My sixth cousin, who is a doctor, got married through a matchmaker. It was a marriage based only on conditions, but they lived happily as if they were meant to be. When I became of marriageable age, my father also gave the matchmaker my name — the same one who arranged my cousin’s marriage.
The matchmaker came to our house. She looked around, asked questions, and took notes. She looked me up and down and asked how tall I was.
“153 centimeters,”
I said. She frowned and replied,
“Other things are okay, but your height is a problem. I’ll write down 156 centimeters, so wear high heels on the day of the meeting.”
I was contacted to meet a doctor. I bought a nice outfit, wore high heels, and went to the meeting uncomfortably. The man didn’t talk much. I wanted to relax and have a drink, but he didn’t even eat dinner and just left. I guessed he wasn’t interested in me.
A few days later, the matchmaker called. She asked if we could give the doctor an apartment as part of the marriage deal. My father asked,
“Do you want to marry the doctor if we buy an apartment for him? I’ll do what you want.”
I guess to balance the scale, they thought I needed to add an apartment to match the doctor. I looked at my father and said,
“I don’t want to.”
His face suddenly lit up with relief.
Later in New York, I met a male friend from college who was also an artist. He couldn’t marry back then because his girlfriend's parents strongly opposed him — just because he was an artist. I became close friends with his younger sister, who also studied art. She said,
“He’s my brother, but marrying an artist is hard. If you want to keep painting, you need to marry someone who can support you financially.”
In the end, she married a doctor. But for me, since I needed to offer an apartment just to marry a doctor, I had no choice but to marry a fellow artist. And it turns out, marrying an artist wasn’t such a bad choice! Living in an environment filled with art, I naturally started painting again. Like the saying, “Even a school dog learns to read after three years,” I picked up my brush again. I secretly used the art supplies my husband bought and painted small pieces in the kitchen. When he wasn’t in the studio, I painted freely on large canvases and relieved my stress.
Living with an artist gave me freedom — and the title “artist’s wife” was a good excuse for many things. No one in the family or relatives bothered me. They even felt thankful that I stayed with him, thinking I was doing him a favor. If things went well, it was thanks to me. If not, it was because of his job. I felt confident and at peace.
My sister-in-law, who married the doctor, paints in the garage while raising her kids. It took her a long time to get into painting because her environment didn’t support it. Even at small gatherings, once people found out her husband was a doctor, they would call the next day saying, “My child has a fever — what should I do?” Her relatives also call whenever someone is sick. She says she feels bad for her husband and tries to avoid meeting people.
Neither of us is famous yet, but we’re both holding brushes. Long ago, I could’ve married a doctor if we gave him an apartment, but I said “I don’t want to” to my father. Who knew that answer would lead me to such freedom?