Reborn as Van Gogh – Chapter 8
3. Genius (1)
After visiting the WH Learning Art Museum, I became completely captivated by Korean painting.
I had spent the entire day just touring the ancient art exhibit, unable to explore anything else, but even so, I’m now happy just to study Korean painting.
I had encountered Eastern art before through ukiyo-e, which had been popular in Paris, but even though Korea and Japan are neighboring countries, their artistic styles were completely different.
While Japan used bold, primary colors, Joseon’s art made more natural use of color.
Of course, Joseon also had a lavish style called jinchaehwa, but the more commonly found ink paintings conveyed serene, emotional landscapes through natural expression.
In particular, the artists Kim Hong-do and Shin Yun-bok—whom my grandfather introduced me to—captivated me because they not only depicted natural landscapes but also scenes from the daily lives of people at the time.
The fact that a genre painter was once recognized as the greatest artist of the nation speaks volumes about how open-minded Joseon society was.
“That’s Ssireum wrestling.”
I was looking through a book filled with traditional Korean paintings when Grandpa approached.
The painting must be titled Ssireum.
“I thought you’d find it boring.”
True, it’s not exactly eye-catching.
But it’s deeply fascinating and meaningful in that I can empathize with it.
Isn’t it amazing to connect emotionally with people who lived over 300 years ago?
“It’s fun. Everyone looks cheerful. What are those two doing in the center?”
They seemed to be grappling with each other.
“That’s ssireum, a type of wrestling where the goal is to knock your opponent down.”
So, something like wrestling.
“And this person here—what are they handing out?”
“I’m not sure, but they’re probably selling yeot.”
“Yeot?”
“Yes. It’s a hard, sweet snack.”
“Is it good?”
“Pumpkin yeot is tasty. But it can break your teeth if you’re not careful.”
How good must it be that people would risk breaking their teeth to eat it?
As I kept gazing at the painting, Grandpa asked,
“Is it that interesting?”
“Yeah. Look here, I think these people are making bets—on who’s going to win.”
By understanding the painting’s meaning, I can also understand the artist, Kim Hong-do, and the people of that era.
A painting is like a letter sent from the heart.
No matter how far away someone is—or how long ago they lived—you can feel the same emotions.
It’s fun to imagine what kind of life those people in the painting lived and how much they enjoyed their sporting events.
Because I was the same way.
“It’s amazing that someone could become the top painter in the country by drawing scenes like this.”
“Amazing?”
“Yes. Genre painting was usually considered low-class.”
In France, genre painting had long been stigmatized as an inferior form of art by the Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture.
Grandpa gave me a strange look.
“What?”
“That’s not something a kid your age should know. Did your dad tell you?”
“What’s ‘dad’?”
“Your father.”
He used a dialect, making my Korean studies even harder. I nodded since there was no other way to explain it.
“Do you also know why the academy ranked paintings like that?”
I shook my head, not wanting to raise any suspicion.
Then Grandpa chuckled and began explaining.
“The French Royal Academy of Painting was established by Louis XIV. He dreamed of absolute monarchy, placing everything under his control—including the arts.”
Absolutely true.
“He wanted to raise painters who glorified the king.”
A filthy, greedy pig wanted to become a god ruling over France.
He forced all forms of artistic expression to serve the purpose of idolizing himself.
“So painters had to depict heroic figures loyal to the king and the nation. Through their stories, people were urged to remain loyal to both.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Yes, disgus—hey! Watch your language.”
“…”
“But you’re not entirely wrong.”
I laughed in disbelief, and Grandpa laughed loudly with me.
“Anyway, the legacy of the French Royal Academy still remains. It dominated the art world at the time and was copied in places like Spain and Britain. The influence is deeply rooted, which is truly unfortunate.”
The painters who came a generation before me had the courage to stand against such trends.
Though they were ridiculed, they fought back proudly, and their spirit became a guiding light for artists like myself, Toulouse-Lautrec, and Paul Gauguin.
