City of Wind

Through his bedroom window facing North Michigan Avenue, the John Hancock Center — famous as one of the best spots to enjoy the Chicago skyline alongside the Willis Tower — stood directly in front of me.

The spacious living room, with windows facing north and east, offered a cooler, more expansive view. Beyond the John Hancock Tower and the buildings of another world-famous chain hotel, the horizon of Lake Michigan, which looked like an ocean, was faintly visible. To the east, the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art lay within easy reach.

From my room — the other bedroom within the same suite — the dazzling panorama of the Magnificent Mile, famous as a shopping street, could be seen directly through the south and east-facing windows.

Yuni had briefly shown a surprised expression when she realized he and I were staying in the same suite, but she seemed to arrive at her own conclusion soon enough — that with two bedrooms and two bathrooms, there was no need for a separate room — and the surprise settled into acceptance. Perhaps she forgot her minor suspicions easily, delighted by the first-class tickets and five-star hotel room he had prepared like a surprise event.

The travel party for this business trip consisted of five people in total: Shushu, Yuni, him, myself, and the driver. Thanks to his consideration, all five of us were able to travel comfortably in first class. When Yuni mentioned that a round-trip first-class ticket to Chicago usually costs around twelve million won, I couldn't quite feel at ease about it.

In any case, unlike me — who was pointlessly nervous and watching Yuni's reactions — he seemed completely unconcerned with the situation, signing the check-in documents on the sofa in his suite's living room rather than at the lobby counter.

Even with the driver there, that was one thing... but with Shushu and Yuni still in the same living room, he stroked my hair and asked about the afternoon schedule in a voice tinged with a particular warmth, causing me to dart my eyes around and stammer through my answer.

Perhaps he truly didn't mind if things became known to those around us naturally. Come to think of it, deliberately announcing that we were dating did feel rather unusual.

I recalled the advice from Juhan, who had told me that he wasn't a suitable romantic partner and that if I was nursing an unrequited crush, I should give up quickly. I wondered what his reaction would be if he found out I was actually dating the very person he had warned me about. And what about Yuni and Manager Han...?

Feeling awkward about even lightly worrying over such things, I puffed out my cheeks, let out a long breath — huuh — and picked up my pencil again. I was sketching the Chicago downtown skyline as the sun was setting. I waited for him by his bedroom window while he finished showering.

"So, you spent the entire afternoon at the Chicago Art Institute?"

He emerged from the bathroom connected to the inner walk-in closet, wearing a robe, and asked with a smile. Even the simple, everyday gesture of lightly running a towel through his wet hair made my chest flutter inexplicably.

Feeling a little embarrassed — the plan I'd told him about beforehand had been quite ambitious — I nodded and managed a faint smile.

He leaned against the wall at the entrance to the long, corridor-like dressing room, both hands tucked into the front pockets of his robe.

"The scale is different from a regular gallery."

His words were true.

Although the title of being one of America's top three art museums didn't particularly appeal to me, I figured there had to be a reason people inevitably sought the place out in Chicago, where numerous galleries of various characters operated actively. The museum was divided into two buildings — a main building and a modern wing — and housed approximately 300,000 works.

"Even though I tried to look around diligently... I couldn't even get to the first floor and the basement of the main building, let alone the annex."

We'd arrived at O'Hare Airport around 10 a.m., and by the time we checked into the hotel room, it was noon. Shushu — the star of this trip — along with him and Yuni had meetings scheduled immediately with the gallery hosting the exhibition, with no time to catch their breath.

I had planned to explore the Chicago Art Institute and two other nearby galleries before they returned to the hotel to prepare for the VIP opening party that evening.

But it was an unreasonable schedule. I couldn't even finish seeing the Chicago Art Institute properly.

He seemed surprised to see me express disappointment — a rare sight. He tilted his head for a moment, watching me curiously, then playfully waggled his index finger before disappearing into the dressing room first. I stopped agonizing over how to capture the city lights — which grew more dazzling as the natural light faded — in just a sketch, and followed him inside.

He was choosing a party outfit in front of the innermost wardrobe. I awkwardly perched on the velvet bench situated between the dresser and the full-length mirror, directly across from the bathroom entrance.

"How was it? If it were Seo Yeehyeon, I think he'd have liked the second floor of the main building the most."

I chuckled and rubbed the back of my neck at his accurate guess. The second floor of the main building he mentioned housed European paintings from the 15th century onward. Many familiar works I'd often seen in my parents' art books were there. Back then, like a child picking out illustrations, I hadn't bothered checking the artist's name or the title, but this time was different.

I lingered in front of pieces that piqued my interest, photographing both the artwork and its caption on my phone — photography was permitted at the Chicago Art Institute — and committed the names of artists who left a strong impression to memory.

