Alienation 2

Without realizing how many times I had checked my phone, I let out a long breath and set it down beside me. To distract myself even slightly, I got out of bed and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window.

From Tsim Sha Tsui at the western tip of the peninsula to Kowloon Bay in the east, the view spread out before me without obstruction.

When people talk about the Hong Kong night view, the panorama overlooking the entire city from Victoria Peak is generally the most famous, followed by the view of the main island — densely packed with high-rises — seen from the peninsula side. Nuna and hyung had told me as much, but for me, the scenery right before my eyes was more than enough.

The buildings clustered so close to the harbor, and the lights illuminating the edge of the port, were different from the harbor view I used to see from the slope near my grandfather's house — and different, too, from the Seoul nightscape I had looked down upon from the wooden platform of my rooftop room.

It feels like proof that I have come to a place incredibly far away — a place entirely unplanned in my life until now — and that I'm being exposed to a completely unfamiliar situation.

This room was the same. Even after staying here for two nights, it still felt strange and awkward, as if I had been invited into someone else's dream.

Over the past few months, my environment had changed multiple times, the people around me had shifted, and unexpected events and experiences had piled up… and now I had drifted all the way to this unfamiliar city. I couldn't believe that entire journey was actually my past. It felt as unreal as the Hong Kong night view seen through thick glass.

— ♬

I turned around.

Unlike usual, my phone — set to ring — was emitting light from the bed, playing a monotonous melody. My heart vibrated in response, telling me this was not someone else's dream. Goosebumps prickled all over my body, from my back down through my armpits and sides. Perhaps the only truly vivid sense of reality was the reaction my own body was showing.

At least in this moment, even if it were a dream, it was my dream.

"…Yes."

[Come downstairs. I'm at the main entrance.]

His voice sounded just like it always did.

That was the entirety of their conversation.

After taking a deep breath, I left the room.

I quickly strode across the elegant hallway adorned with beige marble, through the elevator hall, and across the grand lobby where well-dressed people were coming and going — brushing down my exposed arms beneath my short sleeves.

Stopping in front of the main entrance, I scanned left and right, looking for him or his car, when one of the doormen approached and guided me: "Liu-ssi is waiting."

Waiting near the hotel entrance was a different car from the one I had taken from the airport to the hotel. It was much smaller, but it was also a luxury vehicle.

He was sitting in the back seat, which the doorman opened for me. He, in the inner seat, tilted his head slightly as if to say, get in quickly. Once I had awkwardly settled in, the doorman closed the door, and the car — waiting with its hazard lights on — began to move smoothly. Unlike the Phantom he had driven himself last time, this car had the steering wheel on the right side to suit Hong Kong's road conditions, and a middle-aged man I didn't recognize was behind the wheel.

"We'll end up drinking with those guys anyway. This is the person who will be driving us today."

"Yes…"

He must have noticed my uneasy mood, because he introduced me to the driver. I greeted him briefly in English, and the driver — who had a gentle impression — turned slightly and acknowledged me with a quiet nod.

Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung had already gotten ready and gone out, determined to enjoy Hong Kong's Friday night. I had told them I would rest a bit longer at the hotel and contact them later. His plan was for me to meet up with the two of them after seeing Teacher Suki Kim.

"Did you eat anything in your room?"

Perhaps finding my hesitant manner while greeting the driver amusing, he let out a soft chuckle and asked. He was fiddling with a camera — not very large, the kind that fits perfectly in the palm of a hand.

He had told us to use room service for anything we needed during our stay, but I wasn't in a state to swallow food. I didn't even feel hungry. I fiddled with the zipper of the bag I had set down beside my thigh and shook my head.

"There's no need to be so nervous. She'll put you at ease."

His words were reassuring, and I was grateful for them. I nodded slowly. His gaze lingered on my hand, still fidgeting with the zipper. It was the kind of look that suggested he might reach over and hold my hand to calm me down… though that didn't actually happen.

The car passed the hotel entrance and a large shopping mall, then began to climb the narrow incline into the Soho district. It was a street I had long wanted to visit, but right now I couldn't take it in at all.

"When you meet her… what would you like to do?"

"Ah…"

I turned my gaze, which had been drifting aimlessly out the window, toward him. The words I managed after that hollow little sigh weren't very coherent.

"Should I have thought about what I wanted to say beforehand?"

He had been leaning his elbow on the window ledge, his head resting against it as he looked over at me; he shook his head and sat up straight.

