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Chapter 92 Part 2 - The Mysterious Art Museum

A street artist's life changed when he ended up at a mysterious art museum. DBT,Korean,Novel,Translation,Art,Artist,Slice of life,Poor to Rich,Mystery


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.

"What are you doing?"

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."



Jeong-min swallows her words.

After a brief silence, she speaks.

"There are people who remember every scene only by sound."


"And today, those people felt every scene they only remembered by sound."

Kwang-ho's eyes slowly open.

He turns his gaze from the World Cup Stadium in Sangam-dong he was staring at to other paintings.

Jeong-min follows his gaze, adding explanations.

"On the iron plate depicting the streets of Itaewon, it says, 'You heard in a drama, right? There's still a bar where Park Sae-ro-yi's shop in 'Itaewon Class' was, and many young people come. If you go around it, there are still many foreigners taking pictures with Yongsan as a backdrop on the overpass.'"


Jeong-min still holding Kwang-ho's hand, says,

"You're right, Mr. Artist. Art is about expressing the joy, pain, and sorrow from the artist's soul. But we don't create art for ourselves. We create art for someone who sees our work."

For others, not for me.

Where does the purpose of art truly lie?

Not every artist creates for others.

Everything is made for oneself. However, every artist wants their work to make others feel, be happy, and be sad.

Then, what is the essence of art? For me, or for others?

Kwang-ho, deep in thought, hears Jeong-min's voice.

"Many depict marginalized groups. There were also many painters who held free exhibitions for them or tried to incorporate art into their lives. But none of them showed what the marginalized truly wanted. They only tried to make them understand real art, just like you said."


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 Hoon’s 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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