Chapter 13: Selling the Painting (1)
The third day of the exhibition.
Only nine people showed up on the first day—so few that I could remember each of their faces. But today, the number of visitors had grown.
By the morning alone, over fifty people had come.
For lunch, Grandpa, Jang Mirae, and I went to a place called a Chinese restaurant.
It gave off a smell I’d never experienced before.
“What do you want to eat, Hoon?”
“What’s good here?”
“Jjamppong might be too spicy for you.”
“I don’t like spicy food.”
“Alright. Want to try Jjajangmyeon?”
I wasn’t sure what it was, but since it was recommended, I figured it couldn’t be that bad.
I nodded.
“What about you, Teacher?”
“Hmm… Hoon, how about we get a shared dish of Jaengban Jjajang and split it with Grandpa?”
One thing I’d been noticing lately was that people really don’t know how to talk to someone who knows nothing at all.
“What’s Jaengban Jjajang?”
“It’s Jjajangmyeon served on a tray,” she replied.
“…So it’s just a different bowl?”
“It usually comes with more seafood.”
Grandpa looked to Jang Mirae for confirmation, and she nodded.
“Sir, we’ll have three servings of Jaengban Jjajang. Hoon, have you tried Tangsuyuk?”
“No.”
“One small Tangsuyuk, too, please. Oh, and a fork.”
After ordering, we looked around the restaurant. Grandpa’s smartphone rang.
“Click. Useless call.”
He muted it without answering.
“Who was it?” I asked.
“Some annoying guy won’t leave me alone.”
“Henri Marceau?”
“How’d you know that, Professor Jang?”
“He contacted me too.”
“That tasteless brat.”
“Still, he’s undeniably talented. A bit tactless, maybe, but… Did he say he wanted to buy one of your paintings?”
“I told him no.”
I didn’t really understand the conversation and let it pass, turning my attention to a long, thin drawing hanging nearby.
It looked elegant for a snake. It even had a beard.
“Anyway, I hope Hoon sells a painting,” Jang Mirae said, snapping me back to attention.
“You can sell them?”
I had hoped to, but I wasn’t even sure if this place dealt in art sales.
“Of course. You have to split the earnings with the gallery, though. Didn’t they ask how much you wanted to sell it for?”
No one had.
I shook my head. Jang Mirae tilted hers in confusion.
“That’s odd.”
Grandpa, who was in charge of the contract, stayed quiet. He probably knew, but he wasn’t saying anything. He must have his reasons.
Still, I was curious about the percentage.
“How are the profits split?”
“Fifty percent.”
That’s practically theft.
“Too much, right? These places can’t even run without artists, but they take advantage of how desperate newcomers are to exhibit at least once.”
So not just a thief, but a blackmailer.
“Is there a way not to split it?”
“Well, if you rent the place yourself and host the exhibition, then no splitting is needed.”
“Shouldn’t we just do that then?”
“There are reasons not to. Mainly, rental fees are expensive. For example, the gallery you’re exhibiting at now costs around 400,000 won per day.”
That’s a lot.
It’s a smaller space than Grandpa’s house, and yet you’d need the cost of fifteen potato pizzas just to rent it for a day.
“Also, unlike invitation-only exhibitions, people rarely come to self-hosted ones.”
“Why?”
“When you’re invited by a gallery, it feels prestigious. But if the artist spends their own money to exhibit, it feels like no one else wanted to invite them. That kind of vibe.”
Makes sense, even if it’s unfair.
“Plus, you have to handle all the promotions yourself. The gallery does it for an invitation show, but if you rent, promoting the event is entirely on you.”
“So it’s more than just renting a space.”
“Exactly. So the 50-50 split is problematic, but somewhat understandable.”
If it’s within reason, maybe there’s room to negotiate.
“But you’re learning Korean really fast. Is it because you’re young?”
“It’s because of dictation.”
“Dictation?”
Grandpa let out a guilty cough. Seems like he realizes betting potato pizza on dictation contests might be morally questionable.
“Well, now you just need to learn English. Unless you’re planning to stay only in Korea, English will help.”
“I can already speak it.”
“Huh?”
“English, Dutch, French, German. Even Latin.”¹
Jang Mirae placed her hand under her chin and tilted her head, clearly doubtful, eyebrows scrunched up.
“How much do you hope to sell your painting for, Hoon?”
She asked in English about how much I wanted for Sunflowers.
Her accent was slightly off—maybe a regional dialect, or perhaps a generational difference like Grandpa’s French.
Either way, I’d worked hard on Sunflowers, and was proud of it. I wanted to sell it to someone who recognized its worth.
“It turned out well. I’d like to sell it to someone who truly appreciates it. At the very least, it should be worth 50 potato pizzas.”
Jang Mirae looked shocked.
It’s not that expensive, but since I’m a newcomer, I’d settle for about 40.
“Did you learn English in the UK?”
“What?”
“Your English—it’s very posh.”
To sell paintings in the UK, I had to use their kind of English.
“This is standard. Your English is a bit odd.”
“Listen to this—this is how we do it in Canada.”
“Canada? You’ve been to America?”
“Yeah. But seriously, you’re amazing. How about German? Say something in German.”
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
“…Hello?”
“That’s all you know?”
“You caught me off guard!”
In Europe back then, especially for a salesman like me, speaking multiple languages was a given.