"No, it won't matter. Like I said before, she's someone who puts people at ease. Unlike me. Setting aside prejudice, it's genuinely quite a rare personality for an artist."

As he spoke, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from the drawer in the armrest between them. Then, after glancing out the window, he put the cigarettes back in their place and instead slung the camera's long strap around his neck.

The car was slowing on the bustling streets of Soho.

Friday night in Soho, with its mix of people from various races, was alive with music spilling out of numerous pubs and the laughter and shouts of people already in high spirits.

We got out in front of a corner building wedged between a steep incline and the building across the street. A café with a small terrace occupied the first floor, where a group of about five — a mix of Westerners and Asians — were cheerfully chatting over bottled beers at a terrace table.

"This way, please."

As I wondered whether we were really going to meet the artist in a place like this, he stepped ahead toward the stairs leading to the second floor. Instead of calling anyone, he unlocked the door lock at the stair entrance himself. Unlike the aged and worn exterior typical of Soho buildings, the interior was quite modern and minimalist.

I climbed the stairs — white enough to make me careful where I stepped — and arrived at a white door. The room I followed him into was entirely white. White tile floor, a white ceiling, white walls. In the very center sat a white table and chairs, placed in silence.

It brought back memories of my first time stepping into Phantom. But this was far from the strictness that demanded cleanliness and purity, insisting that nothing should be sullied even a little.

Just a few steps away the entire street was bustling, yet this space seemed filled with the bright light of midday. It was a white that reminded me of the warm, bright light that used to illuminate the living room of the old apartment where I lived with my mother and father.

"This is…"

"Suki Kim's studio."

"…"

"Sit and wait a moment. She'll be out soon."

I had expected to meet her at some external location he had arranged — a restaurant or somewhere — but I never imagined being permitted inside the studio of an artist like her.

Just the realization that I was in Teacher's studio was making my palms damp, yet he, having delivered this bombshell, calmly disappeared down the corridor behind him.

He told me to sit, but I only set my bag down on the table and remained perfectly still, staring in the direction he had vanished.

The sound of a door opening and closing, the footsteps of two people, the murmur of everyday conversation — someone lightly complaining and making excuses about something — grew closer. Then, at the end of the corridor, Teacher appeared with him.

"Welcome. It's a pleasure to meet you."

She's taller than I expected from her photos… That was the only thought I could manage. I couldn't believe the situation, and I couldn't tear my eyes away until she stepped forward and offered her hand. Afraid I had seemed rude, I quickly lowered my gaze and took the hand she extended.

It was a thin, gaunt, neat, and warm hand.

"I've heard about you from Awi and have been looking forward to meeting you."

Gesturing toward him standing a step behind her as she said this, Teacher then turned her whole upper body to look at him.

"Ah, and in Korea you go by Kun, don't you?"

He shrugged, thrusting his hands into his jeans pockets, as if what he was called didn't matter much either way. They seemed far more familiar with each other than I had anticipated.

"In Hong Kong, we make nicknames by taking one character from a name and putting 'A' in front of it."

That was Teacher's explanation as she turned back to look at me.

A small curiosity of mine had been unexpectedly answered.

Most people called him "Kun," but I had remembered Shushu using a different name at the VIP event. It was definitely "Awi."

If they had spent their student days together in Hong Kong, it wouldn't be strange for her to call him by his Hong Kong nickname. It might not be a term reserved to signal a special relationship — like a nickname between lovers or those in a similar position.

"The art fair must be tough — so hectic. You've worked hard."

Teacher lightly squeezed my arm as if in encouragement. The atmosphere was familiar, like people who had always chatted this way in this place. I sensed none of the wariness, sensitivity, or peculiar eccentricity sometimes seen in major artists.

"Oh, and Shushu's work is getting better and better, isn't it? I read an article in one of the art magazines here covering the 'Body to Soul' exhibition."

"I finalized an exhibition contract with a gallery in Chicago just today. All the Phantom-owned Shushu works we brought to the fair are heading straight to Chicago. Once they're up in Chicago, sales will follow — it's only a matter of time."

He, who had been quietly fiddling with the camera hanging around his neck and staying somewhat withdrawn from the conversation, leaned casually against the table as he spoke. His tone wasn't exactly excited, but he made no attempt to hide the faint smile at the corner of his lips.

