전업작가, 꿈인가 현실인가?

“아줌마, 내가 여기까지 다시 오는데 얼마나 힘들었는지 아세요? 못 오는 줄 알았어요.”

친구의 어린아이가 가슴속에 오랫동안 품어온 비밀을 꺼내놓듯 내뱉은 말에, 마치 쇠몽둥이로 머리를 맞은 것처럼 온몸이 굳어버렸다. 친구는 직장 생활을 하며 아이를 키우기가 너무 힘들어 갓난아이를 한국으로 보냈었다. 그러다 몇 년 후 형편이 좀 나아지자 다시 데려온 참이었다. 그 아이가 우리 아이들과 공원에서 놀다가 재미가 없어졌는지, 내 옆에 슬그머니 앉아 한숨을 내쉬며 들려준 이야기였다. 나는 아무런 위로도 건네지 못한 채, 그저 멍하니 앉아 있을 수밖에 없었다.

남편은 1975년 LA로 이민을 와서 식당 주방 보조, 페인트칠, 신문사 광고부 일 등을 전전했다. 뉴욕으로 옮겨온 뒤에는 학교에 다니며 채소 가게, 옷가게, 가발 도매상에서 일하며 학업을 마쳤다. 결혼 후에도 행상, 옷가게, 목수 일, 신발가게 일까지 닥치는 대로 했다. 마지막으로 정착한 곳은 후배가 운영하는 램프 가게의 채색 작업이었다.

그 가게에서 남편은 처음엔 일주일에 닷새를 일했다. 그러다 사흘, 나흘로 점차 시간을 줄여나갔다. 지독한 중독자가 약을 조금씩 끊어가듯 하루하루 일을 줄이더니, 결국 일주일에 단 하루만 일하다가 마침내 그마저도 그만두었다.

지금 남편은 ‘풀타임 화가’다. 후배 가게에서 일을 조금씩 줄여나갈 때마다, 나는 불안해서 안절부절못하곤 했다. 형편은 나아지지 않고 아이들은 하루가 다르게 커가는데, 밥줄 같은 일손을 하루씩 놓아버리니 어찌 살란 말인가 싶었다. 하지만 다행히도 남편이 일손을 놓은 시간만큼 작업에 전념한 덕에 작품이 팔리기 시작했고, 일하지 못해 비어버린 생활비를 메울 수 있었다.

남편이 일을 줄여 살림이 팍팍해질 때마다, 나는 직장을 구해보려고 생활 정보지를 뒤적였다. “밖에 나가 일하지 말고, 작업하며 버텨내야 해. 그래야 우리 둘 다 전업 작가가 될 수 있어.” 신문을 뒤적이는 나를 못마땅하게 바라보며 남편이 지나가듯 내뱉은 그 말이 씨가 되었다.

이제는 우리 둘 다 꿈에 그리던 ‘풀타임 화가’가 되었다. 꿈인가, 현실인가. 혹시나 가난의 그림자가 다시 우리를 덮쳐오진 않을까 덜컥 불안해지다가도, 이것이 엄연한 현실임을 깨닫는 순간에는 기쁨인지 슬픔인지 모를 전율이 온몸으로 번져나간다.

“엄마, 우리가 돈 많이 아껴줬지요?” 아이들은 대단한 효자라도 된 양 생색을 내며 말한다. 그럴 때마다 나는 할 말을 잃고, 비디오를 되감듯 아득한 옛 생각에 잠기곤 한다. 아이들은 겨울마다 주말 새벽 6시에 무료 레슨을 해주는 루스벨트 아일랜드의 실내 테니스장을 다녔다. 수영은 시에서 운영하는 메트로폴리탄 수영장에서 배웠고, 음악은 학교 밴드부에서 해결했다. 제대로 된 새 옷 한번 입어보지 못하고 자란 아이들이다. 주로 얻어 입히거나 헌 옷가게에서 사다 입혔는데, 다행히 사내아이들이라 까다롭게 굴지 않았다. 형편이 풀린 지금도 아이들은 브루클린에 있는 헌 옷가게 ‘비컨스 클로짓(Beacon's Closet)’에서 옷을 사 입는다. 나름대로 구제 옷이 편하다며, ‘빈티지 룩’이라고 너스레를 떨면서 말이다.