Picasso, Monet, Rembrandt... I lingered a long time before the works of painters whose names even someone as ignorant as me had heard, whose pieces I recognized without realizing they were theirs.

Even in a single line, one could feel the mastery accumulated through countless hours of practice — lifetimes willingly mortgaged to the work. Before the colors and brushwork that couldn't be achieved through shallow technique or clumsy imitation, and the profundity granted only to those who had dedicated their time without pretense, I even felt something close to reverence. These were not painters whose genius was recognized only posthumously through sheer good fortune.

"Honestly, I tend to value content over form, so I've always found modern art — with all its radical forms — difficult to understand. I unconsciously kept my distance from it. But walking through the galleries today... I realized that not all modern artists try to convey their message through shocking forms. In a way, it's only natural that there are many different kinds of painters... I think I held prejudices based on my limited perspective."

I confessed this while my gaze drifted toward his back as he stood naked, having removed the robe, and pulled on black boxer briefs that clung tightly to his firm thighs. After donning his underwear, he began styling his hair in front of the mirror atop the dresser, which reflected only his upper body. I leaned my temple against the corner of the dresser, looking up at him.

Among the modern artists whose work had impressed me most, I told him about Edward Hopper's Nighthawks.

Though it was entirely my own impression, the composition — characterized by long, bold straight lines cutting across the canvas — struck me not merely as a stylistic choice for visual impact, but as a form carefully considered by the artist to effectively carry meaning. For me, someone who tends to neglect form in favor of content, it offered a fresh sensation, as if I'd discovered a small breakthrough.

Even if it was common knowledge that everyone else already understood, each moment of such realization was precious to me — I had, until now, been confined only to my own world when it came to painting.

It brought back the excitement I'd felt as a child, around the time Manager Han and I used to paint together. That thrill — how much fun it was to see and express the world through art, and to encounter yet another new world in that process — felt like it was newly dividing within me.

Having finished his hair and put on a shirt with darts across the chest, he leaned against the wardrobe opposite me, listening as I spoke, then tilted his head and said,

"I thought it was surprising that you'd be interested in someone as quintessentially American as Edward Hopper... but then again, maybe not."

"......"

"It was Hopper's belief that great art is the perfect expression of the artist's inner life."

Smiling faintly, he went on to share other interesting stories related to Hopper — films like Shirley and Carol, which used his works as motifs or paid homage, and a collection of short stories called Light and Shadow, written by seventeen authors, each inspired by one of his paintings.

"Hopper's Room in Brooklyn is on display at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. If you're interested, we could take some time during this trip to go see it."

He said this while fastening the buttons on the front of his shirt.

After our four-day Chicago trip concluded, instead of returning to Seoul with the others, he and I were scheduled to head to Boston. It was a short three-day trip to visit the couple who had been like mentors to him during his youth — people he had stayed with for about two years.

Chicago and Boston were only about two hours and twenty minutes apart by plane, and he'd said it wasn't that far within the US. Since it had been a long time since he'd last seen them, he really wanted to pay his respects this time, and had asked if I could come with him. If it was an opportunity to meet people important to him and get to know him more deeply, I had no reason to refuse. I also couldn't deny a quiet anticipation for a trip that would be just the two of us.

After fastening his shirt cuffs, he put on the trousers of a tuxedo suit he'd selected from several options and crossed in front of me to adjust his appearance in the full-length mirror. It was a trendy, sharp-looking suit that emphasized his broad shoulders, trim waist, and long legs, rather than being classic. His preparations were almost complete. Outside the window across from the bed, the Chicago nightscape — the sun now fully set — was sparkling gold.

He passed by me again, opened the top drawer of the dresser, and placed his hands on his hips. Scanning the various ties and scarves neatly organized by his personal staff, he spoke.

"After Hopper passed away, his wife Josephine donated all the works in her possession to the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York. The Museum of Modern Art and the Metropolitan Museum also hold major works by Hopper. Well, New York... it is the ideal city to encounter works not just by Edward Hopper, but by artists from many countries and eras."

The last comment sounded a bit like a New York tourism slogan, but it didn't seem to carry any particular hidden meaning.

He held up two ties with very different characters: a wide, dressy black silk tie and a small black bowtie that gave off a sleek, intellectual vibe. He alternated between them, holding each against his shirt and checking in the mirror.

Then, after standing up his collar and tying on the bowtie, he looked down at me and smiled faintly.

"It's only been a few hours since we were apart, and so much has already changed in Seo Yeehyeon. Are there other thoughts you're hiding from me?"

