Chapter 7 – Art Museum (3)
(from Reborn as Van Gogh)
I think I really need to reconsider this.
“If you get lost, what are you going to do, huh?”
I understand he’s worried about his grandson, but at thirty-six years old, it’s a little embarrassing to be holding hands.
“Hurry, hold my hand.”
“I’ll follow you properly.”
“Tsk.”
Grandpa scolds me, but his expression is anything but stern.
From what I’ve seen so far, he tries to act strict, but he can’t truly be harsh because he loves his grandson too much.
Well… I’ll try to think positively.
It’s not like I can die just because of something like this.
With a sigh of resignation, I quietly followed him.
As I felt when I first came here, this neighborhood seems to be a very affluent area. Everything is neat and clean. You don’t even see the usual trash or waste around.
Grandpa spoke up.
“We’re going to the WH Learning Art Museum today.”
Not really knowing what that is, I simply nodded.
“There’s a wide variety of works from ancient times to modern art. You’ll like it.”
“Ancient works?”
“Yes.”
“How old are we talking?”
“Some are over a thousand years old.”
It seems South Korea has a pretty long history.
If it’s artwork made a thousand years ago, it’s probably at a very primitive level. But this would be a great opportunity to see how Eastern art developed over time.
I’m as interested in Eastern art as I am in modern art.
Maybe I’ll even encounter a powerful visual impression like that of Ukiyo-e prints.
“We’re here.”
We hadn’t walked far when we suddenly arrived, which surprised me.
To the right on a slope stood a strangely shaped building, and to the left was a structure I couldn’t make sense of.
It looked like a stack of reflective balls, like mirrored spheres piled up with no discernible pattern or meaning.
It was tall enough that it made my neck hurt just looking at it.
“What’s that?”
I pointed at the sculpture and asked.
“Hmm… doesn’t it look like a bunch of leftover grapes?”
I could see that.
If that’s the case, it might’ve been better if they’d added some color or placed grape skins nearby to give the impression.
When I shared that thought, Grandpa burst out laughing.
“You’re right! But I doubt it’s actually leftover grapes.”
“Then what is it?”
“Grandpa doesn’t know either. Should we try to guess together?”
I thought a professor from the country’s top university would know, but I guess not.
“I heard civet poop looks like that.”
“Pfft! It might, actually. Now that you mention it, it does look like rabbit droppings.”
Despite all the talk about poop, I couldn’t come up with a better explanation.
No matter how hard I thought about it, I couldn’t find any clues.
Maybe it’s because of the gap in time and experience—I just don’t know what kinds of symbolism are currently used.
“I don’t get it.”
“That’s okay. Not understanding is normal.”
I didn’t understand Grandpa’s next words either.
“Modern art—or rather, contemporary art—wasn’t originally created as a form of communication.”
That didn’t make sense to me.
“That can’t be right.”
“Oh? Why do you think that?”
“Because the essence of art is self-expression and communication.”
Art is expressing what I must draw, what I want to draw, in a way that’s most true to myself.
The fundamental nature of all artistic activity is conveying what cannot be spoken through the senses.
So how can it not be about communication?
That’s absurd.
Grandpa smiled wryly.
“I think so too.”
But there was a hint of bitterness in his smile.
“Let’s save the deep talk for later. We came here to see the museum.”
As we finished climbing the slope, I saw a building beyond imagination.
I wasn’t sure if it was a uniquely Korean architectural style or just something trendy in 2027—but it didn’t look like it belonged to this world.
Seemingly incompatible materials were blended together in perfect harmony.
The artificial elegance of the glass exterior, the natural warmth of the wood, and the solid weight of the marble pillars all came together beautifully.
The building itself was a work of art.
Like Picasso’s paintings or Grandpa’s photography, this was another moment that broke my understanding of beauty.
We stepped slowly inside.
“With just one ticket, you can see everything. The Ancient Art Gallery, the Modern Art Gallery, and there’s an exhibition in the Children’s Culture Hall too. Should we start with that…”
“Let’s go to the Ancient Art Gallery first.”
“The Children’s Hall might be more fun, though?”
“I’m fine.”
I didn’t know what was there, but if it had something like that infuriating yellow sponge, I wanted to avoid it.
Just hearing its chirpy voice again might trigger the auditory hallucinations I’d just barely escaped.
Ah.
The inside of the museum was pristine.
With soft lighting, it was the perfect atmosphere to quietly enjoy the art.
The displayed works were stunning, so it made sense to keep the environment calm.
The first thing I saw was a pair of shoes.
“They made shoes out of metal?”
They reflected light with a soft elegance, and their neat placement was quite charming.
“These are gilt-bronze shoes from the Silla period. They were made around 1,400 years ago.”
