“……”
The Portrait asked Yoo Seongwoon, who was silently staring at the canvas,
“What exists in this place?”
“…Nothing. There are only glaciers and snow.”
“Then there are glaciers and snow. What do they look like? If they are cold, how cold are they?”
“Who can say? A Garden’s form is constantly changing….”
Yoo Seongwoon stared at the snowfield on the canvas.
“I may have seen it look like this somewhere before.”
Simply gazing at it made his stomach churn.
It was his Garden. His snowfield. A frigid world in which snow fell downward and upward alike, making heaven and earth impossible to distinguish. A place where, in silence or even when it was not silent, closing his eyes allowed him to hear the beat of a heart….
His fingertips tingled. His heart pounded. Heat and restlessness began at the extremities of his limbs and surged up until they filled his eyes. A strange longing, as though he had lost something.
“…It feels incredibly real.”
“You flatter me. How could these lumps of paint feel real?”
“It’s certainly far removed from an actual landscape. This isn’t a photograph, after all.”
“You are correct, Mr. Yoo Seongwoon.”
“But why do you think paintings exist?”
“Unlike a photograph, which captures nothing more than objective fact, a painting can leave behind an impression.”
“Yes. Impressions. Emotion. The heart. Things like that.”
That was the difference between a photograph and a painting. A painting contained time and spirit, and left room for interpretation. That story was precisely what made every form of art and every work in the world precious.
“Do you feel the same emotions I do?”
“Who can say?”
“How can you paint the world exactly as I felt and saw it?”
“Who can say about that either?”