Episode 11
3. The Genius (4)
If I’m going to exhibit a painting, it has to be an oil painting.
Colored pencils and ink are nice, but I want to do my best with the medium I’m most familiar with.
I examined the oil paints Grandpa owned.
So many colors.
The world has truly improved.
When I combine what’s in the boxes and those neatly arranged, there are so many I might not even get through them all today.
Just looking at the box full of paint makes my heart feel full. There are even colors that used to be so expensive I wouldn’t dare dream of using them.
I won’t have to worry about running out of paint.
Expressing colors will be much easier than before.
An exhibition…
Still, I didn’t expect to get this kind of opportunity so soon.
This time, unlike the pitiful ending I had before, I told myself not to rush—just steadily build up my skills.
I wanted to understand what people today thought and how the art world had developed over the years.
Surprisingly…
The world was full of geniuses like Pablo Picasso.
Staying in that small village in France had made my perspective so narrow.
Now I’m excited—wondering what kind of artists will surprise me next.
I want to meet them all, but I can’t afford to miss out on this golden opportunity.
I need to pour everything I have into this moment.
“The Starry Night didn’t get a good spot, but the Irises did. Even from afar, they caught attention. It’s a lively, truly beautiful painting.“
Theo, my younger brother, was the one who helped get my painting exhibited at the Salon des Indépendants.¹
The money he sent every month was never enough, yet he still encouraged me to participate.
Even when I was discouraged by the lack of reaction, despite the good placement, he cheered me on and suggested holding a solo exhibition the following year.
“……”
I wonder if he lived happily.
He didn’t look well.
He was having financial difficulties too.
After supporting me for over ten years, and then losing me to suicide, he must’ve harbored so much resentment.
Still…
Even though I committed an unforgivable act, now that I’ve picked up the brush again in this new life, at least you would support me.
You’d give me courage.
No.
I mustn’t grow weak.
I can’t repeat that same tragic life when I’ve been given a miracle like this.
A painting that’s most true to myself…
Then there’s only one subject I can paint.
The image is clear in my mind.
There’s only one thing that best represents me—
Sunflowers.
The sunflower within me, the golden flower that holds the sun.
Calmly.
I looked at the 30F canvas.
Color began to spread across the white surface. Like molten gold, a brilliant yellow gradually took shape.
I simply followed the flow, carrying the heat that burned within my chest.
“Where is it?”
I needed chrome yellow, but it was nowhere to be found.
Even after rummaging through the paint containers, somehow this crucial color wasn’t among the many.
“Grandpa.”
When I went to the living room, I found Grandpa in a bizarre position—kneeling, head down, eyes rolled back, and tongue sticking out.
“…What are you doing?”
“Yoga. Come join me.”
“No, thanks.”
“You’re so cold.”
“Anyway, we don’t have any chrome yellow.”
Grandpa got up from his awkward pose and frowned.
“There should be a big can somewhere.”
I followed him into the studio, where he pulled out a large metal container—almost the size of my torso.
“Why is it so big?”
“It’s hard to find nowadays. They’ve made improved versions, but people don’t use it much because of health concerns.”
“Health concerns?”
“Yeah. Remember I told you about lead poisoning? Chrome yellow has that too.”
Chrome yellow—the paint I used the most, and even ingested.
There were so many health risks in those days.
But even so, I can’t give it up.
It’s a color I must have.
“There might be improved versions in tubes too.”
Grandpa looked it up on his phone, stroking his chin as he searched.
“I’ll check for you tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“No need for thanks. So, what are you painting?”
“Sunflowers.”
“Sunflowers?”
He looked confused.
“You’ll understand when you see it.”
“You seem confident. I’ll get the paint for you, but maybe consider using something else?”
“Why?”
“Chrome yellow discolors easily. When exposed to light for long periods, it turns brownish—or even gray.”
I had heard a bit about the discoloration.
“Is it really that bad?”
“Yeah. It’s faster than you’d think. You should see for yourself… Let’s see…”
Grandpa turned on the TV and began operating something on his phone.
Images began swiping by quickly. It was amazing how casually he performed such magical tasks.
“Look at this.”
It was a sunflower painting, signed “Vincent” on the flowerpot.²
It looked a lot like mine, but it wasn’t.
I’d never used such dull colors.
As I leaned closer to inspect it—
“…Oh.”
It was mine.
Though not in my usual style, the thick impasto technique was undeniably mine.³
“What do you think? Van Gogh would be shocked if he saw it.”
I was shocked.
“Chrome yellow contains a compound called lead chromate. It discolors faster when exposed to LED lights.”
“What’s LED lighting?”