I was stunned by Grandpa’s words. I didn’t know much, but making metal that thin couldn’t have been easy.
Whoever the artisan was, they even managed to punch identical patterns across the entire surface. It was as if a god had guided their hands.
It was a shame the shoes hadn’t been preserved in perfect condition.
What must they have looked like 1,400 years ago?
Just imagining that elegant, antique surface glowing with life made my heart race.
“Wow…”
No matter where I looked, everything was astounding.
What kind of country was Silla to produce such refined works of art?
Interestingly, their art was often related to daily life.
Decorations were one thing, but when they infused their artistic spirit into shoes, dishes, and fans, they must have been a people who truly understood beauty.
We moved up a level and continued viewing the exhibits.
“That’s Inwang Jeseakdo by Jeong Seon.”
I fell in love.
What did he use to paint this?
It wasn’t charcoal.
It wasn’t oil paint either.
This mysterious mountain landscape, painted with an unknown material, was rugged yet filled with emotion.
The fog-covered, nameless mountain felt otherworldly. I wondered who lived in the small house depicted at the bottom.
Where did this composed yet dignified atmosphere come from?
The mountains were painted with loose, confident brushstrokes, while the trees were brushed with careful precision.
Whoever painted this was a true master of the brush.
They knew how to effectively capture an impression.
Only one pigment was used.
By adjusting the water content or brush pressure and layering strokes, they achieved this wide range of expression.
Truly… astonishing.
“When nature is portrayed like this, it’s called a sansuhwa (landscape painting).”
Sansuhwa.
“And since it was done with ink, it’s called a sumukhwa (ink-wash painting).”
Sumukhwa.
Who could understand this mystical, profound feeling?
Theo should’ve seen this. If our friend Lautrec had seen this, he would’ve pulled out his wallet on the spot.
Ah, how lucky I am to have seen it.
“Jeong Seon painted this after seeing Mt. Inwang in person. Before him, most landscape paintings weren’t based on real views. Paintings done from actual observation are called jingyeong sansuhwa (true-view landscapes).”
So until then, artists painted from imagination—but this one was drawn from real life?
“Ah!”
Without meaning to, I shouted.
Grandpa held a finger to his lips. I quickly covered my mouth and nodded, and he smiled.
“Did you figure something out?”
“Yes. I didn’t know why it felt so mysterious before, but look—the building in the picture is viewed from above…”
“Mmhmm?”
“And the mountain is viewed from below.”
The painting ignored the rules of perspective.
The mountain in the background was drawn larger and grander, while closer objects were smaller.
Yet despite defying perspective, the painting drew the viewer in because it considered the viewer’s line of sight.
When you look at the bottom of the painting, your gaze naturally falls downward, and with the roof drawn first, it feels like you’re looking from above.
Then, looking at the top, you feel like you’re gazing up at a sacred mountain.
Brilliant.
“If only Paul Gauguin had seen this…”
Knowing his pride, he’d have been annoyed at learning something new.
Still, Jeong Seon could’ve been a great teacher for someone like him—someone who adjusted compositions based on the situation.
* * *
Professor Go Soo-yeol was amazed by his young grandson’s observational skills.
Like any child, he usually knew little, reacting with wide-eyed wonder and endless questions about everything.
But when it came to paintings, he was inexplicably sharp and insightful.
“Did Su-jin teach him?”
His son, Go Hae-seong, who resembled him, likely hadn’t passed down this level of perspective or knowledge.
Go Soo-yeol thought of Lee Su-jin with a sense of sorrow.
She wasn’t just his daughter-in-law—she was a beloved student. She had exceptional talent, vast knowledge, and an incredible eye for art.
Losing her was just as painful as losing his son.
As he sniffed and wiped his eyes,
“Really? Grandpa didn’t notice that at all. Our Hoon is amazing.”
He didn’t want to impose any preconceptions on his grandson, Go Hoon.
Amazingly, Go Hoon was already forming his own artistic style and analyzing paintings with his unique insight.
Rather than offering his own opinions or academic theories, Go Soo-yeol chose to guide him with questions, encouraging Hoon to think on his own.
But then—
“A university professor not knowing? What kind of paper is this? What kind of paint? What does the brush look like?”
Young Go Hoon didn’t care about that at all.
His thirst for knowledge was immense—he was desperate to learn more, even a little.
Like a sponge.
He didn’t discriminate between East or West, modern or ancient—he absorbed it all.
“You rascal, one question at a time!”
Grandpa chuckled and scolded him lightly, and Go Hoon beamed.
It was the first time he’d seen such a bright smile on his grandson’s face since they were reunited after six years.
With a heavy heart, Go Soo-yeol gently stroked his grandson’s head.
