Chapter 12
3. Genius (5)
Journalist Kim Ji-woo sighed deeply as she stepped into the Seoul Art Museum to cover the rookie artist exhibition.
‘Why is it so empty?’
She hadn’t expected a big crowd, but aside from the artists and a few staff members, visitors were few and far between.
‘Well, there really aren’t any big names.’
Fine art was no longer a medium close to the general public. Thanks to people like Go Soo-yeol and Jang Mi-rae, the tradition was barely kept alive—but even then, they were more recognized abroad than domestically.
With the collapse of the publishing industry added to the mix, the art and culture magazine Ye-hwa was struggling to stay afloat.
‘At this rate, I might starve to death.’
Kim Ji-woo stepped into the exhibition hall without much enthusiasm.
‘…This one’s not bad.’
Three paintings hung side by side. They all depicted an expressionless woman—identical figures that looked like copies of each other. The only difference was the clothing and background colors, all in shades of red, but with varying tones and saturation.
It seemed the artist was trying to show how color alone could drastically alter an impression.
Ji-woo approached the man standing in front of the paintings.
“Are you the artist?”
“Oh, yes.”
“These are the same image, and even the colors are in the same family, but they give off really different vibes.”
“Yes, this one looks a bit cold. That one feels provocative. I wanted to show how red, despite being a single color, can express opposing impressions.”
Kim Ji-woo nodded.
“Why?”
“Pardon?”
“Why did you want to show opposing impressions within the color red?”
“Well… I wanted to point out our preconceived notions. The image projected onto the color isn’t inherent to the color itself—it’s something we impose. That’s the message.”
As soon as she asked why he created this work, he launched into a commentary.
‘He’s one of those.’
Ji-woo shook her head.
She had asked because the work had caught her attention, but the answer only disappointed her.
Many young artists assumed that others couldn’t grasp their revelations. They made seemingly impressive art, but had no deep introspection into their own creations.
Even a simple answer would have been fine.
She wasn’t looking for someone who gave pretentious, philosophical answers. She was looking for someone who could confidently answer a basic question: “Why did you make this?”
‘Not just this guy’s problem, I guess.’
Ji-woo wandered around the exhibition hall, sighing over and over again.
Then she turned a corner—and gasped.
There it was. A single sunflower.
No background, just a sunflower blooming on one side of the canvas.
Was it an illusion?
The vivid yellow looked like it was glowing on its own.
‘This is insane.’
A tingle crawled up her spine and spread through her whole body.
Ji-woo pinched her lip and leaned closer.
An impasto technique with layered oil paints gave the piece strong texture.
It was a very traditional style.
These days, not even rookie exhibitions showed such work. After all, it would just be dismissed as a derivative of the great Vincent van Gogh.
But this was different.
The stem stretched out boldly like an ink painting, the brush strokes raw and unrefined, resembling the surface of a scarred sunflower stalk.
The leaves too.
The green paint had been messily smeared, yet somehow it pulsed with life.
But what stood out most was the dense disk florets in the center of the flower.
They glowed.
The bright yellow sunflower petals were so vivid they looked like they were fluttering in the wind.
The rough brush strokes complemented the surface of the petals perfectly.
‘Looks like they didn’t even mix the paint?’
Pure oil paint, straight from the tube, used to express light and shadow.
How skilled would someone have to be for it to look this natural?
The meticulously painted disk florets were also in impasto, their thickness giving them a striking three-dimensional quality.
“……”
Maybe it was the surrounding negative space.
This brilliantly shining sunflower looked profoundly lonely. It even seemed wounded.
And yet, the way it radiated light on its own—there was no other word for it but noble.
The fusion of East Asian ink and Western oil painting hit her right in the heart.
‘…I want it.’
For the first time in a long while, Kim Ji-woo felt the desire to own a painting.
‘Who painted this?’
Who in the world had created such a piece?
The artist’s name was Go Hoon.
She looked around, hoping to find the artist who had made her heart race—but all she saw was a small boy.
“Hey.”
The bright-eyed child looked up at her, seemingly excited for reasons unknown.
“Did you see who was here earlier?”
“Who?”
“The person who painted this.”
“That’s me.”
“Really?”
Ji-woo froze as she reached for her pen.
“What did you say?”
“I painted it.”
Has he even started school yet?
She looked back and forth between Go Hoon and the sunflower.
“Huh? Wait, what?”
“What did you think?”
She couldn’t believe a child who still spoke with a slight speech impediment had painted something like that.
“Really? You really painted this?”
Go Hoon nodded.
He was dying to know how someone felt seeing his painting for the first time.
“Hoon, I brought a chair.”
Just then, Professor Jang Mi-rae arrived carrying a small stool.
Ji-woo’s eyes nearly popped out.
“Professor Jang Mi-rae? Hello, I’m Kim Ji-woo from Ye-hwa magazine!”
Caught off guard, Jang Mi-rae smiled and greeted her calmly.
“Hello. Hoon, sit down. Grandpa said he’d be back soon.”
“Okay.”
But Hoon didn’t sit. He just wanted to hear how she felt about his painting.
“You’re here for coverage?”