I let out a soft laugh at his tone and pressed my thumb into my right palm as if massaging it — an action born of shyness. I was terrible at putting my organized thoughts or resolutions into words, but his help up to this point had been immense. He deserved to hear it. Actually, I wanted to share it with him.

"The time I've spent not drawing until now... it feels too wasteful."

The hands adjusting his shirt collar slowed. He turned toward me and smiled softly.

"That's the best kind of stimulus."

I returned a faint smile toward him, who had understood the meaning of my words perfectly.

"I'm not exactly quick-witted... For me, painting is like a language. I know I have to use it consistently, every day without fail, and as often as possible, so that it becomes part of my body rather than just my mind."

He stopped preparing, leaning against the edge of the dresser, assuming a posture that said he was ready to listen seriously.

"I thought... at the very least, I should devote the same number of hours to painting each day as a regular office worker spends at work."

"......"

"Because now... I'm a full-time artist."

He smiled when I added that, trying to lighten the weight of my too-serious tone, but his eyes were complex, lost in thought. He straightened up from leaning against the dresser and crossed his arms, leaning back against the antique bathroom door opposite me — the one designed to open on both sides.

"This is a project I've been thinking about for a long time..."

He moistened his lips with his tongue, paused, and rubbed his left upper arm with the right hand crossed over his chest.

"I'm thinking of opening a U.S. branch of Phantom."

"......"

His tone was calm — he was trying to deliver it as if it weren't a big deal — but he couldn't entirely hide a sense of gravity or caution. I, too, widened my eyes and felt my shoulders stiffen at the sudden announcement.

"Since New York is one of the most influential cities in the global art market... it would probably be there."

He chewed on his lower lip as if hesitating.

"It's not a simple matter, so I can't move on it right away, but I plan to push it forward as quickly as possible. If that happens... I'll leave Seoul to Manager Han... and I'll probably be overseeing the branch."

His voice trailed off, and his gaze, which had been slanting toward the dressing room floor, shifted to me.

"The truth is, I wanted Seo Yeehyeon's debut to happen in the States — I wanted his activities to begin here. While this exhibition is somewhat informal for a debut, the gallery owners, curators, and collectors attending today's VIP party and tomorrow's opening event are the most influential figures in the industry, so it's practically the same as holding a real debut exhibition."

I was aware that he had personally negotiated with the hosting gallery to display about ten of my pieces alongside works by Phantom's other affiliated artists in a separate, smaller hall, distinct from Shushu's exhibition.

Back in Seoul, he had told me not to feel pressured — Shushu's exhibition was the main event, and the other ten or so pieces were merely supplementary.

But to hear that this was effectively my debut in front of world-renowned figures in the art industry... My mouth went dry. I could finally understand why Shushu felt uncomfortable with media exposure and being photographed.

Sensing my tension, he approached and gently stroked my cheek.

"This is just a test run since a good opportunity came along, so there's no need to be so nervous. There's no harm in letting them know your name — think of it as simply making an impression."

I nodded in his hand, but my heart was pounding.

"I want you to work in the best environment and under the best conditions, and I want you to receive recognition that matches that. That is the most certain support I can give you as a gallerist and as a dealer, Seo Yeehyeon."

As he spoke, stroking my lower lip with his thumb, his eyes and expression conveyed the firmness of someone who had already made a decision and steeled their resolve.

"It's not a simple matter, and a concrete outline won't emerge until next year at the earliest. If I move to New York... will you come with me?"

"..."

My reaction was subtle. It was sudden, but if my instinct wasn't wrong — if it wasn't just self-consciousness — it seemed like he was pushing himself for my sake. While opening an overseas branch might indeed have been his long-held dream, I sensed he was rushing it, at least partly because of me.

He looked down at me as I struggled to answer, narrowing his eyes. The hand that had been slowly tracing my lips pulled away, accompanied by a tight smile that couldn't quite hide his bitterness.

"You don't have to answer right away. Opening an overseas branch isn't something that gets settled in a month or two. You have plenty of time to think."

Even as he said that, his expression showed a clear disappointment that I was hesitating. But it wasn't because the decision was difficult that I couldn't answer, as he seemed to think.

With Morae and Yeehan gone, I had no lingering attachment to Korea or Seoul. The confession that I didn't want to be separated from him was not just a flippant remark made in the heat of emotion. I was ready to trust and support him, assuming this was a decision he had reached after careful consideration.

But the anxiety I sensed from him — his desire to rush the opening of the overseas branch — stirred up a vague unease deep in my chest. As far as I knew, he wasn't the type of person to become anxious before an important event.

Perhaps that image was just a fantasy I had created about him based on incomplete information. Getting tense when making a major decision is natural — was I perhaps feeling unnecessary anxiety?

