The neck is long. It's true. It's long.
Е n um̃а̀ .і d̀
Even Lee Jun didn't know why he'd drawn it that way.
He'd just drawn however his hand led him.
[.......]
The Shadow was still trembling.
It couldn't say a word.
Two white eyes were looking at the sketch.
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The Conté's soft lines. The long neck. The simplified outline.
The nose drawn in one stroke. The unbroken curves.
It felt as if it had drawn it itself.
Borrowing Lee Jun's hand.
The Shadow's trembling wouldn't stop.
“Jun, there you are. Auntie was looking for you.”
Е̇ n ú ḿа .і̄ d́
So-young appeared belatedly.
“I was looking at the paintings.”
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So-young sat down beside Lee Jun and looked at the sketchbook.
“What's this? Who'd you draw?”
“The older girl I met earlier.”
So-young peered at the sketch.
Ӗnu ḿ а̃
A figure sketch in Conté.
A few lines. Soft curves. Light and shadow.
So-young's eyes widened.
“Did...... did you draw this, Jun?”
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Lee Jun nodded.
So-young was lost for words.
W е b̊ n̆о̆ v̂.ël_ Ѐn̊u m̄ а̄
It was the first time the boy had drawn a figure.
She'd seen landscapes, swirls, an aquarium, an alley, but a person was a first.
And yet there was something in this sketch.
As someone who drew for a living, So-young could tell.
Drawing a person to look like them and drawing a person so they're alive are two different things.
This sketch was the latter.
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“Excuse me.”
A voice came from behind.
She turned to find a woman standing there.
A neat suit. A name tag. ‘Sehan Museum Director Yu Seo-jin.’
The director was looking at Lee Jun's sketchbook.
She'd seen her daughter run out crying earlier and had followed after her.
Ẇе̄bṅ ȯ v е̃ l Е́n̊ü m̄а̇
Instead of her daughter, it was this little kid's sketchbook that caught her eye.
“Did this child draw this?”
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So-young nodded.
The director looked at the sketch. A professional's eye.
The Conté lines. The simplified forms. The handling of light.
The fundamentals weren't orthodox. This hadn't been learned at an academy.
Ӗ ǹŭ m а̂ .і̄ d
But the lines had life in them. That wasn't something an academy could teach.
“How old is he?”
“Five.”
The director's expression changed.
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She studied the sketch for a long moment, then asked So-young.
“Is he receiving any art education?”
Е̂n̊ûm а̄
“No, not yet. We've only just come to Seoul.......”
The director took a business card from her pocket.
“Leave me your contact information before you go. If you're thinking of having him taught professionally.
I may be able to help.”
So-young took the card.
Lee Jun was already walking to the next painting.
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Drawing right up close to an original oil painting, nearly burying his nose in it.
He was reading the thickness of the paint, the direction of the brushstrokes, the order in which the colors had been layered.
[This one did three underpaintings. First an ochre, then an olive, and the third time they laid this green on top.]
The Shadow was explaining.
The earlier trembling had subsided, but a trace of it lingered in its voice.
Lee Jun was nodding, soaking up the new information.
W̌е b̊ n̈ о̆ v̆е̂l Е ǹu mӑ
So-young watched Lee Jun from a distance.
The card still in her hand.
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This boy needed a place like this.
A place with real paintings.
Even to a professional like a museum director, Jun's talent was something special.
He needed someone who could teach him properly.
Ẇе b ňo.v̇ѐ ĺ Е n_ů m ӑ
Even as she looked at the museum director's card, So-young was thinking of someone else.
That professor she'd seen at a guest lecture in her university days.
It seemed the time had come to get in touch.
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