[Autobiography-1] Father's Paintings

A room in an old apartment complex. The shadows of a parent and child stretch across the green carpet laid out in the living room.

When I was nine, I used to receive pocket money from my father to be a model for his paintings.

It was a pleasant, sunny Sunday in November. Outside the window were rows of yellow ginkgo trees and mackerel clouds.

A clear, endless blue sky stretched out.

I sat on a chair placed by the window where soft afternoon light streamed in. My father stood about two meters away, setting up an easel and facing the canvas.

"Rustle, rustle, swish."

He carved the figure of his second son, who was staring intently into the distance, into the milky-white surface with charcoal. His sharp gaze perceived the contours, shadows, and textures of his second son.

He moved his hands quietly, immersing himself in the painting.

Although it was difficult to remain still while holding my posture, being stared at in silence by my father, who rarely spoke, felt like a special ritual just for the two of us, and it was a happy time.

The image of my father absorbed in painting is etched into my memory as an object of admiration. All of my father's paintings have such a sense of life that they seem to move, and they convey his state of mind at the time he painted them.

Some of them are so captivating that you cannot take your eyes off them. It is a painting titled "Choir," painted in 1966 when my father, at 19, was aiming to make a living as a painter.

Thickly applied oil paints, dark and heavy tones of red, yellow, green, and black. People moaning in anxiety.

In the center stands a young man with vacant eyes, weakly appealing to something outside the frame.

The negative emotions emanating from the grieving and terrified people press upon me as I look at the painting.

A painting in which my adolescent father embodied his despair toward the world.

Why did my father look his own despair so directly in the face and paint it?

How was I at that same age? It was around the time I failed my art university entrance exam and was dumped by the girlfriend I had been seeing for two years. I was angry that the world didn't value me at all, but I was not in despair.

My father did not believe in Christ, but he would occasionally say this in a joking manner.

"God is dead."

However, on the other hand, there are also bright paintings that make the heart dance. One I particularly like is a portrait he painted of my mother when they were newlyweds.

The swift touch, the pale light blue of the background, and the pink of her lips resonate with each other. From the light-filled canvas, the excitement of a young man before his new bride and the joy of being alive come through.

An unfinished painting, sparkling like a jewel, with nearly half of the canvas primer still visible. It looks just like his own heart, rejoicing before a goddess.

Influenced by my father who painted, I, at 19, showed him my pencil sketches of riverbed landscapes and flowers, but I have no memory of ever being praised by him.

My father's drawings and mine were different from the very first line.

I drew countless pictures of friends and self-portraits, but I could never draw a living line like my father.

Seeing his son interested in art, my father seemed happy to say that.

By the time I turned 20, as I began to encounter what is called art, I found myself drawn to photography, which captures what is right in front of you exactly as it is.

With this, all I had to do was press the shutter button when my heart was moved. Landscapes that remained within me without fading. The intimacy with friends and lovers, the loneliness of being alone, events that stirred my emotions.

I wanted to photograph what was right in front of me like that. I thought that by combining the moments I didn't want to forget, my life would become a story. Maybe this way, my father would praise me.

I took the exposed film out of my newly bought SLR camera and gripped it tightly.