The second week of the workshop turned out to be more fulfilling than I expected.
We visited various locations and received guided tours.
Of course, on the first day at the publishing company, I wandered off on my own for a bit, but I eventually rejoined and followed Tachibana, the guide, to learn about the comic publishing process.
From the next day, I participated in every session without skipping anything, visiting places like publishing companies, broadcasting stations, and craft complexes.
And today.
The last place we were visiting was the museum.
“Are they trying to broaden the participants’ perspectives as much as possible and then bring us back to the fundamentals? Whoever designed this schedule really put a lot of thought into it. It must have cost a fortune, too.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if a program like this in my previous life would have expanded my small world a bit more.
“Well… thinking about it now is pointless.”
We entered a clean, gray stone building.
The Tokyo National Museum of Modern Art was exceptionally quiet.
That didn’t mean there were few people, there were plenty of visitors, including our group.
However, the unique layout and wall materials of the museum absorbed most of the sound, creating an almost serene atmosphere.
To view the exhibition being held here, the hundreds of workshop participants who had been scattered throughout the week were now gathered in one place.
Over the workshop, they had formed their own groups and were now moving together in small clusters.
“In our group, it seems like Mizawa, Goto, Chai, and Yamada are the ones who got closer…”
I glanced ahead.
There, Mizawa and Goto were chatting cheerfully.
“—!”
“—”
Watching Mizawa repeatedly reject Goto’s suggestions while Goto struggled to keep up made me feel sorry for them.
I ended up pairing them together at some point, and since then, they had been getting along surprisingly well, chatting in Japanese.
“…”
“…”
Next to them, Chai and Yamada were quietly viewing the artworks. It seemed that after being completely rejected by Goto, Chai had been taken under Yamada’s wing.
“Well, Yamada probably just sticks with Chai because Chai is the only one who understands what he says.”
“…”
As I looked away from my group, a white banner with Japanese and English writing caught my eye.
“The Birth of Western Modernism: An Impressionism Exhibition.”
This museum itself was like a living textbook.
Inside were paintings that, in Korea, would take months of effort just to borrow for an exhibit. Here, they were displayed as if it were the most natural thing.
While some were replicas, most were pieces owned by Japanese museums.
It was like seeing the results of throwing cash directly at a barren land.
“Is this the audacity of a country that went through the bubble economy? Well, soon enough, China might grow explosively and display similar bravado…”
I glanced to my side.
Naturally, the only one left standing nearby was the bespectacled Chinese student, Chen Haolun.
“…Chen, aren’t you going to hang out with the others?”
“…”
It was the kind of question that Chai would get glared at for asking.
Surprisingly, though, Chen answered me calmly.
“I didn’t come here to play. Before I return to my homeland, I want to see and learn as much as possible. That’s the greatest respect I can show to the people who organized this program.”
“The intention of fostering teamwork?”
“The world is already full of all kinds of people. When I go back, I’ll experience that to the point of exhaustion. For now, I just want to learn what I need here.”
Though lacking in romantic ideals, his words were undeniably relatable.
“I see.”
“…Actually, you’re the odd one here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re still young. You’re allowed to just have fun. There’s no need to hang around with a dull person like me. And I’m not particularly lonely, either.”
He seemed entirely indifferent to whether someone was by his side or not. That detached attitude felt strangely comforting.
“In the evenings, I hang out a lot with the group from Korea at the accommodations anyway. Besides, I don’t think you’re dull at all.”
“…Hmph.”
Chen pushed up his glasses with a decisive motion and fell silent.
Unfortunately, his name wasn’t among the future knowledge I had. Perhaps he was someone making strides in a world beyond my limited scope.
“Most people seem intimidated by Chen’s overwhelming knowledge, but…”
I actually found his presence refreshing. Despite being a high schooler, his breadth of knowledge often left me in awe.
“Maybe he could even understand Mari’s ideas?”
And so, Chen and I naturally stuck together.
“….”
“….”
We saw countless paintings as we wandered through the museum.
Sometimes we paused to uncover hidden elements in the artwork. Other times, we shared historical tidbits the other didn’t know, savoring the works of artists who were deeply engrossed in light and color.
Eventually, we reached a painting by the Impressionist artist Manet, and it was just the two of us left standing in front of it.
“…”
“…”
Suddenly, Chen spoke.
“This painting isn’t here, but…”
“?”
“Manet’s A Bar at the Folies-Bergère received criticism for its impossible mirror reflection. People mocked him, calling him ‘an artist who doesn’t even understand the basics of art’ and labeling him ‘a lewd painter obsessed with prostitutes.’”
“Really?”
“But a few years ago, an Australian art scholar conducted precise experiments using cameras and mirror placements. They proved that the painting actually features highly detailed and accurate one-point perspective. For over a century, the public ridiculed a genius with shallow, clumsy knowledge.”
“I see…”
“That’s not all. When Manet painted Olympia, a nude portrait of a prostitute, critics latched onto it, calling it vulgar and accusing him of portraying a base servant alongside a disgraceful subject. Manet was even nearly attacked on the street. But the truth is, ‘Olympia’ wasn’t a real prostitute, it was just a fictional figure, and the model had agreed to pose for the painting. She wasn’t a prostitute at all.”
“…”
“Criticizing a prostitute who doesn’t even exist… Isn’t that funny? Not even considering the meaning of the work, just condemning it because it makes them uncomfortable.”