“Yes! How did you end up here, Professor? Do you have a student or a friend exhibiting? Or are you a sponsor?”
“Hehe. I just came to look around. It’s a friend’s first exhibition.”
Jang Mi-rae smiled, glancing at Go Hoon.
Following her gaze, Ji-woo saw the boy looking back at her.
“Wait… he really painted this?”
“Yes. Isn’t it amazing?”
Ji-woo’s jaw dropped, unable to hide her astonishment.
“How old are you? Where did you learn to paint? You really, truly painted this? How?”
He had asked how she felt about the painting—but all she did was bombard him with questions.
She spoke so fast that even though he was somewhat fluent in Korean, he could barely understand her.
“Huh? When did you start painting? Are you sure you didn’t get help? What school do you go to?”
What a frantic person.
Thankfully, Jang Mi-rae stepped in.
“His Korean’s still a bit awkward. He might not understand everything.”
“Huh?”
“He lived in France for a long time.”
“Oh, then…”
“If you speak slowly, he’ll understand.”
The impatient woman crouched down to meet his eye level.
He appreciated the gesture, but she just stared in silence.
Just as he began thinking it was unlucky to meet someone this weird on his first exhibition, she finally asked,
“Why did you paint that?”
A strange question.
Was there ever a reason for needing to paint something you couldn’t help painting?
‘No—’
He didn’t know the root of it, but one thing was clear:
“To sell it.”
How wonderful it was for someone else to recognize the thing you had to create.
Painting and selling were acts of communication and understanding.
And he knew more than anyone the misery of a painter who couldn’t sell their work.
In the end, painting and selling were about finding someone who understood him.
That was the essence.
“…”
“…”
Neither Jang Mi-rae nor the reporter responded.
He had answered even though she hadn’t answered his question. How rude.
“To sell it?”
“Yes. I wanted to paint something that people couldn’t help but want to buy.”
Still no response.
She only blinked with her mouth slightly open.
Irritated, he was about to look down the hallway for someone else—when suddenly she grabbed his hand.
“I’ll sell it for you!”
“…Huh?”
“There’ll be tons of people who want it. I want it! I’ll make sure you become famous.”
He couldn’t quite grasp what she meant, so he looked to Jang Mi-rae—who just smiled as usual.
“Lucky you. The journalist wants to write about your work.”
So she meant publicity?
“Could we talk for a bit? If now doesn’t work, later is fine. I can wait until the show’s over.”
She was odd, but if she wanted to put his painting in a newspaper, he had no reason to refuse.
“I’ll ask my grandpa.”
“Your grandpa? Where is he?”
Right then, he walked over.
“Excuse me.”
The woman turned and shouted in astonishment.
“G-Go Soo-yeol! You’re the grandson of Go Soo-yeol the painter? And your parents are art director Go Hae-sung and Lee Soo-jin?!”
So noisy.
“Then… it all makes sense! That’s why you can paint like this. You learned from Go Soo-yeol, Go Hae-sung, and Lee Soo-jin, right? Right? When did you start painting? How many years?”
“About ten years.”
She furrowed her brows and scanned him from head to toe.
“…How old are you?”
November 14, 2027, 4:00 PM
A column-style review of the exhibition was published on the Ye-hwa magazine’s official SNS account by journalist Kim Ji-woo.
[Portrait of a Sunflower by a 10-Year-Old Genius]
Saturday, the 13th.
The rookie artist exhibition hosted by the Seoul Art Museum took place in a quiet atmosphere.
The museum’s coordinator stated that the 21 exhibited works aimed to shine a light on artists who hadn’t yet had a chance to present their work and pledged to expand such opportunities in the future.
Among notable works like Red and Ripple, what captured my heart was Go Hoon’s Sunflower.
How should I explain the brilliance of a painting that truly seems to shine?
Go Hoon knows how to use color.
The bold brushstroke of the stem conveyed a sunflower’s desperate desire to reach the sun.
The radiant cadmium yellow looked as though it had swallowed the sun itself.
What does this lone sunflower long for?
What sun is Go Hoon yearning for?
To understand, I requested an interview.
Q. Please introduce yourself.
A. I’m Go Hoon. I’m ten years old.
Q. When did you start painting?
A. About ten years (He may have misunderstood the question due to his unfamiliarity with Korean after living in France).
Q. What is Sunflower about?
A. It’s a self-portrait.
Q. Could you elaborate?
A. There are so many great painters—Pablo Picasso, Kandinsky, Chagall, René. I still admire them, so… sunflower.
Q. What motivated you to paint Sunflower?
A. I wanted to sell it. I wanted to paint something so powerful that people couldn’t help but want to buy it.
The ten-year-old boy’s simple yet piercing statement reveals the harsh reality of today’s fine art scene.
It represents countless artists still struggling to buy materials and survive.
Art should not be a luxury for the privileged.
A painting that’s impossible not to want.
A bold counterpoint to the mainstream art world, which isolates itself while preaching theory.
And compared to that, how pure is this boy’s sunflower—born from his admiration of the greats?
I stood frozen before the untainted brilliance of Sunflower, brought to life by the hand of a ten-year-old genius.
— Kim Ji-woo, Ye-hwa
