Chapter 5
2. The Art Museum (1)
Go Soo-yeol watched with fondness as Go Hoon lay on the floor, drawing intently.
When he had first brought the child home, he was worried—Go Hoon hadn’t seemed to settle in well, likely due to the unfamiliar environment. But now, it looked like he was finally adjusting, and that was a relief.
Especially since he’d taken such a liking to the new colored pencils he’d been given. He barely let them out of his hands, even placing them by his pillow when he slept. That alone warmed Go Soo-yeol’s heart.
“To think I almost lost this little one…”
When his son and daughter-in-law died, it felt like his entire world had collapsed.
Though they had been estranged—drifting apart due to differences in opinions—his love for his child had never waned.
When the news of the accident came, Go Soo-yeol felt like he had lost everything.
His mind went blank.
Then came the news that his grandson had survived. All he could think was: He must live.
Even after a week in the hospital, when doctors said brain function had ceased, he still couldn’t give up.
One day passed. Then another.
It was hell.
All the wealth and honor he’d accumulated in life suddenly felt meaningless.
If he couldn’t even save his grandson, what was the point of it all?
There was no reason left to live.
So when a miracle came to him, he could only be endlessly grateful.
Go Soo-yeol approached Go Hoon.
The boy loved drawing so much he would go through several sheets a day.
Aside from eating and sleeping, he spent every waking moment pouring something out through those colored pencils—as if releasing something long-suppressed.
“Are you drawing, Hoon?”
The way he pouted his lips in concentration was impossibly adorable.
Curious about what his grandson was working on this time, Go Soo-yeol leaned in for a peek.
Another pizza.
“You really love pizza, huh?”
When he spoke in Korean, Go Hoon looked up blankly.
“I said, do you like pizza that much?”
When he switched to French, the boy nodded while continuing to color.
It seemed Korean-style pizza was new to him.
Go Hoon began talking animatedly in French about the pizza.
“Is it really okay to have this much meat on top? How is the cheese this savory and chewy? What kind of potatoes are these? Do you know how they grow them?”
His French was strangely old-fashioned—using antique vocabulary more than common phrasing. It made Go Soo-yeol wonder.
Still, the conversation wasn’t impossible to follow. He assumed the boy had been raised in an elderly environment.
What worried him more was how little Korean the child knew.
“No matter what, they should’ve taught him Korean…”
At times, the boy’s speech sounded too mature for a ten-year-old. But when he spoke in Korean, he was undeniably still a child.
As expected for his age, he had a ton of questions—some quite difficult to answer.
The grandson he had last seen as a baby, and then reunited with in the hospital, was a unique child—yet still very much a child.
But his drawings were different.
“Huh…”
Go Soo-yeol picked up one of Go Hoon’s drawings.
While not hyper-realistic, the child’s use of color was extraordinary.
He didn’t outline objects traditionally—instead, he used shifts in color to define shapes and boldly omitted unnecessary parts.
This drawing of pizza captured the boy’s wonder with perfect clarity.
It reminded Go Soo-yeol of the impressionist movement that began in 19th-century France.
Rather than portraying the world as it was, the child conveyed the emotions it stirred in him.
Go Soo-yeol didn’t believe it was intentional. Probably just the influence of some painting style he’d seen somewhere.
Still, the depth of this artwork had to be the product of both talent and good teaching.
“How did they raise him like this…?”
He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of art education his son and daughter-in-law had given their child.
“Hoon.”
Go Hoon looked up.
“Have you tried drawing still life?”
“Still… life?”
Go Soo-yeol decided to abandon trying to speak only Korean with the boy for now.
“You’ve glossed over parts here. How about trying to express them more precisely?”
“It’s boring.”
“Boring?”
His grandson’s clear, articulate reply was too adorable.
“What’s the point of drawing things exactly as they are?”
“Ha! This kid…”
Go Soo-yeol smiled, amused.
He was proud that his young grandson already had strong artistic standards.
Still, if the boy truly wanted to grow as an artist, he needed the ability to observe and depict things accurately.
Go Soo-yeol hoped the child would experience a wide range of techniques and styles as he developed his own.
“Replicating things can be fun too, you know.”
But Go Hoon showed no interest and returned to his drawing.
Thinking of how to grab the boy’s attention, Go Soo-yeol recalled an experience from his own son’s childhood.
Potato pizza reigns supreme.
It was frustrating that such a small body couldn’t eat more than a slice.
These potatoes weren’t the dry, crumbly kind he remembered.
They crumbled the moment they hit the tongue, revealing a moist interior that wrapped the palate in warmth.
And those mischievous kernels of sweet corn weaving through…!
No wonder the tongue couldn’t keep its composure.
The mayonnaise was even more of a mystery.
It didn’t taste like any mayonnaise he knew—and who thought of putting mayo on pizza?
But once baked just right, it danced with the cheese in a perfect minuet.
No flavor could be more elegant.
Now, how could he put that on paper?
He struggled over how best to depict it, drawing and re-drawing, still unsatisfied.
He wasn’t yet used to colored pencils.
How he longed for oil paints.
Still, learning a new tool was fun in its own way. The ability to draw sharp, fine lines allowed for more detail.
Surely, some things could only be expressed this way.
“I’m happy.”
No more phantom noises echoing in his head.
No spasms disrupting his focus.
Just peace—and the joy of drawing.
How much time had passed?
He was getting hungry.