“…”
Chen pursed his lips crookedly as he looked at Manet’s painting.
“In the end… it means that the public living in the present can’t recognize a masterpiece. And masterpieces always end up being acknowledged. Only after those who criticized them have turned into skeletons and are buried beneath the ground.”
“……I see.”
“I want to paint such masterpieces. Even if those who mocked me or couldn’t understand me all turn into skeletons and disappear… I want to survive, proudly shining in some corner of an art museum.”
“…”
“Because that is the true duty of a genius.”
“…”
“And I want to become such a genius artist.”
“…”
I couldn’t fully agree with his opinion, but I could understand it. There was pain embedded in the anecdote he spoke of.
The quiet narration of art history in the still museum felt like a glimpse into Chen’s life. He turned to look at me and asked,
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“You are someone infinitely close to what the world calls a ‘genius.’ You deny it, but at a young age, you’ve already shaken countless hearts with a single work. Without even trying to stand out, you somehow end up being the center of attention. At least, that’s what I’ve thought while observing you over the past two weeks.”
“…”
“So, as the only person who denies their genius in this world, what kind of art do you want to create?”
“…I.”
For some reason, when I saw the glimmer in his eyes behind his glasses… I couldn’t answer immediately. No, I hesitated.
‘I’m… a genius…’
No. That wasn’t it.
…Such an answer would have been an insult.
“…”
What I needed to tell this earnest artist wasn’t some trivial excuse about the foolish regression cheat I possessed.
At this moment, I needed to articulate what I truly wanted to do as an artist.
To gather my thoughts, I paced around the room. Chen stood still, silently watching me, without pressuring for a response.
‘What I want to do…’
In the middle of the quiet museum, I organized my thoughts. In my mind, countless masterpieces flashed past.
“…!”
The moment my steps stopped, a Van Gogh painting appeared before me.
It was a landscape with a dusky sky bathed in twilight.
Mari’s innocent voice brushed through my memories.
“You’re like Van Gogh, Hana.”
“…”
It was true, my life was similar to Van Gogh’s. Of course, comparing myself to such a genius felt presumptuous, but the trajectory of my life mirrored his in some ways:
A failed artist.
An unappreciative public.
A life dependent on my uncle.
Paintings recognized only after death.
Death…
Death…?
“…”
At that moment, my steps halted. Had Mari ever spoken to me in such a pessimistic way?
No. To begin with…
‘Did Van Gogh… truly fail in his lifetime?’
No.
Van Gogh nurtured countless artists through his uncle’s gallery, amassed works from famous painters, and lived a period of abundant happiness. Even during the tragic years at the end of his life, there were people who appreciated his art. While he wasn’t fully acknowledged to the extent of his genius, there were certainly those who saw his worth.
Van Gogh’s life wasn’t purely tragic.
I had only picked out the tragic pieces of his story to empathize with.
“…”
And the same applied to myself.
Oh Yujin, the artist.
Mr. Kim, the gallery owner.
Palgon.
And my late uncle…
—“Artist Go Hun!”
—“Mr. Go!”
—“Hun, you’ll definitely succeed.”
“…”
I, too, had moments of happiness in my past life.
And even now, there is happiness in my present.
Witnessing their joy,
Experiencing happiness through them…
Suddenly, the memory of my first day at the workshop resurfaced, the moment I made my presentation.
—“Do you exist?”
At last, I realized: I exist.
Right here, in this very moment.
The answer became clear. Ironically…
The words I had spoken to the audience on the first day held the answer to the question posed on the last.
“…Hah.”
I looked at Chen and opened my mouth to speak.
“I mean, you know…”
On the final day of the workshop, Chen boarded a plane and returned to his home country without participating in the exchange exhibition. At Beijing International Airport, a vehicle was already waiting to pick him up.
“Welcome back, young master.”
“…”
Without a word, Chen placed his travel bag down and got into the vehicle. The car sped through the Beijing nightscape under the dim sky, heading toward the mansion where he lived. Inside the vehicle, Chen closed his eyes.
A conversation with a young woman came to his mind.
— I want to create art in order to exist.
— Exist?
— I want to be someone who resonates, who creates ripples through clashing emotions… and leaves a lasting impression. Even if people don’t recognize me immediately, I want to be the kind of artist they one day recall and smile about.
Chen couldn’t respond to her words. He couldn’t refute them, not even at the end. The eloquence that had silenced many clumsy professors and scholars failed him.
But he didn’t feel bad about it. It was the kind of feeling a student might have after receiving a clear and definitive answer from their teacher.
He began to admire her.
Before long, the car passed through the heart of Beijing and arrived at the mansion. Greeted by a crowd of polite servants bowing in unison, Chen made his way to his father’s study. Inside, his father was chatting with his aunt, who was involved in the art business in the United States.
“I’m back, Father.”
“Welcome home. Did you enjoy your time in Japan?”
“…”
Enjoy?
Hmm…
Could such a trivial word capture what he felt?
Behind his father, who tilted his head curiously, his aunt’s sharp eyes glinted.
“What did you see, Haorun?”
“…”
Of course.
Sharp as an eagle. That piercing gaze belonged to someone who had successfully launched a new art business in New York through art auctions.
Chen answered her.
“I saw a genius.”
“!”
“!”
It was hard to believe Chen, who had rarely offered positive evaluations of others since entering the Beijing Art Academy, had uttered those words. That’s why his aunt smiled and said,
“Well now… how interesting.”
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