Reborn as Van Gogh – Chapter 10
3. The Genius (3)
“Uh…”
“My name’s Jang Mirae. I’m a junior of your mom and dad, and one of your grandfather’s students.”
Is she sick or something?
I’ve heard of people crying blood, but black tears? This is the first time I’ve seen that.
“You’re really brave, Hoon. Your mom and dad would be so proud.”
The woman with black tears smiled.
I know she’s trying to comfort me, but I want to keep my distance.
“It’s okay. You can cry if you want.”
If I were a normal child, I probably would’ve cried.
I leaned back to avoid her, but she reached out and grabbed my hand.
“Grandpa. Grandpa!”
“Hm?”
As I turned to him for help, my grandfather, who had just calmed down, looked at us—then, surprisingly, laughed.
“Ha ha ha. Hoon, you’re gonna dream about this tonight.”
“…What?”
He gently pulled me away from Ms. Jang Mirae and pointed to the bathroom.
“Aaagh!”
A moment later, we heard her scream.
I asked, trying to calm my startled heart,
“Her tears were black.”
“Haha. It’s just makeup. No one actually cries black tears.”
Back in France, I’d heard that some women wore fake lashes or painted around their eyes.
But I never knew it could look this bizarre.
While we waited for the pizza, I continued the drawing I’d been working on. Ms. Jang Mirae spoke up.
“What are you doing?”
I showed her what I was copying. She recognized it at a glance.
“It’s ‘Sukjodo,’ right? Do you know who Jo Sok is?”
(Sukjodo: A traditional Korean ink painting of a bird grooming its feathers on a branch.)
She really is a university professor—she identified it immediately.
She still looks young, more like someone too young for her role. Impressive.
“I saw it for the first time today.”
Jo Sok was a painter who knew how to use a brush better than anyone.
The elegant shape of the branches and the grooming bird—it couldn’t be more charming.
“Wow. It’s identical. Do you always practice like this?”
“Yes. When I copy a piece, I begin to understand the artist’s intent—like why the composition is the way it is, the lines, the shading…”
“Amazing.”
“Isn’t this normal, though?”
She called something ordinary amazing—it felt strange.
“Well… many people copy, but not many think deeply about the intention.”
Copying without thought is meaningless.
But not everyone’s the same, so I nodded and picked up my brush.
“You must really like ink painting.”
She struck up conversation again.
“It’s simple but profound.”
“Hmm?”
“There’s no background, just a tree and a bird. It lets you focus on the bird, and the shapes are simple.”
“Mhm.”
She encouraged me to continue.
“But I’m not entirely sure where the bird is or what it’s doing. I think it’s grooming its feathers, but the book says it’s dozing off.”
“Yeah?”
“The way the branches are portrayed is also impressive. There’s no hesitation in the brushstrokes. It looks simple, but the texture can only be interpreted as wood. Even with all that’s left out, it’s still recognizable. That makes it worth studying.”
When I finished, Ms. Jang Mirae smiled.
“You’re amazing. You’re really smart, Hoon.”
Praise always feels unfamiliar. I get too much of it from Grandpa, but from someone else, it’s a first.
Maybe I was feeling a bit excited—because I blurted out something she didn’t ask.
“His son’s paintings are interesting too.”
“His son?”
“Yes. Jo Ji-woon. He painted a version of Sukjodo with the same composition as his father.”
I flipped a few pages and showed her Jo Ji-woon’s Maesang Sukjodo.
“You’re right.”
“The seasons seem different. And the expression is more delicate. He developed his father’s work further.”
“Wow. That’s really cool.”
They were a brilliant father and son—and also senior and junior artists.
I continued my sketch.
“Hoon.”
For some reason, she looked at me fondly and spoke.
“Would you like to join an exhibition with me?”
Did I mishear?
“An exhibition?”
“Yeah. It’s a group exhibition for people who haven’t presented their work before. I think your painting would be great. What do you think?”
I don’t know what she sees in me to suggest that.
But I can’t miss this opportunity.
“I want to do it.”
“Great. I like how decisive you are!”
She had a dazzling smile.
“Just prepare one painting for the exhibition by the first Saturday of next month. If time’s tight, you can submit something you’ve already done.”
I nodded.
I still had about three weeks. Plenty of time to paint something new.
“Then let’s make a promise.”
“A promise?”
“Yeah, a promise.”
I nodded again.
“First, no copying other artists’ work.”
Obviously.
“Second, draw what you love most.”
“No other conditions?”
“Nope. It’s not a themed show. You just need to make something that screams: This is Hoon’s painting!”
That makes sense.
In a group exhibition with many artists, your style needs to stand out.
A painting that’s most ‘me,’ huh…
“Grandpa.”
He was dozing in the massage chair.
“Grandpa!”
“Huh? What? Pizza’s here?”
“Can I use a canvas and oil paints?”
“Out of nowhere?”
“Yes. Is it okay?”
“Sure, go ahead. But why?”
“I’m going to paint in oils.”
“Haha. Done with ink painting already?”
“No. It’s still fun.”
“Then why the sudden change?”
“Ms. Jang Mirae said I should enter the exhibition.”