She seemed surprised a kid could speak several languages and kept testing me.
“Teacher, isn’t he a genius?”
“How’d you raise a child to speak so many languages? Hoon, your dad didn’t force you to learn, right?”
I shook my head.
“Really?”
“Your food’s here!”
Saved by the tray—Jaengban Jjajang and Tangsuyuk arrived.
With its thick, sticky sauce and dark red-brown color, it didn’t look especially appetizing.
Grandpa gave me a small portion on my plate.
“Thank you for the meal.”
Still clumsy with chopsticks, I used a fork and took a small bite.
The umami hit my tongue like a jolt.
A strange sweetness, a hint of salt, and an aromatic sauce that brought it all together.
The oddly shaped noodles carried a foreign nostalgia.
“Is it good?”
“Yes.”
Not as good as potato pizza, but definitely better than Grandpa’s usual cooking.
As I kept eating, I glanced up and noticed Grandpa just watching me.
“Eat up. It’s delicious.”
“I feel full just watching you eat.”
“That’s nonsense. You’ll get hungry. Eat!”
“Hehe. Hoon’s right, Teacher. Please eat.”
“Ahem.”
When I scooped some onto Grandpa’s plate, he finally ate.
“Now that I think of it, isn’t it weird, Teacher? You never told Hoon how much his painting would sell for.”
“I did.”
“But you knew! How much did you say?”
“Heh. That’s a secret.”
I looked up curiously, but he only patted my head—no intention of telling me.
“What’s the usual rate?”
“Well, new graduates usually get about 50,000 won per canvas unit.”
“What’s a canvas unit?”
“If 1 unit (size 1) is 30,000 to 50,000 won, and your painting is size 30, then it’d be around 900,000 won.”
That’s enough for 32 potato pizzas—a lot, but I was aiming for 50.
Still, for a newcomer, it wasn’t a bad price.
“It’s my first time selling—can I get that much?”
Excited, I asked, and Jang Mirae paused, looking at me like I was really just a kid.
“Guess you really are a kid.”
Grandpa just chuckled.
“Why?”
“900,000 won isn’t small, but it’s still less than what your painting’s worth. Even that reporter who came yesterday, and the visitors this morning—they were all mesmerized.”
“But that’s 32 potato pizzas! Enough for 256 happy meals if I eat one slice per meal!”
“With the cost of your materials, it’s probably worth 100 pizzas.”
“Huh?”
“I checked your studio. You’ve been using Rembrandt, Schmincke, Lukas, Holland, Maimeri… quite a lot.”
I had tested various paints to find what I liked.
“Schmincke varies by color, but one 15ml tube costs 10,000 to 30,000 won.”
I thought of the owl-emblazoned wooden box of paints—36 tubes, all used up.
No idea how much I’d spent.
“The owl box too?”
“Yep. That set probably costs 200 to 300 thousand won.”
They were soft, vivid, and pleasant to use, but I guess I can’t keep using them.
If each painting costs millions to make, even a rich person would go broke.
“Professor Jang, let’s stop talking about money now,” Grandpa said.
“Hoon, if there’s anything you want to paint, go ahead. I’ll get you whatever you need.”
“…Okay.”
Grandpa smiled warmly.
Maybe it’s selfish, but I want to do everything I can.
At least when it comes to art, I don’t want to compromise.
I want to learn as much as I can, then pour my entire being into it.
And if I need to borrow the money for that—even just for a while—I’ll gladly bow my head to finish the painting.
Because I don’t want to…
…live the same life again.
I don’t want to repeat the pain I caused Theo, my brother who sacrificed everything for me.
“I’ll pay you back by selling lots of paintings.”
“Ha-ha. You don’t have to. Just keep painting what you love. That’s enough for me.”
“No, I’ll repay you. When we get home, tell me how much the paint, canvases, and brushes cost.”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“What kind of grandpa takes money from his grandson? Stop being ridiculous and eat.”
“It’s not ridiculous. It’s important.”
“Tsk. Are you trying to make Grandpa mad?”
“Then I won’t paint.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because I’d feel bad. So please, just let me borrow the money.”
“I said it’s not a loan!”
“If you’d just agree to take the money, I’d feel better about painting! Why do you keep making it harder?”
“Don’t worry about it!”
“I am worried!”
“Where’d you get this stubborn streak from?!”
“Hehe, probably from you, Teacher. Right, Hoon?”
I nodded, grateful for Jang Mirae’s help.
“Good grief…”
Grandpa sighed and took a sip of water.
“Fine. Hoon, you know people must always keep their promises, right?”
“Yes.”
“Here’s the deal. Ask for whatever you need now, and repay me later—but not little by little. Let’s say 1 billion won at a time. Deal?”
“Wow… I wish someone said that to me.”
We both looked at Jang Mirae, who genuinely looked envious.
Looks like he’s trying to make it impossible to repay…
I’ll just have to rely on my experience as an art dealer.²
¹ Vincent van Gogh was fluent in English, Dutch, and French. He was also proficient in German and had studied Latin to become a pastor—he was an intellectual of his time.
As a Dutchman living between England and France, learning the languages of major powers was almost inevitable. As an art dealer, he had even more reason to be multilingual.
² Art dealer (화상, 畵商): A person who sells paintings.
Van Gogh worked for the art dealer Goupil & Cie from age 16 until his dismissal in 1876.
