What I learned from the teacher wasn’t technique so much as the very “gaze” you bring to drawing. Because the thrill of that time—when it felt like a new world had opened—and the pure immersion of it, that sense, still lingered faintly in my body, my guilt was °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° just as big. My eyes dropped on their own.
“Sorry.”
“Ihyeon, don’t. What would you be sorry for? I only asked how you’ve been lately. I put my brushes down a long time ago too, you know.”
As if it truly meant nothing, the teacher said it in a light tone and tipped back a bottle of water.
“That’s a shame. I liked your paintings.”
“I liked yours too.”
This time the teacher looked at me and smiled a little mischievously. I laughed along, awkward.
“You know how life is. Circumstances change, and people change with them. In my case I didn’t even quit under duress. I was just sick of everything and wanted to fling myself into a new situation. Somewhere new from one to ten. Once I started at the gallery it suited me, felt meaningful, so I settled in. I’m very satisfied now. Same as other arts fields, only a very talented few in painting get recognized as artists; the rest either break their backs rowing at the edge of art, or strut around on the pretense of ‘doing art’ for the mood... it’s easy to end up like that, right? Even if I had kept painting, I’d have been the kind of painter who funds a solo show with personal money and sells to acquaintances. No regrets.”
The teacher’s words had a light aftertaste. They were sincere.
But I couldn’t say I had no regrets or lingering attachment, couldn’t wrap it up that cleanly. So I shut my mouth and stared meaninglessly at the two pieces of sushi I’d left.
“The gallery I’m at is in a real growth spurt. The first few years we only suffered laying a foundation and had no results... so it was hard mentally, but now that it’s finally starting to move, it’s fun to death even if my body’s tired. It’s the same here: you row when the tide comes in. We’ve got three more exhibitions queued up, so I’ll be busy like this through the end of next month. I’m lucky I ran into you. Otherwise I’d just be stressed even after I got home.”
Maybe the thought alone was awful; the teacher ruffled the neatly cut hair into a mess.
“I’m not really doing anything.”
“Coming home to find everything cleared and in place. Everything where it belongs. That alone is more than enough.”
There was no need to cook or do laundry. I didn’t know how to cook anyway. My job was only tidying and cleaning. The apartment was spacious and there were many large and small objects and paintings, so it took some time, but there was nothing hard or complicated. If this level of effort was tangibly helping the teacher, I was glad.
“Once the exhibitions we’re pushing now are over, let’s actually sit and talk. I want to visit your place too. What Happened in Bali?”
In case someone tried to find us through the teacher, I had roughly explained our situation in advance.
“Yes, let’s definitely go together next time. It’s fun.”
We split the two pieces of sushi I’d left, one each, and stood up from the table.
“I’ll drop you off on my way into the gallery. Ride with me.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll clean this up and head out, so go on in. I can take the bus.”
Checking the time on a wristwatch, the teacher reached across the table and gently pinched my cheek.
“Let’s clean up together and take my car. You’ll barely make the bus anyway.”
Before I could refuse, one of the teacher’s two phones on the table started blaring.
“Sorry, that’s loud, right? I keep it high so I don’t miss anything important. Just a second.”
While the teacher turned slightly away and took the call, I hurried to clear the table. They were disposable containers, so it was easy.
“Yeah. Why. Artist Yun? ...Ha... why does that guy always fixate on useless stuff. Yuni, could you... no, wait, you’re on the display right now, aren’t you. Got it, I’ll call Artist Yun myself, so from now on ignore his calls and focus on the display.... Yeah, I’ll take responsibility.”
Even before I quit drawing, I didn’t know how the art world or the structure of galleries actually worked. But judging from the teacher’s routine, it didn’t seem like a gentle place.
From the sound of it, another problem had blown up at the gallery. I rinsed the lunch boxes, relieved at least that we’d finished eating.