Perhaps it was the collared T-shirt, jeans, and loafers — he looked significantly more casual and younger today than usual. His relaxed posture compared to when he wore a suit, and the small camera around his neck — which looked like a toy next to his frame — also contributed to that impression.

"You sound quite confident."

Teacher gave me a playful look, as if teasing him.

"The work is developing an increasingly strong Eastern influence, so they'll probably go wild for it over there. If we can get a brief appearance at the opening event, it'll generate even more buzz. A few interviews would be even better."

His comments were unexpected.

I knew he was a dealer who couldn't judge a work purely on aesthetic value, and as an owner he sometimes showed a frighteningly cold, businesslike streak when it came to marketing. But for some reason, I had thought Shushu would be the exception.

I knew that generating buzz through the artist's attractive appearance or factors outside the work was merely a tactic to boost Shushu's reputation and artistic value — it didn't mean he treated Shushu's art as merely a means to an end. There was no doubt that he genuinely valued Shushu's art. Nevertheless, his remarks surprised me.

"Oh my — your marketing is still as aggressive as ever."

This time, Teacher blinked her eyes wide and tilted her head slightly, as if seeking my agreement. I could sense she didn't fully approve of his approach, but she didn't voice any stronger opposition.

"We can't just keep standing here… I'm not much of a talker, so I don't have anything particularly good to say. If you're all right with it, would you like to take a slow look around my studio?"

Clapping her hands together as if calling for attention, Teacher made the suggestion. At the unexpected offer I instinctively looked for him with my eyes. He nodded, signaling it was fine.

"…It would be an honor."

"No need to call it an honor."

Teacher smiled, patting my shoulder.

Leaving him in the hall — where neither a potted plant nor a single painting was displayed — Teacher and I headed down the corridor from which she and he had just emerged. My heart was throbbing with so much tension and trembling it felt numb, but Teacher opened the studio door without hesitation, as if welcoming a long-awaited friend.

The studio was entirely white, just like the hall, but as a space where paintings were made, traces of hands and ink had naturally settled in every corner.

I might not know much about art history or the lineage of painters, but Teacher was another matter.

Having passed through various styles over the course of a long career, Teacher had been devoted solely to traditional Eastern painting using only ink for about three years now. Because of that, a heavy scent of ink permeated the studio.

It was difficult to gauge what it meant to be granted access to the studio of a professional painter — and one recognized as a master, no less. Yet I still remembered the jealous sense of alienation that the studio my parents had shared used to evoke in me as a child.

That space — where my mother drew her comics and my father painted with oils — felt like a secret realm that only the two of them could share and fully understand each other within.

In the living room or at the dining table, my parents were my parents, and I could feel them close — but the moment they stepped into the studio, I felt excluded from their world, a sensation that used to make me anxious as a child.

That place was entirely theirs, and it meant more than just a physical space.

The meaning a studio holds might differ for every artist, but for painters who pour themselves into their work, it must, at the very least, be a place where they confront themselves. The very act of stepping into Teacher's inner sanctum — a place so private that calling it merely private felt insufficient — was already something special.

The geographical sense of being in Hong Kong had also become meaningless. Come to think of it, the clamor of the busy streets outside was being perfectly blocked out.

"There's not much to see, really. I don't work with a wide variety of materials, so… this is just how I work."

"Coffee?" Teacher asked, offering me a mug. I thanked her and accepted the cup.

"Maybe I should have made it iced? When I drink iced coffee at this temperature, my body temperature drops — so I always drink it warm."

"No, thank you. I'll enjoy it just like this."

The scent of coffee mingled with the lingering aroma of ink in the room, where the ceiling air conditioner ran softly. Taking a sip, I cautiously continued to look around the space.

Whether the finished works were stored in another room, the only paintings visible were the large landscape currently in progress and a single portrait hanging on the wall opposite it.

Even if a dragon wraps its body around a mountain and hides its head, it is still a dragon.

Despite being unfinished, Teacher's landscape painting was overwhelming. It possessed the bold spirit that only a master who had spent a lifetime dissolving their own bone and flesh into their art could convey without pretense or boasting — and simultaneously, a tolerant magnanimity vast enough to embrace the entire world. I was so struck that goosebumps rose across my entire body the moment I stepped into the room.

Strangely, however, what truly captured my attention now was the painting on the wall above the sofa opposite.

It was a portrait rendered in colored ink, appearing almost like a watercolor, with soft, blurred lines between the strokes, giving it a childlike innocence. Yet it was unmistakably Teacher's work.

