𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘, Hyunjin

1.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Art is subjective. Everyone indeed sees things differently. A painting that is hanging on someone's wall might be interpreted in 5 different ways. The way shapes are formed on a canvas could tell a plethora of different stories. The way someone paints could tell a myriad of different experiences. Art is so based. Art is so broad.

Yet, not all art is appreciated. Not all art is seen as art. The way people express their paint strokes or shades with a pencil is not always seen with the beauty a beholder should have. Art is sometimes cast aside if it isn't pretty enough, or doesn't have a sense of aesthetic. Not even understanding one's emotions can't save a disfigured piece of art.

It's not uncommon to know that everyone in the world loves looking at viral art pieces and that everyone will not know the most renowned art pieces from centuries ago. Although they are famous, perhaps many people don't understand just what made them so great. I am one of those people. I don't get art at all. Paintings are pretty, and I can understand the stories they might tell and the hard work poured into them, yet I will never understand what makes them so valuable.

How does someone with a lot of money to spend look at a painting or a sculpture and decide they want to waste their money on it? Thousands of our precious pounds or won are going down the drain for some art that will do nothing but sit there in your home...

It's pointless to waste such money, yet people like that have money to waste. I don't, which is probably why I would never understand such a thing to waste money on. I believe a part of this misunderstanding between me and that certain group of rich art lovers, is because I see them paintings of the time.

Most of my days are spent as an art curator. I work in museums and art galleries and I provide my expensive luxury to those who want tours in some of Korea's most excellent art institutions. I speak art, I read art and I provide my intellectual interpretations of art. All my interpretations are based on others opinions of course. Speaking to such obnoxious rich people is practically earning me a living in Korea, and I can't find myself to complain.

The same faces on those canvases pass by me every day, and there have only been a handful of times when I've been based outside of my usual art gallery. I worked on quite a busy street in Seoul, yet most days I work in silence. There the one or two usual visitors who like to look at paintings and pretend to be a part of a world they're not. Then, we get groups of rich people and rich families who pay for my expertise in painting.

I work an average of 9 hours a day for 4-5days a week. A normal life for such a mundane person. It's nothing special, and I guess I like it the way it is. I can't complain seeing as I earn a comfortable amount and I don't always hate the people who come into the museum. There's always a handful of likable people who come inside and admire the work quietly enough they don't bother me.

When I'm not working, I research more art. Technically, my life revolves around my work and I have nothing better to do. At the ripe age of 23, I haven't ever had one friend that has stuck around long enough to have a long-distance friendship with. Growing up, I was never social enough to have 'proper' friends, never mind ones that would care enough to keep in contact after I moved across the world.

Entitled. I was entitled when I was younger because there was too much in my head. I was far too much into my own personal bubble and I certainly didn't like anyone entering it or disturbing the peace. I wanted to always be alone, and find my way by my own rules. I never wanted anyone's input, and I certainly didn't want someone to tell me what to do.

I say I was entitled, but not much has changed. I've been in Korea for 1 year now, and I still haven't made any friends. The person I talk to most to is the old neighbour above me who never makes any noise. Sometimes I think she might've died so I check on her once in a while to see how she's holding up. She doesn't have any family either.

Out of the 2 or 3 days a week when I'm not working, I find myself attending copious amounts of therapy sessions. Time seems to warp whenever I attend therapy. Hours of my life seem wasted away when I attend. I sit in groups sometimes, I listen to people whine and cry away their lives, and I say the same things every week.

"I'm depressed." I would say.

In my personal sessions, the same lady would put on the same delicate smile and she would tell me it's okay to feel like that because everyone does and I'm not alone. She says it so easily, and then nothing gets better. Every day, when the sun is up and my alarm clock strikes, I would wake up and struggle to get up out of the bed I sleep in.

Therapy doesn't work. Yet, I wonder if therapists see therapy as a sort of art. Is it truly in the eye of the beholder? Is therapy like a painting? Perhaps it's the opposite?

Art is in the eye of the beholder. Art is subjective. I look through my eyes, and I see no art. The world moves in swirls of the darkest colours which come from the bottom of everyone's shoes. The world is painted by an unstable hand that constantly shakes from depression, anger, and a deep sense of self-loss. That world is painted by me.

Oliver. A boy who is struggling to find out just what is that something in life that makes living  every day worth it?

xx

Hey ho! This is just a starter build up chapter for this new story! This story is definitely going to focus on some mental health issues, but more importantly a disability! It will be more understood in the later chapters!

As for my writing, I really want to improve and writing with more detail and realism so the chapters will be longer than I usually write and more realistic if possible!

I'm also not sure when I will release the 2nd chapter but I'll try to be quick as possible! Thank you!