I turned my head to check his reaction, and he looked dazed.
He better not pretend he didn’t just hear that promise.
“Heheheh. You rascal. What’s with the ‘Mademoiselle’ and ‘Ms. Jang Mirae’?”
“What should I call her, then?”
I used her full name respectfully. A very proper title.
“Just call her ‘ajumma’~”
Isn’t that worse?
Feels a bit rude to call someone that on our first meeting.
“Teacher!”
Both Grandpa and I flinched.
That was the first time I heard her raise her voice like that.
“I’m still only 29!”
Grandpa avoided her gaze. They’re teacher and student—I bet she’s scary.
She looked at me and smiled.
“You can call me ‘teacher.’ I’m here to teach you painting from now on.”
Honestly, I’d prefer someone who just gets angry over someone who switches from angry to smiling so fast. That’s scary.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to decline.”
“Huh? Why?”
I can’t say it’s because I’m scared.
“I already have plenty of teachers. Everyone in this book is a teacher.”
I held up a book of ink paintings.
“There are things you can’t learn alone, you know. It’d be way easier with me teaching you.”
“But what Ms. Jang Mirae teaches isn’t necessarily the only right answer. Every viewer has their own interpretation.”
There are many painters I respect, but I’ve never sought them out for instruction.
Their ideals and philosophies are in their paintings.
No need for spoken words.
Words lose their meaning the moment they’re spoken.
I prefer to see as many paintings as I can, reflect, and choose for myself. I don’t want to adopt someone else’s logic without question.
If I thought the easy, correct path was the way, I would’ve joined an art academy long ago.
“Just looking at the paintings I love is enough. By copying them, I can understand.”
She looked stunned.
“Professor, is he really only ten years old?”
“Hahaha! He takes after me—sharp as a tack! Right, Hoon?”
“That’s not something to be proud of. What’s he going to do about college later?”
Mademoiselle Jang Mirae started worrying about my future.
“I’m not going to college.”
“That’s fine too.”
Grandpa always says everything I do is fine.
“Hoon, well… College is a great place to study art. Don’t you want to learn more? There’s so much to discover.”
“Everything I want is in paintings.”
“There are things that are hard to find or understand just by looking at paintings.”
“But that’s the fun part—discovering what’s hidden. If someone tells me the answer, what’s the point? I won’t look any further.”
“Ha ha ha! That’s true, that’s true.”
Grandpa laughed and chimed in.
“If I can’t understand it through the painting, I’m not interested.”
Ms. Jang Mirae slightly parted her lips, tilting her head.
“That’s not the kind of painting I want to do.”
To paint means…
To express what I want to say, what I wish for, my thoughts and feelings—through pictures, not words.
A painting no one understands is a lonely one.
I’ve felt that bitter loneliness deep in my bones.
Ms. Jang Mirae watched me quietly, then smiled.
“I see.”
She didn’t try to persuade me or insist she was right.
How many people can be so sincere, even when talking to a ten-year-old?
Paint like this.
This kind of work is trending now.
Your paintings have these flaws.
She’s a different kind of person from those who talk like that.
“That’s a shame. I really wanted to study art with you.”
Maybe I misunderstood her intentions.
“That’s fine.”
“Huh?”
“Painting alone is lonely.”
As long as it’s not a one-sided relationship—if we’re fellow artists—I’d love to connect.
Right after eating pizza, Professor Jang Mirae locked herself in the studio and observed Go Hoon working with oil paints in awe.
They had only spent about two hours together, yet it was clear how seriously the child took painting.
“He’s not just Haeseong sunbae’s son—he’s incredibly stubborn.”
Though she said it lightly, her eyes and lips were smiling.
“It runs in the family. So, Professor Jang, what do you think?”
“I’m worried. Even if he doesn’t go to art school, not having a diploma could limit him in many ways.”
Professor Go Su-yeol nodded.
“But we can’t force him either, knowing how tough entrance exam art prep is. He’s too gifted to be boxed into a system.”
Professor Jang Mirae had seen too many students worn down by exam-focused art.
Talented kids often lost interest trying to fit into rigid structures.
And this wasn’t just a problem in Korea.
Even when she studied in the UK and France, it was no different.
“What worries me the most is the current trend.”
The direction of contemporary art today was completely different from Go Hoon’s way of thinking.
Many modern artists didn’t want their work to be understood. Instead, they treated art as a topic of discussion.
It wasn’t about being misunderstood.
It was about not wanting to be understood.
Art that demanded explanation.
Thinking about how Go Hoon might struggle in that world filled her with concern.
Go Su-yeol, listening quietly, smiled.
“Well, who knows?”
“…What?”
“This twisted trend might shift someday. Isn’t that what you’re hoping for too, Professor Jang?”
“…I suppose.”
“No need to worry in advance. If you, your students, and kids like Hoon sincerely want art that communicates, the tide will turn again.”
He believed in the shocking impression his grandson’s painting had left on him.
Go Hoon’s work would be loved.
That’s what his decades of knowledge and his soul as an artist told him.
“But by the way…”
“Hm?”
“Why have we been speaking in French this whole time? Isn’t it uncomfortable?”
