Chapter 35 (1) - The Mysterious Art Museum
Three years as a street portrait painter.
I started this thinking that all painting was the same, but this job didnt improve my skills even a bit.
However, it's not without its benefits. Being a street artist taught me the art of conversation more than skill.
It's similar to how a hairstylist, under the guise of service, asks about a customer's personal life and forcibly creates a connection for conversation.
At least in a salon, you can watch your hair change in the mirror. But with a portrait, you just stare blankly ahead until it's finished, which is more tedious for the customer.
The most important thing for a street painter is being observant.
You need to figure out if the customer likes to chat and joke, prefers serious conversations, or dislikes talking altogether.
With three years of experience, I can somewhat read people. Not like a fortune teller who knows immediately upon seeing a face, but after a few words, I get a vague idea.
There are various ways to initiate conversation.
The first question is crucial.
It determines how smoothly the conversation will flow.
The first question should always allow the other person to answer freely.
Complex questions yield simple answers. For instance, when asking about a memory of an accident.
Asking, Were you scared when the accident happened? prompts the person to respond to the most intense word in my question: fear. Their answer will be a simple yes or no, making it hard to continue the conversation.
In such cases, its better to ask, How did you feel when the accident happened? or What was it like?
Such questions make the person think for a moment and then give a more interesting response. However, directly asking about the moment of the accident is rude, so I need to steer the conversation around other topics first.
Since I dont know what common ground we might have, I plan to start with my story and go with the flow based on their reaction.
Pretending to sketch, I scribbled aimlessly and said,
When I was young, my father worked on a deep-sea fishing boat. He brought back many interesting things. The most memorable was a pencil.
A Pencil.
It's the simplest object in the world, yet it represents the infinite possibilities of a child's future. I bring up this story to pique the listener's curiosity.
Sure enough, the lady asks, intrigued by the mention of the pencil.
A pencil?
Her reaction isnt one of disinterest. Its more like shes halfway engaged.
Yes, I don't know where he bought it, but it was a very fancy pencil. My school friends would see it and beg their parents to buy them one too. Haha, of course, nobody could get one since it was from abroad. Nowadays, you can buy almost anything online, even if it's from overseas, but it wasn't like that back then.
Mrs. Kang slightly nods her head.
However, this conversation doesnt seem to interest her much.
Sensing her attention drifting away, I quickly add another detail.
When I was young, I used to draw everywhere and often fell asleep doing so, which led to me losing pencils frequently. I was so afraid of losing the fancy pencil my dad bought that I never dared to take it outside. Then, one day, my father showed me a great way to keep it safe.
Her wandering gaze halts.
What way?
I smile, loosen my tie, and reveal a string necklace around my neck.
He attached the pencil to the end of this necklace.
Surprise flickers across Mrs. Kang's face.
That string?
Yes, my father tied it for me when I was a child.
She falls silent. But it's okay. Her eyes are fixed on the string necklace. The conversation hasnt ended yet.
After a moment, Mrs. Kang asks,
How old were you when he gave it to you?
About twelve, I reply.
A young man in his late twenties still wearing a string necklace his parents gave him at the age of 12.
Its not a common story. And its one that naturally arouses curiosity.
This is only the second time Ive shared this story with someone.
The first was in college, drunkenly confiding in Youngju.
Of course, it's a painful memory for me, but when having such conversations, it's important not to show too much pain. Otherwise, the other person might feel they have offended me and shut down. If a question comes, I just need to smile faintly, as if it's a distant pain now.
Pretending to sketch, I wait for questions like a crocodile stalking its prey.
I've run through countless scenarios for possible questions. But something unexpected happens. Mrs. Kang leaps ahead in the conversation, surprising me.
"Your father passed away early."
How did she know? From the mere fact that I'm still wearing a necklace my father made when I was a child?
She's no ordinary wealthy matron. I thought she led a sheltered life, perhaps tending a garden at home. But she's sharper than I thought.
I almost miss my cue to respond, but I catch myself and smile.
"Yes."
"During a fishing trip?"
"Yes, he didn't return after giving me the necklace."
She's jumped ahead in the conversation, but it's still a question.
I tuck the necklace back inside my shirt and say,
"I promised my dad I'd become a great painter."
Mrs. Kang's expression softens.
Your father must be proud of you, becoming an artist.
Ah, Im still too embarrassed to call myself an artist. Ive been a street artist until recently when I managed to finish a decent job.
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