Seeing me, my wandering thoughts clearly visible, he forced a smile. Then he returned to the dresser to finish getting ready, spritzing his shirt with cologne a few times. The heavy black bottle with its clean, linear design was one of the few fragrances he frequently used. Its deep, heavy, intense scent matched his presence.

"I kept the last day open, so we can go sightseeing together then and visit the galleries you missed today. Revisiting the Chicago galleries would be nice, too. This is my third time in Chicago, but I've always been here for work. There are many places I haven't seen yet, so I'm looking forward to it."

As he chose a watch from the second drawer and fastened it around his wrist, he deliberately lifted the tone of his voice.

"I'm sorry for asking you to come all this way and then leaving you alone."

I shook my head firmly toward his back as he took a jacket from the wardrobe and slipped it on.

"I'll be fine, so please focus on the exhibition."

Having finished getting ready, he turned to look at me with a smile, and for a moment simply stared. Then he slowly turned back and walked toward me. I unconsciously lowered my breathing at his flawless appearance.

He cupped both of my cheeks, gently lifting my face so I had to look at him.

"You're so understanding and thoughtful — you're perfect... so why do I keep wanting to see the needy side of you, the Seo Yeehyeon who throws tantrums?"

"......"

"The one who wishes I didn't have to go to parties and could just stay together. The one who wishes this was a trip for the two of us instead of a business trip. That Seo Yeehyeon who sulks and won't let go of me."

His wishes were always this specific, and the expression on his face as he joked was so seriously sincere that it made me laugh. He chuckled along with me.

"Well, if I actually started throwing tantrums like that, I wouldn't really be Seo Yeehyeon anymore, would I?"

I gripped his hands holding my face and rubbed my cheek against his palm, which smelled faintly of cologne.

"If I actually acted that way, you might change your mind."

He looked at me briefly with an unreadable smile and muttered, almost to himself.

"...I wonder if that's true."

I looked up at him — his expression bitter, as if he were the only one tormented by irrational feelings and childish desires — and pressed my forehead against his firm lower abdomen. With just a hint of resentment.

"If I start thinking like that, I won't want to be apart... so I hold back too."

His hand stroking the back of my head made my lower belly tingle. I thought about how much I was looking forward to the journey to Boston, when we would finally be alone together after all the schedules were done. I almost confessed how childish I felt, but instead I firmly bit my lower lip, let go, and raised my head.

"Just remember this: I will always welcome the Seo Yeehyeon who isn't holding back."

He bent down and pressed his lips to mine. A sweet sigh escaped at the light brush of lips before he reluctantly pulled away. Smiling, he ruffled my hair, checked the time, grabbed a few belongings — his phone and cigarettes — and left the dressing room.

"I'll head straight to the venue from the gallery, but Yuni will stop by the hotel because of Shushu. You can go with her."

"Won't Shushu... be attending the after-party?"

As he led me by the hand toward the entrance, he paused and looked back at my question.

"Well... the official part ends with the party at the gallery. It's hardly an after-party — it's more like a small private gathering I'm hosting for just a few people, so Shushu isn't obligated to attend."

In contrast, I was exempt from attending the party at the gallery but had agreed to attend the more intimate gathering afterward. He had given me the chance to exhibit my work overseas and said there were people he wanted me to meet, so I couldn't refuse that either.

He stopped in the hall near the front door after we passed through the short corridor, released my hand, and wrapped his arms around my waist.

"If you come to the party, you'll inevitably get nervous and barely eat anything. Make sure you order dinner via room service before you come out. If you skip a meal, I'll end up having to prepare everything for you again, just like before."

The memory of Hong Kong, where he'd arranged for both local and Western meals to be prepared, came to mind. I touched the breast pocket of his jacket, smiling silently.

"Inwu also said it's important not to skip meals. Since you'll probably have to drink a little at the party too. And make sure you take your medicine."

The results from Inwu's examination confirmed it was just mild gastritis. He said it was likely stress-related — not serious right now, but I needed to be careful to prevent it from becoming chronic. He'd also recommended several supplements, which I was taking along with the medication.

He insisted I take them diligently, saying he wanted to see me take good care of myself. He always personally organized my daily medication and supplements into a divided plastic case that could hold a week's worth.

"You know I won't worry you about things like that. Shushu must be waiting for you."

When I smiled and pushed him toward the door, urging him to go, he shrugged with a playfully disappointed look.

"Before, you used to beg me not to go see Shushu."

I hurriedly ushered him out, hiding my face — which was heating up from that embarrassing memory — and pushed him through the entryway. Just before he completely disappeared beyond the door connected to the private elevator, he stood in the opening, dressed impeccably, and said with a serious expression:

"See you later. Don't dress up too beautifully."

I shook my head, thinking: Look in the mirror before you say something like that, Director.