Chapter 92 (2) - The Mysterious Art Museum

Chapter 92 (2) - The Mysterious Art Museum

"."

Although Kwang-ho shrugs off Jeong-min's arm, he eventually gives in with an annoyed expression.

"Fine, but only for a moment."

"Yes, a moment is enough."

Kwang-ho closes his eyes.

After waiting briefly, Jeong-min takes his hand and places it on the painting.

Through his fingertips, Kwang-ho feels the depiction of Sangam-dong's World Cup Stadium, drawn by Jeong-hoon.

Unaccustomed to using his sense of touch as his primary sense, Kwang-ho finds this experience unusual.

Then, Jeong-min's voice reaches his ears.

"Central defender Kim Min-jae passes long to Son Heung-min, breaking down the right flank! Ah, ah! Son Heung-min traps the ball smoothly like soft tofu and runs! He shakes off the trailing defenders and through!!! Jo Kyu-sung! Jo Kyu-sung's head shines, heading! It's a header goal, goooal!!!"

Kwang-ho knows this scene. He also cheered in front of the TV with chicken and beer at this moment.

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Kwang-ho, still with his eyes closed, thinking of reopening them, hears Jeong-min's gentle voice.

"Do you remember this scene?"

"I do, I don't watch the K-League, but I watch international matches."

"Yes, we all remember. Except those who haven't seen it."

"But?"

""

""

Jeong-min releases Kwang-ho's hand and asks,

"Do you still think this painting has no meaning, passion, or emotion?"

""

Jeong-min looks at Kwang-ho for a long time, but he just silently looks at the paintings.

Knowing how important the time of contemplation is for an artist, Jeong-min leaves Jeong-hoon's area with a slight smile and without a sound.

Kwang-ho, standing alone in the middle of the square area, stares at Jeong-hoon's paintings for hours before slowly walking out, opening the curtain. His expression has changed from when he entered.

Outside the curtain, Kwang-ho looks back at Jeong-hoon's area.

Then slowly bends over. Pouring all his sincerity into it.

Raising his head again, Kwang-ho looks at Jung Hoons section and murmurs to himself.

Every piece of art is judged by its era, and the deepest imprint on an artist is that of the era. The era is the people and their thoughts. The judgment of the era is that of those living in it, not of people 100 or 200 years later.

Kwang-ho smooths his hair back from his forehead. The dark, always angry look on his face changes in an instant. Not smiling brightly, but with a previously unseen smile, Kwang-ho says,

I had forgotten that.

Kwang-ho smiles slightly as he looks around the lobby.

Thank you.

His thank you, directed at no one in particular, echoes through the lobby of the theater, leaving a lingering resonance.

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