Yet to think that its toxic influence still lingers even now…
Just as Grandpa said—it’s tragic.
“What about now?”
“Hmm. For example, making art students draw plaster casts—that’s a teaching method inherited from the Royal Academy. But to depict things accurately, you don’t necessarily need to draw idealized figures like those.”
He’s right.
The real reason plaster casts were used was to develop loyalty to the state by repetitively sketching glorified human forms disguised as technical practice.
Even the painting styles back then were forced to imitate Poussin and Rubens, so artists from the academy were no more than skilled craftsmen.
Things have changed a lot since then, but some of those teaching methods still remain. It leaves a bitter taste.
“I hope this wasn’t too complicated for you.”
“I got it. You’re saying the academy was a corrupt institution.”
“Hahaha! You even know the word ‘corrupt’? That’s right. But hey, I’m a professor too—should you be saying that to me?”
“You don’t teach like that, Grandpa.”
Anyone could tell from how he treats me.
An exceptional painter, scholar, and educator, yet someone who respects my thoughts and encourages me to speak freely—there’s no way he’d teach like the Royal Academy did.
“You’re right.”
He gave my hair a good ruffle.
I turned my eyes back to the Korean painting collection.
Looking at Kim Hong-do and Shin Yun-bok’s works made me want to try using the ink they used.
“These were drawn with ink, right?”
“Yes. Want to try it?”
“Do we have some?”
“We probably do. Come on.”
I followed Grandpa to the studio.
The pizza painting he’d been working on had progressed a bit more since yesterday.
Every time I saw it, I couldn’t help but admire it.
I’m still practicing detailed expression with colored pencils, but I have a long way to go to reach that level.
“Here it is.”
Grandpa took two black stones out of a drawer in the corner.
One was flat and the other long.
I didn’t know what they were for, so I just stared at them until he handed them to me.
They were heavy.
“The flat one is called a byeoru, the inkstone, and this one is meok, the ink stick. You put water in the inkstone and grind the ink stick to make ink.”
It’s a very traditional method—grinding pigment and mixing it with water.
Even I used to buy paints from merchants, so I’m curious to see what kind of artwork this old method can produce.
“Here’s a brush.”
The brush looked very different from what I used before.
Brushes in the Netherlands or France had short, stiff bristles, but this one had long, soft, and full hairs.
You could make bold strokes if you applied pressure, but poor control would ruin the artwork.
“Don’t you have thinner brushes?”
“Sure. There are danbong, jungbong, and jangbong. Even larger brushes than these exist.”
Naturally. A culture with advanced art wouldn’t limit itself to one brush size.
“There are also coloring brushes and sepil brushes that are short and stiff like Western brushes, but I don’t have those.”
As expected.
Coloring brushes are likely designed for applying pigment, while ink painting uses long, soft brushes for smooth flow.
Mastering them will take a lot of effort.
“Watch closely. I’ll show you how to use it.”
“Okay.”
Grandpa poured water into the inkstone and began grinding the ink.
He held the flat side firmly against the stone and moved it slowly in one direction. The water gradually turned black.
Coming to the modern world, 130 years later, and experiencing this ancient method is truly moving.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Did they do the same when painting with color?”
“Yes. They’d finely grind the pigments and mix them with water.”
It’s a medium where consistency is key. With so much water, there’s a limit to how much layering you can do.
What about viscosity?
Curious, I dipped a finger into the ink and put it in my mouth.
It didn’t feel viscous at all.
I was wondering if grinding more or adding less water would change that when Grandpa’s eyes bulged in shock.
“You rascal! Why are you eating that?!”
“I wanted to see how it felt.”
There’s no better tool than the tongue to understand a pigment’s texture.
It’s incredibly sensitive.
“Spit it out! Now!”
“Ack!”