"Do you like it?"

Noticing my gaze, Teacher turned, looked at the painting, and asked. I nodded, holding the mug with both hands to feel the warmth of the coffee.

"I thought I knew almost all of your works… but I've never seen this one before."

My lips trembled slightly as I answered.

Teacher placed the mug on the table in front of the sofa and took the painting off the wall. It was roughly 8-cut in size — not very large.

"Take this painting."

"……"

I was too surprised to react. I stared at Teacher with wide eyes.

"Ah, no. Absolutely not. I couldn't possibly accept that."

Coming to my senses, I set the mug on the table and waved my hands in emphatic refusal. Involuntarily, the monetary value of Teacher's artwork flashed through my mind. Though I hated to think of it that way, I couldn't accept such an expensive gift.

Teacher approached the windowsill shelf, carrying the painting, and spoke.

"Yeehyeon-ssi, you're not very good with words either, are you?"

"……"

The question, coming from an unexpected direction, brought my feet to a stop. Teacher wasn't talking about common eloquence or social skills. This was about knowing what language was most comfortable for me — something a person meeting me for the first time wouldn't know.

"I'm the same way. So, please accept this as a letter, or a card, from me to you."

My open mouth just hung there, wordless.

"But, I really couldn't…"

I mumbled, arms hanging at my sides. Now that I wasn't painting, I felt even less deserving of that piece.

Teacher placed the painting on the shelf and turned toward me.

"That painting."

"……"

"Alienation was a comfort to Awi."

"……"

Once, because Teacher remembered Alienation.

And again, because the meaning that painting held for him was comfort.

Teacher's brief sentence made me stagger.

Did he like that painting, Alienation? "That night," I had asked him.

His answer came as he climbed onto the bed: "Shall I make you forget everything?"

I didn't refuse him, and at the peak of a pleasure that felt like my muddled mind was being stirred, I was able — just as he promised — to forget everything and sink into a deep sleep.

If that deep rest was the answer he had intended to give me, then I suppose I could take it to mean that he liked the painting. But that was only my speculation.

I never expected to hear the precise answer conveyed through words — here, through Teacher.

"Awi grew up seeing many excellent works, and while he owns pieces valuable both as a gallery owner and as a private collector, the work that has shaken him the most — perhaps — was Alienation."

Leaning against the shelf behind her, Teacher crossed her arms as if to comfort herself.

"When Alienation was released into the world as the cover for a famous author's Hong Kong edition novel, Awi was so displeased at having to share that painting with others, even in that form… He showed such obsession — he wanted the painting to exist only for himself."

These were unbelievable stories. For me, who had already had to endure considerable tension just at the prospect of meeting Teacher… these were beyond what I could handle. Yet I couldn't stop listening.

"Yeehyeon-ssi appealed to the world through his emotions, and people who spoke the same language understood and responded. Awi isn't a painter, but he is more sensitive to the language within paintings than anyone else. That's probably why he works in the gallery business now — even though he sometimes pretends to judge art only by its economic value."

At that point, Teacher let out a faint chuckle. That loose smile seemed to overlap with the set of someone else's mouth.

Teacher's gaze, which had been sweeping diagonally across the floor, returned to me.

"Yeehyeon-ssi's painting functioned, at least for one person, as a language they could understand. It offered a kind of empathy — that he wasn't the only one feeling alienation for a non-universal reason, a reason that no one — not even family, not even parents — could provide… Empathy for alienation."

Empathy for alienation.

That was the emotion I had felt in Teacher Suki Kim's critique.

Under two parents who maintained a good relationship and were understanding, I was supposed to be a perfectly happy child. Many people around me, even my friends, spoke as though that were my obligation.

That's not to say I didn't love them. On the contrary, they were the most precious to me, and I loved them — and for someone like me, who wasn't very outgoing, they were like my closest friends, even before the accident.

I was happy. It just wasn't the perfect happiness that people seemed to demand of me. I don't know if perfect happiness even exists, or what form it might take if it does.

For my mother, my father was the priority; for my father, my mother was. They absolutely needed each other to live as themselves. Sometimes, I simply envied friends who had parents who lived for their children. Very rarely.

There was a bond between them that I could never wedge myself into. And perhaps… that was the most important element in their lives. They spoke the same language, and they were the only two people in the world who spoke it.

No one can understand the alienation felt for such a non-universal reason. That's why I painted it.