“Ihyeon, what do we do? Something came up at the office—looks like I need to hurry back. I’m sorry, I said I’d drive you.”
“It’s okay. I’ve finished cleaning, and if I go now I can still catch the bus.”
Shaking off the water from the containers at the sink, I turned my head toward the teacher. As if by habit, one hand was planted on a hip, the other fiddled with an eyebrow while biting the lips; then the teacher’s eyes flicked to me. A faint hope showed on that face.
“You said you don’t have a moving-crew shift tomorrow, right?”
I nodded, awkward, holding the dried container. The teacher strode over and grabbed my wet hands.
“Ihyeon, please save me. No—save my team.”
■ ■ ■
Gallery Phantom.
The somewhat grandly named gallery sat halfway up the slope that climbed from the back of the hanok village toward Bugak Mountain. The grounds weren’t huge, but compared to the quaint little buildings around it, it was a fairly sizable two-story structure.
On the way here I’d heard the gist of the situation, and I’d been told the tasks they’d give me required no special know-how—simple work with nothing to worry about—but even as I followed the teacher through the imposing front gate, which gave off a cool, heavy impression, I wasn’t sure a total outsider like me could be any help.
“Just do what the staff tell you. I haven’t seen you for ten years, but judging from how you run my place, I know the answer. These are simple beginner-level chores anyone can do, so don’t worry. Okay?”
Past the entrance, through a small high-ceilinged hall and up the stairs to the second floor, the teacher gave my back a light pat.
It was a graceful staircase, broad and made of an ivory material so pale it was nearly white. It felt like you had to watch every step.
“Manager! Artist Yun is—”
“I’ll handle him now. And this. The present I brought.”
“......”
The teacher set me in front, placed both hands on my shoulders from behind, and nudged me forward a step. Faced with me at sudden close range, the person across from me only stared up in silence. They looked like they couldn’t place the situation. I wasn’t much better.
As soon as we stepped onto the second floor, several spaces divided by temporary walls appeared, and past corners that bent in different directions like a small maze, I caught glimpses of works hanging on walls.
The space was white to a pathological degree. Fine—the partition walls that held the paintings; but even the floor was the same pale ivory as the stairs. The tall structural ceiling floating above the partitions with a gap of air was the same.
Inside that white, the only person standing before me was entirely black.
Jet-black bob that looked dyed to be even darker on purpose, a blouse with puffed shoulders, and, at total odds with the blouse, track pants, slide sandals, and an over-large horn-rim frame. Everything was black.
From a natural posture I could see the crown of the head. Short and small-framed, yet the impression was intense. Even the eyes looking at me through the lenses had a clean black rim. A gaze without hostile or friendly filter—just as it was—asking what I was.
“This is the friend who’s been looking after my new place—the one I mentioned. I asked for help at the gallery just for today. He’s good at everything; he’ll be useful.”
The teacher answered her unspoken question. She shrugged and turned her eyes from me.
“Having one more person is better, I guess. Please go deal with Artist Yun quickly. My phone is about to explode.”
“Got it. I’ll go fix it right now. Where did Juhan go?”
“Down to pick up the works in Zone C.”
That was it. The black-haired woman went back to where she’d been working, and the teacher hurried out to resolve the trouble with Artist Yun. The teacher was probably overestimating my social skills.
She was snipping at a makeshift worktable and flicked me a glance, speaking fast.
“Sorry to ask the moment we meet, but I’m in a rush, so I’ll get right to it. Could you head to the basement and help move some works? Open that door and go down the stairs—you’ll find a stick of firewood grunting in the storage. Ask him and give him a hand.”
This wasn’t a moment to shuffle around acting shy. I did as told and opened the white door marked STAFF ONLY. Down a narrow stair, the storage sat right there in the basement.
A thick steel door with security hardware stood wide open, so I didn’t even have to search for the person she’d mentioned.
In a broad space saturated in white just like upstairs, I easily spotted a man dressed in black head to toe like her.