“Just lighting. It’s energy efficient, so most galleries use it. But since it accelerates discoloration, they’re now replacing it with smart LED systems.”
I had no idea lighting alone could change a painting so much.
It wasn’t just something to “consider”—I had to find an alternative.
“I’ll try something else.”
“Good idea. And if it doesn’t work out, come ask me.”
“Okay.”
Back in the studio, I lined up all the yellow paints.
The cadmium yellow series appealed to me the most.
“Hoon.”
“Yes?”
“Under the desk, there should be a wooden box. Try using what’s inside—it’s soft and smooth.”
Under the desk, I found a box with an owl illustration. Inside were 36 paints, a few brushes, and even a palette knife.
They looked expensive at a glance.
“Can I really use this?”
“Of course. Just don’t eat them.”
“I won’t.”
(Though I was mildly curious about the taste of #482 Cobalt Violet.)
Hoo…
I exhaled deeply and squeezed the paint.
My body is small and weak, so holding a big palette for long would be hard.
Even the canvas was relatively large compared to my body.
I placed the paints down gently and stood up.
I swallowed hard and picked up the brush.
The Sunflowers, painted anew.
I…
I couldn’t help but paint that place shimmering with gold.
A field of wheat that fully embraced the blazing sun.
And the farmers who sowed, nurtured, and harvested it with sweat—was there anything nobler than their labor?
I…
Wanted to be their sun.
If I couldn’t, then at least a grain of wheat fallen in the field—something to offer comfort to honest workers.
I wanted to place a glimmer of hope on their dinner table, shared with family after a hard day.
I wanted to give them courage to face tomorrow.
I didn’t mind being called a madman.
I didn’t care if I was misunderstood.
Even if I wasn’t the blazing sun in the sky.
Even if I couldn’t sell my paintings, I painted the sun as long as my body moved.
That was all.
But…
My body stopped listening.
Seizures came often, and hallucinations slowly eroded my sanity.
When even painting that brilliant light was no longer allowed, when I lost my reason to live—I ended my own life.
Sun-looker.
Like a sunflower that longs for the sun.
I, who can no longer long for, draw, or even look at the sun—am just a withered sunflower.
A sunflower reborn.
Rising from the dark soil.
A small sunflower that sprouted with the blessing of the sun, basking in its bright light.
Let me paint such a sunflower—resilient against harsh winds.
If I can’t become the sun, let me at least shine brilliantly like one.
I placed my brush to the canvas.
* * *
‘Already this late?’
Go Soo-yeol, thinking he couldn’t just feed his grandson pizza every day, was studying cooking when he suddenly checked the clock.
It was past midnight.
Light leaked from under the studio door.
It looked like Hoon had fallen asleep painting.
Worried, Soo-yeol got up and carefully opened the door, trying not to wake him—only to find his grandson sweating profusely while still painting with intense focus.
“Hoon…”
He meant to tell him it was time for bed, but the moment he saw the painting, his words stopped.
A single sunflower, as if it had swallowed the sun, breathed on the canvas.
Each petal.
Each floret had its own life, yet came together as a whole flower.
There was no background.
Like an ink painting—only that single sunflower shone.
Such a noble presence.
My god…
He had always known his grandson had talent.
Despite his age, his sketches were realistic and his style unique.
The New Home painting, his first Korean-style piece, had already impressed him.
But this was different.
This Sunflower in oil on canvas, in progress, was on another level.
Even Go Soo-yeol—a painter so renowned that international biennales begged him to exhibit—felt overwhelmed by the sheer energy of it.
How could a painting shine like this?
From the tip of Hoon’s brush, without a moment’s hesitation, life was being born.
Goosebumps.
As Sunflowers neared completion, Soo-yeol felt as if every cell in his body awakened.
He stood there in a daze.
Until Hoon finished the painting and wiped the sweat from his brow, he couldn’t say a word.
Once Hoon set his brush down and stepped back to look at the painting—
He turned his head.
Soo-yeol, overcome with emotion, lifted his smiling grandson into the air.
“Ha ha ha! You rascal! You little rascal!”
As a painter—
And as a grandfather—
He couldn’t have been happier.
¹ Salon des Indépendants: An independent art exhibition launched in 1884 by Georges Seurat, Odilon Redon, and Paul Signac. Held without judges or awards to allow free artistic expression. Famous post-impressionists like Van Gogh, Matisse, and Toulouse-Lautrec participated. Still held annually with over 3,000 members.
² Sunflowers, Vincent van Gogh, oil on canvas, 1888.
³ Impasto: A painting technique where paint is applied thickly to create texture.