Through that painting, someone other than Teacher shared those same feelings… and the fact that it was him — Liu Weikun, and no one else — suddenly felt like the final destination waiting at the end of my entire journey.

For a reason I couldn't quite articulate, a warm dampness welled up behind my eyes. I didn't know. At this moment, I could only call it an unknown reason. I clenched my fists, putting tension into my dangling arms, holding the tears back firmly. Showing emotion isn't necessarily weakness, but I didn't want to be sentimental in this moment.

Teacher unlinked her arms, straightened up from the shelf, and walked toward me. Then, placing both hands on my shoulders, she smiled and looked deeply into my face.

"Please accept this as a token of my gratitude."

Could Teacher be his mother?

Based on the atmosphere between the two of them, I had a suspicion, and as I listened to Teacher speak, that suspicion grew closer to certainty. It seemed unlikely that anyone other than family or a parent would know about his sense of alienation — a feeling that even his own family or parents couldn't fully empathize with. He wasn't the type to share his solitude with others.

Like a mentor from my childhood, Teacher gently cupped my cheek once, then let go, returning to the shelf to begin wrapping the painting.

"A very long time ago… there was something I thought was more important than painting. I believed I had to set painting aside for its sake, and so I didn't touch my brushes for about two years. When I stopped painting, a slump naturally followed. This piece was made at the end of that slump — it's something like a diary entry I never intended to show the world."

As Teacher wrapped the painting in paper with a texture similar to hanji and then tied it with twine, her hands slowed for a moment. She looked up at the window, which framed the Hong Kong cityscape horizontally like a long picture frame along the wall.

"I thought something inside me had died, and that was why I could no longer paint… but then one day, I thought: perhaps I am the one who died — because I had stopped painting."

Teacher, having tied the twine in a tight knot, stood before me again with the painting. She held it out and smiled.

"Not being able to truly be myself without going through painting… that must be what it means."

She apologized for not having more time to spare, but the sheer volume of what I had seen, heard, and felt within that brief period — barely thirty minutes in total — had already overflowed far beyond what I had expected or prepared myself for.

After a brief hug and saying goodbye to Teacher, when I stepped out onto the noisy street with him, I felt dazed, as if I had passed through some boundary separating dimensions. My senses couldn't keep up with the speed of the experience. It was similar to the state I had been in after waking up in his bed following the hyperventilation.

"Are you all right?"

I slowly raised my head at the sound of his voice. There were eyes looking down at me with concern from a spot slightly higher than mine. The fact that he was looking at me with such worry felt striking all over again.

No — it wasn't something new to be surprised about.

He was the one who had steadied me when I was hyperventilating and couldn't regain my senses — in a moment I don't even remember. When I finally regained my composure and came out of his bedroom back into the living room, the painting was already gone. He must have removed it intentionally, thinking it might be the cause of the episode. According to Teacher, he had removed a painting he cherished so much he was obsessively attached to it.

I had already known long ago that the initial hostility and defensiveness he displayed weren't his consistent, stubborn way of dealing with others. Even with Phantom's members or Inwu hyung, there were times he was cold — but that wasn't the whole story either.

In what way had I clung to him? How had he soothed, managed, changed my clothes, and laid me in bed — a person desperately clinging to him as if dying, even knowing they wouldn't die?

What was his alienation? What kind of alienation had made him empathize so deeply with Alienation?

I had thought that after meeting Teacher, I would only be able to think of her — but unexpectedly, I could only think of him.

"You must have expended a lot of energy… If you want to rest, I can take you back to the hotel. I'll make up some excuse for you to those two."

He was right. Though I hadn't physically struggled with Teacher, I felt completely drained, as if all the moisture had been wrung from my body.

But, why? I didn't want to leave him.

Even though I felt weak, excitement was building at the same time. Even if I went back to the hotel, it was obvious I wouldn't be able to sleep easily. I looked straight into his eyes and shook my head.

Why? A flicker of something like bewilderment crossed his eyes as he looked at me. Not the bewilderment of being troubled that I wasn't returning to the hotel. It was the look of someone unable to control themselves and revealing emotion — just like when he crumpled up the business card he had taken from me. However, it didn't last long.

"All right, then. Let's get in the car."

He didn't try to persuade me further.

For a moment he looked as if he were dismantling himself; then he quickly averted his gaze and brushed past me. He stood with the back door open, urging me with his eyes to get in. I followed the faint scent that briefly bloomed from his shoulder and climbed into the car.