Grandpa suddenly grabbed me from behind and squeezed my stomach. Even the Ssireum match wasn’t that intense.
“Spit it out! Now!”
It hurt so much I couldn’t breathe, and as he kept repeating it, I started to gag.
“Bleurrgh!”
Only after I spit out some black saliva on the floor did he stop.
I was dazed.
“That’s dangerous! You can’t just eat anything lying around! You ate ink because you were hungry?!”
What a disaster.
Grandpa took me to the bathroom to wash up.
Even after cleaning the mess, he kept repeating himself.
“Don’t eat that again, okay? Promise me!”
“Why not?”
As Vincent van Gogh, this was nothing new.
I used to touch paints with my hands or even use my tongue to check for viscosity or oil separation.
If there was leftover paint on the brush, I’d suck it clean. It was part of daily life. So I didn’t understand why I shouldn’t do it.
“Because it’s bad for you! Dirty! Dirty!”
“…”
I paused and asked,
“Aren’t pigments made from natural materials? Even the oil in oil paints comes from food sources.”
Grandpa looked at me in disbelief.
“That’s exactly what they say about ignorant people. Listen, this ink is made from soot and glue.”
I still didn’t see the problem.
“Nowadays, it’s made with stone. If eating stone didn’t hurt you, people wouldn’t starve.”
Fair point.
“And paint is even worse! Your favorite, Van Gogh, died from eating paint!”
“…What?”
An unexpected statement.
“What do you mean?”
“Even if the colors look pretty, they’re full of dangerous stuff. Do you know what lead is?”
I didn’t.
I shook my head, and Grandpa sighed heavily.
“Never eat that stuff. Minerals contain lead, and it’s extremely toxic to the human body.”
“What happens?”
“First, your gums hurt so bad you won’t even be able to eat your favorite pizza.”
“…”
That’s true.
Later on, my gums hurt so badly I couldn’t even chew food properly.
Bread back then was so hard and chewy we had to boil it with water just to eat.
“That’s not all. Your stomach will hurt, and you’ll develop anemia. You know anemia? When your vision goes blurry and you faint.”
It’s shocking—but those were symptoms I experienced.
“Just from eating a little paint?”
“Of course! Most artists from back then died from lead poisoning. Beethoven, Van Gogh…”
So even those geniuses with notorious tempers died from lead?
“Beethoven ate paint too?”
“Why would he eat paint?!”
Good point.
“Back then, they used a sweetener in wine that contained lead. Both Beethoven and Van Gogh loved wine. So you—never drink when you grow up, got it?”
All this time—
I hadn’t even known what was hurting me. I just felt miserable and angry.
I even, at times, blasphemously cursed the god who brought me such suffering.
But to think that everything I went through… was a man-made tragedy caused by ignorance.
I can’t believe it.
“Does lead do anything else besides hurting gums and the stomach?”
“Plenty. It damages your peripheral nerves and messes up your body. It can cause paralysis, or even mental illness.”
“…”
So it was lead that took away my ability to paint.
Not someone else.
I drank it myself—out of ignorance.
I died because I was foolish.
How utterly stupid I was.
I’m so angry I could burst.
“Hey, hey, Hoon. Why are you crying? Huh? Are you hurt? Was Grandpa too harsh?”
I shook my head.
“It’s all because I love you. I told you because I care. Don’t cry.”
Why am I even crying?
To show it wasn’t Grandpa’s fault, I dodged his hand trying to wipe my tears and wiped them myself—but that only made him more upset.
“You little rascal. Grandpa loves you so much. Don’t cry just because I scolded you.”
If it hadn’t been for him, I would’ve repeated the same dumb mistake, not even knowing it was hurting me.
I must learn.
I don’t want my life to end in regret and sorrow again.
Crayons, colored pencils, ink.
Paints of all kinds, and all the materials I’ve yet to discover—this vast world is filled with endless possibilities.
This time…
I won’t leave behind any regrets.
