The barely six-pyeong studio apartment was a room that grew short of breath whenever the seasons changed. From the deepest, darkest crevice in one corner of the cramped room’s bookcase, I pulled out a weighty tin case. When I swept the pale dust from its surface with my palm, the silver-foil logo of a German brand glimmered faintly on the dark navy metal case.
Click. I flipped open the clasp and lifted the lid, and the bitter smell of hardened gum arabic and long-aged pigments rushed out. Forty-eight tiny squares, each hardened in its own white plastic pan. Cobalt blue, burnt sienna, sap green, opera rose... Those brilliant colors that once dissolved into clear, transparent hues with nothing more than a damp brush tip rubbed lightly across them had spent nearly ten years dried solid in the dark, asleep. The watercolor brushes in the leather roll pouch beside it were still neatly slotted into place.
When I was sixteen, I thought I would become a painter, or maybe a designer who shaped beautiful things. Our family hadn’t had much money, and even art academy tuition was a burden for Mom, but I begged her until she gave in and let me receive three years’ worth of birthday and Christmas presents in advance. That was how I got my professional-grade set of forty-eight solid watercolor paints. The cold smell of plaster casts at the entrance-exam art academy, the texture of water spreading clearly across paper, the days when I went to sleep every night with paint stains on my fingers.
But passion crumbled far too easily against the wall of talent. Paint the same apple, and on someone else’s drawing paper it became a living, breathing creature. On mine, it was nothing more than a densely colored round lump. “Inseon is diligent, but she lacks bold brushstrokes.” That autumn, when the director’s offhand remark made my heart drop, I came home with my practice-exam score report and set down my brushes for good. I turned away and ran back to studying the regular liberal-arts curriculum, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw away these expensive paints. Some part of me still believed that someday, when I had more room in my heart, I might pick up a brush again, even just as a hobby.
But at twenty-six, I was still unemployed, revising résumés while worrying about the rent on a single room, and the paints hadn’t held water even once in the past ten years.
I opened my smartphone camera and placed the paint case by the window, where the room got the best light. I opened the lid wide to capture the vivid arrangement of all forty-eight colors, carefully unfolded the brush pouch, and took a picture.
[For Sale] Holbein professional 48-color watercolor paint set + 5 Kolinsky brushes. Minimal signs of use, and the pigments are in excellent condition. The brushes have also been well cared for, with no shedding. The original price was well over 200,000 won, but I’m clearing out my room, so I’m letting them go cheap to someone who’ll really use them. I prefer in-person pickup so you can check the condition of the paints yourself rather than having them shipped. 35,000 won.
Less than ten minutes after I posted the listing, a bright notification chime broke the silence. Carrot! [Kim Haneul: Hello! Is this still available? I’m currently serving in the military, and I’m preparing to reapply to art school while I’m on leave. Would it be possible to make the deal tonight?] When I tapped the profile, the manner score was 38.9, and beside the username was the silhouette of a young man with a boyish face. The desperation woven into his words seemed to come right through the screen. [Inseon: Yes, it’s available. The paints are in great condition with no hardening. How about meeting at 7:00 at the bench by Marronnier Park in front of Exit 2 of Hyehwa Station?] [Kim Haneul: Yes! Thank you so much. I’ll see you at 7!] I closed the chat and stared at the paint case for a long while without closing it again. A piece of my awkward youth shimmered transparently across the hardened surface of the paints.
At 6:50 that evening, a chilly early-autumn wind rolled fallen leaves across the red-brick ground of Marronnier Park. As the streetlights flickered on one by one and cast a dusky orange glow, I set my bag down on the bench beside the large ginkgo tree where we had agreed to meet. Inside the shopping bag were the heavy paint case, the brush pouch, and a new watercolor sketchbook I’d found in my desk drawer before leaving home. Thick, 300-gram cold-press paper. If I left it behind, it would only yellow with age in some corner of my room anyway.
“Excuse me... are you Inseon from Carrot Market?”