남편이 하루하루 일을 줄이며 생활고에 시달릴 때마다, 나는 친구 아이의 한숨 섞인 낙서 같은 말을 마음속으로 수없이 되뇌었는지 모른다. 나 또한 언젠가 내 입으로 이렇게 말할 수 있는 날이 오기를 고대하면서 말이다.

“여기까지 오는데 얼마나 힘들었는지 몰라요!”

Is full time artist dream or a reality?

“Auntie, do you know how hard it was for me to come back here? I didn’t think I’d ever make it.”

Hearing my friend’s young child utter these words, as if whispering a deep secret kept in their heart for a long time, froze my entire body. It felt like being struck on the head with an iron rod. My friend, struggling to balance work and childcare, had sent her newborn back to Korea. A few years later, once she felt more settled, she brought the child back. The little one had been playing in the park with my kids, but apparently lost interest. They came over, sat quietly by my side, let out a deep sigh, and shared that story.

Words that sounded like they belonged to an adult beaten down by the hardships of life poured from the mouth of a mere first-grader. I couldn’t offer any words of comfort; I could only sit there, completely numb.

My husband immigrated to LA in 1975. He bounced around from job to job, working as a kitchen helper, painting houses, and working in the advertising department of a newspaper. After moving to New York, he managed to finish school while working at a vegetable market, a clothing store, and a wig wholesaler. Even after we married, he took on whatever came his way—peddling on the streets, running a clothing shop, doing carpentry, and working at a shoe store. His last job was coloring products at a lamp shop run by one of his college juniors.

At first, he worked five days a week at the lamp shop. Then, he cut it down to four. Like a severe addict trying to slowly wean themselves off drugs, he reduced his working days one by one, until he was working only a single day a week. Eventually, he quit altogether.

Today, my husband is a “full-time artist.” Back then, every time he chopped away at his working hours, my anxiety would spiral out of control. Our financial situation wasn't getting any better, the kids were growing day by day, and he was letting go of our livelihood one day at a time—how on earth were we supposed to survive? Fortunately, he poured all that newly freed time entirely into his artwork. His paintings began to sell, and that income managed to fill the gap left by the wages he had given up.

Whenever things got financially tight because my husband cut back on work, I would flip through the newspapers, desperately looking for a job. “Don’t go looking for outside work. We need to hold out and just focus on our art. That’s the only way both of us can become full-time artists,” he would say. He used to watch me skim the job listings with disapproval, and those words he muttered in passing eventually sowed the seeds of our future.

Now, both of us are full-time painters. Is this a dream, or is it reality? Sometimes, a sudden wave of anxiety hits me, making me fear that the shadow of poverty might creep over us once again. But the moment I realize that this is indeed our reality, a shiver—of what feels like both joy and sorrow—tingles through my entire body.

“Mom, we saved you guys a ton of money, didn't we?” The kids say this proudly, as if they were the most dutiful children in the world. Whenever they do, I find myself completely at a loss for words, losing myself in the distant past like a video tape being rewound. Every winter, the kids would go to the indoor tennis courts on Roosevelt Island at 6:00 AM on weekends for free lessons. They learned swimming at the city-run Metropolitan Pool, and their music education was taken care of by the school band. They grew up without ever wearing a proper piece of brand-new clothing. They mostly wore hand-me-downs or clothes bought from thrift stores. Thankfully, because they were boys, they weren't picky. Even now, when our finances have turned around, the kids still buy their clothes at "Beacon's Closet," a vintage thrift store in Brooklyn. They casually shrug it off, saying old clothes are just more comfortable for them, calling it their "vintage look."

During those years when my husband was cutting down his work hours and we were struggling to make ends meet, I might have survived by constantly repeating that sigh-filled phrase of my friend's child in my mind. Perhaps I spent all those years holding on, desperately waiting for the day I could finally say it with my own lips:

“You have no idea how hard it was for me to get here!”