Right on cue, he heard the familiar chime that came when pizza was delivered.
Grandpa pressed the button shaped like a badge.
“Pizza?”
“Yep. I’ll go get it. Go wash your hands.”
“Okay.”
He washed up in the bathroom.
Washing hands was good, sure, but Grandpa always made a ritual of it—like a sacred act before a grand feast.
He came back out with wet hands.
The pizza hadn’t arrived yet.
Grandpa’s study door was ajar. Curious, he peeked inside—and saw the pizza.
“…”
No, it wasn’t pizza.
It was a painting.
Had it not been unfinished, he might have mistaken it for the real thing.
The objects on the canvas seemed ready to leap out.
It was astonishing.
What kind of training did it take to render something this vividly?
He knew a few artists capable of this kind of realism—like Gustave Courbet, or his great teacher Jean-François Millet.
But this painting…
Even this unfinished painting of pizza surpassed them in realism.
If completed, people would mistake it for a photo.
“Hoon, time to eat.”
Still in a daze, he heard Grandpa’s voice.
The smell of potato pizza wafted in—but it paled in comparison to the painting before him.
“Where is that kid? Hoon, Hoon!”
The technique of using a single dot to depict reflected light was incredible—but what left him speechless was the color usage.
It wasn’t human.
“You rascal, answer when you’re called.”
He turned.
“Did you draw this, Grandpa?”
“‘Grandpa Grandpa’?”
He asked a strange question back.
“Yes. Grandpa Grandpa.”
“Pffft—Ha! Kid, it’s either ‘Grandpa’ or ‘Grandfather.’ What’s ‘Grandpa Grandpa’ supposed to mean?”
He didn’t get it.
“They’re the same word. ‘Hal-ae-bi.’ Grand-père.”
To think that “Grandpa” and “Grandfather” were the same word…
Shocking.
“What did you think it meant?”
“I thought your name was Hal-ae-bi.”
“Bahaha! You’re something else!”
“You always said it even when speaking French. It was confusing.”
How embarrassing.
Grandpa chuckled slyly.
“Anyway. Yes, I painted it. Pretty great, huh?”
“…Yeah.”
He painted objects exactly as they were.
Go Hoon had trained in sketching until the end of his last life, but had never intended to leave behind such works.
After photography was invented, he thought it pointless.
What mattered was conveying essence, not form.
He still believed that.
But this godlike technique? It was art in itself.
That someone in their mid-fifties could maintain such focus and precision—it was amazing.
“You’re still too young to paint like Grandpa.”
Just as he was marveling, Grandpa said something that pricked his pride.
“You keep using your colored pencils. Grandpa will stick to this style.”
Ten years as a painter.
Had he ever been this annoyed?
“I can do it too.”
“Really? I don’t think so…”
Sure, he was in a child’s body now.
But the condescending tone—like he was just humoring a child—was deeply insulting.
“I can do it.”
“Alright, alright. Grandpa believes in you. Now let’s eat first.”
If he pushed himself to draw in detail, he could probably manage something close.
But truthfully…
He had no technique like this.
Go Soo-yeol watched his fuming grandson with delight.
At 64, it was a newfound joy.
Though Go Hoon’s earlier behavior after waking up had been troubling, in recent days he seemed like a different person.
Especially when it came to art—his focus was remarkable.
It could only be described as an obsession.
Just like Go Soo-yeol himself. And just like his son, Go Hae-sung, the boy’s father.
When it came to art, they were all stubborn.
If something felt lacking, they couldn’t let it go. Not until they mastered it.
Go Soo-yeol recalled that with his son, provoking him worked better than instructing him.
So he had taken the same approach with his grandson.
And, true to blood, the bait worked.
Despite having his favorite pizza right in front of him, the boy had stared at the painting instead of eating.
“This child will be a painter.”
Just like himself. Just like his son.
He couldn’t live without painting.
His tenure as dean was ending this year.
As he neared retirement, Go Soo-yeol thought hard about what he could do for his grandson.
He wanted to show him as much of the world as possible.
Give him experiences.
And build an environment where his talent could blossom fully.
He had the means.
And Go Hoon had the potential.
More than his talent itself, the child’s insatiable hunger for art—that was his greatest gift.
“…Maybe Europe would be better.”
Go Hoon’s weak Korean made school life in Korea a concern.
But since he spoke fluent French, perhaps sending him to study there wouldn’t be a bad idea.
“Well, we can think about it once he’s fully recovered. In the meantime, we can travel around—expand his horizons and see if he adjusts to Europe.”
“Hoon.”
When focused, the boy never responded the first time.
“Hoon.”
Go Hoon finally turned his head.
“Want to go see some art with Grandpa tomorrow?”
“The museum?”
“That’s right.”
He nodded eagerly.
“Alright, I’ll take you—if you get at least 80 on your Korean quiz.”
At that, Go Hoon paused, then asked:
“In Korean?”
“Yup. I’ll give you study material.”
“…Okay.”
“Be a good listener, eat well, and get healthy—and I’ll even take you to Europe.”
Go Hoon’s eyes widened.
“To the Louvre too?”
“Of course. And not just the Louvre—Vatican, National Gallery, Musée d’Orsay. Even your favorites, the Picasso and Van Gogh museums.”
His eyes sparkled with wonder—until suddenly, he froze.
“Van Gogh?”
“Yes. Vincent van Gogh.”
Go Hoon furrowed his brows, tilting his head in confusion.
