𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘, Hyunjin

5.

Over time, oil paintings turn brown. All those bright colours get washed over with a brown layer due to natural aging and oxidation. Oil paintings are also affected by where they are stored, and the lack of intake of light. Restoring these paintings is important, and a must-do job at the gallery.

After cleaning up the grand expanse of the marble floor, I went into restoring to kill some time before the tour. I kept playing the tour in my mind, picturing how it could exactly go, and what I would say to the perfect syllable. In my head, if someone asked a question, I could answer it perfectly. I could only hope that it would go as I planned in my head.

A small golden clock in the restoration room was ticking, distracting me, reminding me that 1 pm wasn't long away. I placed a 1700s painting gently into the corner to finish the restoration another day. The thin rubber gloves came off my hands, and the mask covering my mouth and nose did too. They sat in the bin, discarded, never to be used again due to chemicals used to remove the brown tint off the paintings.

I came out of the restoration room and locked it behind me. There was a handful of workers at the gallery who had the qualifications to handle such precious paintings and restore them, I was the only one in today so I made the most of escaping the public. I walked to the front area of the gallery, where the people would gather and wait for the start of the tour.

There was only one person I could see as I walked over.

He was wearing a cap, and over his cap was a black hood. I felt incredibly uncomfortable as I walked over. His jumper was intimidating, with all types of graffiti art on it. His pants weren't any brighter, and he was screaming the 'gang' type more than the 'art type'. I couldn't afford to lose my job, and so I approached him cautiously.

"Are you here for the last-minute 1 pm tour?" I asked him quietly, not wanting to make him angry as he seemed more busy with whatever was on his phone.

I couldn't quite comprehend what I was witnessing. The intimidating person was the same man who had left me shell-shocked last night. A whole swoosh of nerves engulfed my stomach, making me feel queasy and almost like I wasn't in my own body. I could feel the whole plan in my head crumble just by his kind smile. I was distracted by the sight of him and all rationality of a plan escaped.

"Yes." He said, "I was told I could get a short tour..."

I looked away from his eyes as soon as I came back to reality. His eyes were so kind with the way they got smaller, and more sharp when he smiled. The way the skin under his eyes moved to make him seem friendly and approachable made me stutter in my thoughts. I couldn't look at him, I was too nervous to do so.

"Of course..." I muttered and tried to smile, "I'm Oliver, your tour guide."

I didn't see him acknowledge what I said, instead, I just moved forward. His footsteps were quiet but loud enough to let me hear that he was following behind me. I was aware that being a tour guide required a lot of talking, but making conversation to entertain someone was completely different, and he was alone so I felt the need to cut through some of the awkwardness I felt.

"Since you are alone sir, may I ask your name to address you more accordingly?"

My job required me to speak at different levels of Korean formality. For the richer guests, I use entirely formal language, ending my sentences with 'imida'. For other types of people, the polite versions of Korean I use to address them which often ends with 'yo'. I had never taken just one person on a tour before, and therefore I don't know how to address him. By his name? Do I not consider his name at all?

"Oh, sure!" He widened his eyes, caught off by my formality, "Hyunjin-imida. You don't have to be so formal."

I nodded and stopped at the first expansive room full of paintings. Many paintings in this room were painted during the Joseon dynasty in the 1600s. I turned to the man who was his own type of art, and he was already looking at the first painting. His eyes scanned over it, admiring the paint strokes, the colours, and the story it was trying to portray. He was admiring the history of his own country.

"Sorry, am I allowed to take photos?" He asked as I was about to start introducing the painting to him.

It took a few seconds to register what he asked, "Oh, yes. However, we only ask that you credit the gallery if you post them online."

He nodded and began taking photos of the painting. I watched him silently, not being able to find the right time to talk and announce all the knowledge I had of the painting. It threw me off and made the plan in my head go haywire. I tried to come up with a new plan of attack so that I could do my job correctly. If he doesn't want to listen, why did he pay for a quick tour?

"This painting in particular is called-"

"Jurchen Warriors." He finished and I looked at him in surprise.

From where we were standing, there was no possible way he could see the small label for the painting, which held the name and the artist, plus the year it was painted. It meant that this man, who I had hoped loved art, did indeed love art. He knew old paintings dating back centuries, and I was impressed with even this tiny bit of knowledge.

"I know all about these paintings." He muttered as he stepped closer to it.

"Why did you pay for a tour?" I asked him, not understanding why he would waste money when it's a free gallery.

He turned to me and started taking off his jacket. It was very warm in the gallery, we had to keep it at a certain temperature for the paintings not to mould on the walls. I was entranced by his smile again, although it was small, a small dimple popped out of his cheek.

"I wanted some company," He admitted shyly, "I usually have one of my friends with me but..."

I nodded, understanding that he had paid for some company rather than someone to talk his ear off about paintings. I wasn't built to hold conversations or to entertain someone but something in my head was telling me that I was okay, and this man was someone who I could entertain for a little while, and I wanted to.

"Could they not make it today?" I asked him, hoping this would keep the conversation going for a little while longer.

"To be honest, I wanted to come alone," He started as we shuffled to the next painting, "Then I realized that looking at art with other people is fun."

Fun. I never thought that looking at art was fun. It was always something more sophisticated for me, something more professional. He saw art as fun, and some part of me was curious about why he found it so fun to look at. Was it because he could see the stories and the meanings behind painting easier than I could?

"Do you like looking at paintings a lot?" I asked him.

"Yes," He smiled up at the painting of a traditional Korean woman cleaning, "I think they're pretty inspiring."

I couldn't agree with the fun part of looking at paintings anymore, but I understood the inspiring part. Inspiring could mean a lot of different things, but right now, paintings inspired me to get out of bed in the morning even when I didn't think I could make it through the day. There was no way he could feel the same as me, so why did he feel so inspired?

"Do you paint then?" I asked him, I felt in control when I was the one asking the questions.

He let out a hum of acknowledgment at my question, and I led him to the opposite wall where more Joseon dynasty paintings were. He was silently admiring one painting in particular, and I realized I was admiring him. Hidden underneath his mask, I could still see the beautiful indent of his cheekbones and the sharp jawline.

"I draw too," He said quietly, taking more pictures, "I prefer painting. I like the colours and the freedom I can express with paint."

I nodded as if I understood, but it had been years since I actually put paint to a canvas. I forgot how it actually felt to be able to express such creativity, but hearing in talk about it in his soothing voice felt nice.

We didn't talk much after that, he just inquired about some information about certain paintings and that was the end of our tour. I wanted it to last longer, so I could admire him and talk to him. For the first time, I wanted to be in someone's company, and I did want to entertain him. I wanted to make that pointless conversation and hear about the things that didn't interest me but instead interested him.

Yet, when he was walking away with a small wave, I realised that I didn't know him and I never would. He was just a man who liked art and wanted a tour to have some company. I would never see him again after this, most likely.

That made the day more difficult.