Two letters of love

“Why do you look so pretty these days?”

My friend’s bright and glowing face gave off a charming vibe. Her skin, once pale with patchy foundation, now looked naturally radiant. Her messy bedhead had turned into soft, shiny waves that glowed like sunlight on water. Her forced, awkward smile had changed into a sweet, cherry-like grin below rosy cheeks. Something was definitely going on.

I’m not the kind of person who asks about other people’s private lives, so even though I was curious, I held it in and just watched. Her light and graceful movements gave off such energy, as if happiness was sparkling all around her.

“You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”

She burst out laughing in a high-pitched voice. My guess must have been right.

“My biggest mistake in life was getting married, and the best thing I ever did was getting divorced. And now, I finally met my dream man! I never thought it would happen so late in life.”

“No wonder you’re glowing. I’m happy for you.”

It’s amazing that we can still fall in love at our age. Love really is powerful. It lets you see and feel things you couldn’t before. It lifts you out of your emotional slump. Without even trying, you start thinking less about yourself and more about the other person. It gives you the courage to sacrifice.

“My fiancé says even though we met late, we’ll live happily together until we’re 96.”

Why 96? Probably her current age plus 40 more years. People around us frowned at her joyful shout, but we chatted like teenage girls, full of excitement.

Why do I feel like I’m in love too, just from hearing her romantic story? Maybe because I’ve always loved experiencing love through others. Since I was young, I’ve had a habit of enjoying other people’s romances as if they were my own.

I remember one spring day when I was 23, when cherry blossoms were in full bloom. I got so excited listening to another friend’s love story that I convinced her to hop on a train to Jinhae.

Her boyfriend was a naval officer stationed at the Jinhae Navy Base. I remember us standing awkwardly at the front gate of the Naval Academy, pushing each other forward, feeling shy from all the soldiers’ eyes. The next memories are blurry, but one thing is clear: that night, under the dark sky lit up with glowing cherry blossoms, I saw a couple leaning close, sharing a moment of love—and there I was, a little ways off, watching them with my heart fluttering.

My friend says her best decision was getting a divorce, but I think the even better one was choosing not to stay lonely. Instead, she found her dream partner, fell in love, and started a happy new life.

She’s the one in love—but why is my heart beating so fast?

독자와 함께 춤을

“하루 숴?.” 

늦잠 자는 나에게 남편이 산책을 거르라는 말이다.  발바닥과 엄지발가락이 아프고 너무 피곤해서다.

내 글을 즐겨 읽는다는 애독자가 나를 만나러 토요일 밤마다 성당강당에 모여 춤추는 곳엘 갑자기 나타났다. 아무래도 독자와 함께 춤을 추려니 잘 춰 보이려고 애쓰다 무리했나 보다.

나를 보러 왔다는 그녀가 오히려 내 시선을 끌었다. 나보다 한 살 어리다는데 왜 이리도 젊은가! 쭉 뻗은 몸매에 짧은 생 단발머리를 한 화장기 없는 작은 얼굴은 싱그러운 나무 한 그루를 보는 듯 자연스러움 그 자체다. 

“혹시 예전에 미스코리아 출전하지 않았나요?”

물었을 정도다.

언니가 결혼한다고 형부를 처음 데려오던 날 아버지는 형부를 별로 내키지 않아 했다. 우리 식구들 모양새와는 달리 잘생긴 외모에 훤칠한 키로 올려다봐야 하는, 아버지의 시선 때문이었는지 본의 아니게 위에서 누른 듯한 분위기에 

"키는 커가지고." 

아버지는 못마땅하다는 듯 투덜거렸다.

키 작은 나도 처음 만난 키 큰 독자를 올려다볼 때 그 기분이 살짝 들었으나, 독자가 워낙 수더분하고 시원스럽게 다가와 흘끔흘끔, 슬금슬금 쳐다보며 함께 신 나게 춤을 췄다.

"왜 이리 젊고 날씬해요."

“자세히 보면 그렇지 않아요.” 

자세히 관찰할 수밖에. 춤은 어찌나 잘 추는지. 

“머리로 하는 일은 못 해도 몸으로 하는 일은 잘해요.”

