Chapter 19
6. The Painter of the Sun (1)
According to Jules Verne’s novel Around the World in 80 Days, it’s possible to circle the globe in just eighty days.
And since humanity has reached a magical realm of progress—with inventions like tablets and TVs—it’s not far-fetched to assume we’ve built extremely fast ships too.
Which means, optimistically speaking, it probably doesn’t even take a month to get to Europe anymore.
Grandpa said the trip would last around two months, so the time we’ll actually spend in Europe won’t be long.
Still, just getting to see the “Van Gogh Museum” in person is more than enough.
‘Time to pack.’
I packed enough underwear, socks, and clothes for two months, and my suitcase—about as tall as me—was already full.
I hadn’t even put in any art supplies yet. That was a problem.
It wouldn’t be a bad opportunity to get used to digital drawing on a tablet, but how long can I really last without brushes and paints?
‘I can just wash clothes and wear them again.’
I took all the clothes back out of the suitcase.
Then I packed just three pairs of socks, three sets of underwear, two sets of pajamas, and two outfits, with the plan to do laundry every three days.
After packing my brush case and a paint set, I realized I couldn’t bring a canvas after all.
It’d get creased in the bag.
Panels were also out of the question.
With no choice, I packed three sketchbooks and a box of 100 colored pencils.
‘I wonder if I’ll get to go to Auvers.’
I wanted to finish the wheat field painting I had planned to do at the end.
But who knows if I’ll get the chance.
I made room for the easel and wrapped the tablet in clothes so it wouldn’t get damaged.
The perfectly packed suitcase gave me a sense of satisfaction.
Having moved so many times, I’ve gotten pretty good at this.
“Hoony, are you done packing?”
“Yes.”
Grandpa came into my room.
“Let’s see.”
Surely he’d be impressed with this logical and efficient packing job.
“Wow, you packed a lot. What did you even put in here?”
“Just the essentials.”
Grandpa opened the suitcase and rummaged through it, looking somewhat bewildered. Maybe he thought I forgot something?
“Did I leave something out?”
“You brat, where are the clothes? Did you pack only brushes and paint? Are you moving out?”
“They’re at the bottom.”
When Grandpa checked inside the bag, he let out a helpless chuckle.
“You’ll have to be very diligent for the next two months, huh?”
“Better than not being able to paint.”
“Geez. Who brings this much stuff on a trip? Can you even carry this?”
I tried to sling the bag over my shoulder but couldn’t.
“Hehehe. See? Leave the painting tools and just take a sketchbook and colored pencils if you really must.”
With no other choice, I removed the painting supplies.
Meanwhile, as Go Hoon was preparing for his trip to Europe—
Ever since Henri Marceau purchased Sunflower, Seoul Art Museum’s Exhibition Hall 3 had been packed with visitors.
Due to the unusual sale, the painting gained massive media exposure, and interest in Sunflower grew by the day.
A space that typically saw 20 to 30 visitors a day was now drawing over 500 daily, much to Director Lee Junho’s delight.
To prevent damage or theft, security guards were posted at all times, and a docent—a rarity for a rookie artist’s exhibition—was assigned to manage the crowd.¹
But those who came to see Sunflower barely listened to the docent’s explanations.
The painting was nothing like the photos.
From the moment they stood in front of it, they were overwhelmed by its radiant colors.
Details like how Sunflower was painted, what materials were used, or what it meant didn’t matter.
They were simply entranced by the sheer, heart-stirring beauty of it.
It was unlike anything they’d ever experienced before.
After leaving the exhibit, a group of Korean University art students sat at a nearby café, still intoxicated by the lingering emotions the painting had stirred.
Only when the buzzer rang for their drinks did they finally snap out of it and begin to talk.
“That was insane.”
“Right? I just looked at it without even thinking. It totally blanked me out.”
“How can someone use those colors? They looked so pure, yet so sad and even heartbreaking. Ugh, how do I even put it?”
“Don’t you think it felt even sadder because there was only one sunflower?”
“To me, it was the contrast—such a sorrowful-looking flower in such a bright yellow.”
“The composition reminded me of Korean ink painting. Kind of like a traditional landscape.”
“Yeah, the background was empty, the lines were rough, but strangely detailed.”
Then one student cautiously spoke up.
“Didn’t it kind of feel like Van Gogh?”
The group paused, then slowly nodded.
“Yeah, a little.”
“Maybe that’s how Van Gogh would’ve painted if he had seen traditional Korean ink paintings.”
One student slumped over the table.
“Sigh. I want to paint something like that too. Wait—wasn’t the artist just ten years old?”
“Yup. Professor Go Soo-yeol’s grandson.”
“Ten?!”
The student who had been stunned by the painting let out a long sigh, shocked that it had been drawn by a ten-year-old.
“I’m so jealous. I was wondering what kind of skill would warrant 2 billion won, and now I get it. That painting was amazing.”
“2.8 billion.”
“Same difference. It’s not like I’ll ever even see that kind of money.”
“That’s not all. Any future paintings by Go Hoon will probably start at that price. Henri Marceau bought that one, remember? Even if prices drop, it won’t be by much.”
Having a famous person buy your work is a huge deal in the art world.
It brings massive publicity.
“…Maybe I should just quit.”
“Quit what?”
“Art. Honestly, I don’t think I can paint like that. I don’t even know what I want to paint anymore. Drawing isn’t as fun as it used to be… I’m just lost.”
No one said anything in response.
When they were prepping for college entrance exams, they spent 14 hours a day in front of a canvas for years to get into the best art university in Korea.
They memorized plaster statues so well, they could draw them from memory.
And by the time they got into college, they were physically and emotionally exhausted.
Entrance exams forced conformity and killed their individuality.
But now that they were in college, they were told to reclaim their uniqueness.
It was overwhelming.
This was the absurd contradiction that all Korean art students faced.
They understood and empathized with their friend’s frustration. All they could do was silently offer support.
Then one student broke the silence.
“…Actually, I kind of feel inspired today.”
Everyone turned to look.
“I know it sounds dramatic.”
The student cautiously continued.
“That sunflower looked so lonely. It even had wounds on the stem and leaves. It didn’t seem like something that should bloom so brightly. And yet it did. So I thought… maybe the painting was trying to say it wanted to be like the sun.”
“Like hope?”
“Yeah. It felt encouraging somehow.”
The others fell silent again.
The student shrank a little.
“Maybe I was overanalyzing.”
“No way. That’s your interpretation. Nothing wrong with that.”
The student let out a sigh of relief.
“Now that you mention it, maybe you’re right. The petals were exaggerated, like they were glowing. Maybe that was the artist’s intent.”
“A ten-year-old came up with all that?”
“…Maybe he was thinking about Ko Hae-sung and Lee Su-jin when he painted it.”
“Oh…”
It had been a burden far too heavy for a ten-year-old boy.
Perhaps the sunflower’s blinding yellow was a statement of resilience—a refusal to succumb to the pain symbolized by its wounded stem and leaves.
“Maybe he didn’t consciously think of all that, but maybe deep down, those feelings were there.”
“Yeah.”
As they sipped their coffee, the students reflected.
The image of Sunflower in their minds gave their tired hearts new motivation.
“…I want to go draw.”
“Me too.”
“W-wait for me!”