About my height or a little taller, skinny, with unusually long arms and legs, he was moving busily among arranged canvases with his back to me. The heavy, laced work boots—like something from a punk-rock band—were striking.
“Um...”
“Gah! Shit, you scared me!”
I thought I’d made plenty of noise coming down, but maybe he hadn’t heard, absorbed in work; even though I called gently, he started so hard he almost lost his footing.
He turned around, and his face was as distinctive as his outfit. Not easy to box into handsome or not—more a mask with a unique atmosphere. The bangs were cut perfectly straight at a stabbing length that made the look even more distinctive. A face you’d never forget after one glance.
The woman upstairs had two or three piercings in her face, if I’d seen right; this one wore even more. Both exposed ears were crowded with ring earrings like the coils of a spring notebook, and piercings decorated eyebrow, nose, and lips. A thin chain linking the ring that pierced the center of the lower lip to the eyebrow ring drew the eye.
Neither the woman upstairs nor the person in front of me looked like the “gallery staff” most people imagine. But the vibe they gave off was remarkably similar.
In the stark white space, the two of them radiated a crisp presence, as if someone had drawn a border around them with a marker.
He stopped working, planted his hands (still holding a file) on both hips, and looked at me, face a little grim. He was probably waiting for me to introduce myself.
“Manager Han sent me down. The staff upstairs told me to come help in the basement.”
“Ah... yeah? I thought... Our director keeps saying the basement is haunted, you know.”
Maybe he was embarrassed at how much he’d jumped; he toyed with the lip ring as he spoke.
“I’m pulling the pieces we need to bring upstairs. If I find something on the list, can you move it over here?”
Pointing to a group of works set aside near the entrance, he led the way into the inner aisles.
He checked the list and located the racks. Zones A-1, 2, 3... B-1, 2, 3... The areas were neatly divided, so finding the pieces wasn’t hard. It was a fight of time and labor.
He found a piece; I carried it to the entrance. Meanwhile he located the next one. And so on.
“By the way, what’s your deal with Manager Han? He wouldn’t have found someone off a night-shift app at this hour.”
We’d worked without small talk; while rechecking the stacked canvases, he tossed me his first personal question.
“I’m the housekeeper at the new place. He said the gallery was slammed and asked me to help.”
“Ah, the housekeeper he said he’d just hired...”
He looked at my face again, openly, and I nodded.
“Didn’t know you’d be this young. What’s your name? Even if it’s just one night, we should at least know names. I’m Gwon Juhan.”
“Seo Ihyeon.”
With him kneeling before a canvas and me holding a corner so it wouldn’t tip, we exchanged a very belated handshake.
“It’s just a one-night job, so let’s call each other Juhan and Ihyeon.”
I nodded again to agree.
He brushed off his knees and stood. Now we had to take the works upstairs. There were twenty-four in total, including some large pieces that looked at least size 120. They were works that would go on display and sale starting tomorrow. To handle them with care, we decided to carry everything together except the very small ones.
“I’m one thing, but you look just as flimsy as me.... These guys are heavy. You absolutely can’t drop them, so stay tight. Seriously. If you do, our director won’t let you live, Ihyeon.”
We took our positions on either side of the first canvas. Maybe picturing the scolding from the director if anything happened, Juhan tossed the warning at me and gave his own shoulders a little shiver.
He took the lead up the stairs and I followed carefully behind. The exhibition floor was on two; from the basement that made for a lot of steps. On the landing between first and second, Juhan signaled for a brief stop.
“Do you... work out? You’re stronger than you look... n-not bad.”
“I do moving-crew shifts.”
His gaze scanned me again, as if to find traces of hard physical work.
From the outside our builds weren’t so different, but hauling loads up and down stairs was something I did almost daily now. It wouldn’t be strange if I’d picked up some knack.
“If it’s heavy, should I take the upper side next time? Walking backward looks harder for you.”