춤 선생이 따로 없다. 마라톤으로 단련된 몸매라니 두말하면 잔소리다.

그녀는 신문에 난 내 글을 죄다 읽었다며 나도 기억 못 하는 부분까지 내 일상을 다 꿰고 있었다. 내 남편 전시회도 왔었다고 하질 않나. 너무 내 일상을 신문지상에 노출했나? 이것이 항상 나의 딜레마지만 어쩌겠는가. 내가 쓸 줄 아는 것이 내 주변 이야기를 파노라마식으로 주절대는 재주밖에 없으니.

독자는 나를 잘 아는데 나는 상대에 대해 전혀 모르는 살짝 손해 본 듯한 느낌을 동반한 반가움과 고마움이 교차하는 가운데 계속 몸을 흔들어야 했다. 오히려 갑자기 나타나 멋진 몸매로 춤 잘 추는 그녀가 나의 궁금증을 유발했다. 점잖은 체면에 이것저것 물어볼 수도 없고 알고 싶은 것을 참느라 입이 근질근질했다.

"역시 춤은 끈적~끈적이는 음악에 춰야 맛이 나요." 

라고 말 하질 않나! 끈적이는, 몸을 휘감는 듯한 음악이 울리면 뛰어나가 새털처럼 가볍게 흔들다 건조한 음악엔 조근조근 재미있게 이야기하는 그녀에게 빠져들지 않을 수 없었다. 남편 또한 독자라는 말이 너무 사무적이니 대신 덕 '덕'자를 넣어 덕자가 어떠냐고 한마디 거들며 그녀를 궁금해했다. 

나의 덕자는 뭘 쫌 아는 여자다.

Dancing with my article's reader

“Skipping your walk today?”
My husband asked me as I slept in late. It was his way of saying I should take it easy today—my feet and big toe hurt, and I was exhausted.

One of my loyal readers suddenly showed up at the church hall on Saturday night, where we gather to dance. I guess I tried too hard to dance well in front of her and ended up overdoing it. But instead of her being impressed by me, I was drawn to her. She said she was a year younger than me, but she looked so much younger! Her tall, slim figure, short bob haircut, and fresh, makeup-free face made her look like a graceful tree—so natural and full of life. I even asked, “Did you ever enter the Miss Korea pageant?”

She reminded me of the time my older sister brought her fiancé home for the first time. My father wasn’t too thrilled—he was tall and handsome, which didn’t quite match the rest of our family’s looks. I guess that’s why my father mumbled,
“Well, he sure is tall.”
As if that alone made him suspicious. I’m short myself, so looking up at this tall reader gave me a similar feeling—until she started chatting so warmly and dancing so freely that I found myself glancing at her, sneaking looks, and just enjoying her company.

“How are you so slim and youthful?” I asked.
“If you look closely, I’m not really,” she replied.
But I had to look closely—she danced so well!
“I may not be good with brain work,” she joked, “but I’m great with physical things.”
Clearly no need for a dance teacher—she has a marathoner’s body and moves to prove it.

She told me she’s read every piece I’ve published in the newspaper—even reminding me of parts I didn’t remember myself. She had even been to my husband’s art exhibition!
Did I reveal too much of my life in my writing? That’s always my dilemma. But what else can I do? The only writing I know how to do is spinning stories from my own life into a kind of panoramic monologue.

It was a funny feeling—this woman knew so much about me, yet I knew nothing about her. It felt a bit unfair, but it also filled me with gratitude and curiosity. I had to keep dancing while trying to suppress my urge to ask her a million questions. I didn’t want to seem rude, but I was dying to know more. Then she said,
“You know, dancing is best when the music is slow and sticky~.”
Sticky! Music that wraps around your body. When that kind of music played, she would float across the floor like a feather, dancing so lightly. When the music turned dry and dull, she would sit and chat in a calm, thoughtful voice. It was hard not to be drawn in.

Even my husband grew curious and said,
“Calling her a reader sounds too stiff. Let’s just call her ‘Deok-ja’—it’s warmer.”
("Deok-ja" is a play on the word for “virtue” and sounds like a name.)

My Deok-ja is a woman who really knows things.