I looked up at the cautious voice and saw a young man standing there with a close-cropped, chestnut-shaped haircut and a loose khaki field jacket. His cheeks were flushed red from the cold wind, and he was holding a convenience-store plastic bag.
“Yes. You’re Kim Haneul, right?”
“Oh, yes! You got here early. I ran from the subway station because I was afraid I’d be late.”
The young man caught his breath, bowing his head repeatedly. We sat side by side on the bench, and I took the navy tin case from the shopping bag and handed it to him. He accepted it carefully, then opened the clasp as if he were handling a precious treasure. Under the streetlight, the forty-eight square paint pans gleamed into view.
“Wow... You took really good care of these. Honestly, at this price, I thought they’d be cracked from drying out, or that some of them would be completely worn down. They look brand-new.”
The young man’s eyes sparkled like the colors in the paints. The way his rough, work-worn fingertips gently traced the edges of the ultramarine and burnt umber pans revealed his deep love for art without a word.
“The sketchbook wasn’t part of the original listing, but it would just take up space if I kept it at home. Use it when you practice.”
When I took the thick sketchbook from the shopping bag and placed it on top, the young man jolted and waved both hands.
“Oh, no. This paint set and the brushes alone originally cost more than 200,000 won... I already feel terrible paying just 35,000 won. I can’t take this too.”
“No, it’s okay. If it stays with me, it’s just a stack of paper. But in your hands, it’ll become pictures.”
At my matter-of-fact words, the young man’s hands paused. He looked down at the paint case for a moment, scratched his short hair shyly, and began to speak.
“The truth is... I failed the art college entrance exam in high school and ran away into the military. I got rid of all my art supplies, telling myself I’d never draw again, but... every night while standing watch, I kept hearing the sound of paint spreading across drawing paper in my head. I’m a senior private now, and this is my last leave. Once I’m discharged, I’m going to take one more shot at it, without any regrets. Even if it doesn’t work out this time, I’ll give up for good then.”
The moment I heard his calm but firm voice, a corner of my chest began to ache. Ten years ago, I had suffered the same defeat, and the sixteen-year-old version of me who had covered up her paints and run away seemed to overlap with him. I had cowardly fled and left my paints buried in a corner for ten years, but this young man was brushing off the dust and preparing to take up his brush again.
“Don’t give up. I hear starting over is the truly courageous thing to do.”
At my heartfelt words, the young man smiled brightly and pulled four neatly folded 10,000-won bills from his wallet.
“Don’t give me change. It’s for the sketchbook. And... I bought these because I wanted to give you something warm on my way here. Please take them.”
Inside the convenience-store plastic bag he held out were two cans of coffee, piping hot as if they had just come out of the warmer. The warmth traveling through my palms gently melted the cold night air. We ended up laughing after a brief tug-of-war over the 5,000 won in change, and the young man walked away with the paint box held tightly to his chest. His shoulders were thrown back as he grew smaller in the distance.
When I returned home and opened the front door, the five-pyeong room was still cramped and silent. But when I took off my shoes and stepped inside, the heavy lump of darkness that had always occupied the corner of the bottom shelf was gone.
A small, empty rectangular space, roughly thirty centimeters wide and fifteen centimeters tall. I carefully wiped away the dust that had accumulated there over ten years with a wet wipe. Fluorescent light settled transparently over the clean, pale plywood floor.
I sat in my chair with the warm canned coffee I’d placed on the desk clasped in my hand. My smartphone screen flashed with a notification. [Kim Haneul left you a warm review] “The paints are in such great condition, and thank you so much for your warm words of encouragement. This time, I’m really going to paint in my own style without any regrets! I hope you’re always happy too, seller.”
I gazed at the message on the screen and popped open the coffee can. Its sweet, bitter aroma filled the room. Tonight, the first defeat and lingering regret of my school days were spreading again across someone’s drawing paper as the brightest first brushstroke. The room felt just a little lighter.