천만의 말씀

“엄마, 짜장면 배달시켰는데 문밖에 서 있다가 온 것처럼 눈 깜박할 사이에 와서 놀랐어요. 맛있고, 싸고 팁도 없어요.” 

서울 간 아이와의 스카이프 통화 내용이다.

영어 발음이 좋지 않은 우리 부부는 아이들을 키우면서 한국말만 했다. 한국말로 대꾸해야 밥 한술이라도 더 얹어주니 아이들도 한국어에 익숙해졌다. 그러나 한글 쓰기와 읽기를 가르치기는 쉽지 않았다. 몸을 비비 꼬며 “엄마 그만할래.” 

배우기 싫어하는 아이들을 앉혀 놓고 가르치는 내가 먼저 지쳤다.

“그만하자. 그만해. 한국말 못한다고 뭐 큰일 나겠니. 나중에 가르쳐 주지 않았다고 원망만 해봐라.” 

집어치우기를 수십 번. 한글반이 있다는 퀸스에 있는 교회에 연락하니 브루클린으로는 버스가 안 간다며 무정하게 전화를 끊었다. 엎어지면 우리집인데.

옆에서 보다 못한 남편이 칠판을 걸고 서당 선생처럼 

"가나다라마바사, 아야어여오우이." 

본격적으로 배우기 시작했다. 

"이 세상에 수많은 문자가 사용되지만 정확하게 만든 사람과 시기가 역사적으로 기록된 유일한 문자가 한글이야."

"리얼리!"

남편이 말하면 감탄하며 배우던 시절이 엊그제 같은데.

아이는 성년이 되어 한국에 가서 음식점 메뉴판을 읽고, 먹고 싶은 것을 찾아 맛있게 먹고 지내는 것이 신이 났다. 

“식당에 가면 아줌마가 몇 살이냐? 뭐하냐? 반찬도 더 주며 교회 다니냐? 자꾸 물어봐요. 왜 한국 사람들은 남의 일을 알고 싶어 해요?” 

“원래 한국 사람들은 정이 많아서 그러니까 잘 대답해. 짜증 내지 말고.”

“마음에 드는 여자 없니?” 

“한국 여자들은 뉴욕에 있는 애들하고 달라요. 얼굴과 옷차림이 다 비슷비슷하고 사귀는 남자와 똑같은 신발과 옷, 커플링을 하고 다녀요. 엄마, 왜 한국 여자들은 어린애처럼 앵앵~ 말하며 보이프랜드와 함께 있으려고만 해요?” 

처음 겪는 한국에서의 자기 또래들의 문화 차이에도 당황한듯했다.

“한국사람들은 모두 친절해요. 부담 갖지 말고 어려운 일 있으면 부탁하래요.” 

아들이 ‘부담’이라는 말도 할 줄 알다니. 아이의 한국말 발음과 단어 사용이 매번 통화할 때마다 나아지는 게 신통했다.

“엄마, 내가 영어로 말하면 한국말로 하라고 해요.” 

짜슥들이 인제야 언어 하나 더 할 줄 아는 것이, 그것도 엄마 아빠의 모국어를, 공부 잘하는 것만큼이나 중요하다는 것을 깨달은 듯하다.

“엄마가 만든 음식 먹고 싶으면 ‘백반’을 주문해.” 

“그게 뭔데요?” 

그러고 보니 6~70년대 한식당의 기본 메뉴인 백반이라는 말을 아직도 사용하는지 모르겠다. 

“메뉴판을 잘 들여다봐.” 

“글쎄, 생선구이는 본 것 같은데요.”

“엄마, 한국말 잘 가르쳐 줘서 고마워요.” 

감격해서 할 말을 잃은 나는 침묵을 지키다 

“You are welcome.”  

You are welcome

"Mom, I ordered jajangmyeon, and it arrived so fast it felt like it was already at the door. It’s cheap, delicious, and there’s no tip!"
That’s what my son said during a Skype call from Seoul.

Since my husband and I didn’t speak English very well, we only spoke Korean at home while raising our kids. If they answered in Korean, I’d give them an extra spoonful of food, so they naturally picked it up. But teaching them to read and write Korean was a different story. They squirmed and whined,
“Mom, I don’t want to do this anymore!”

Trying to teach kids who didn’t want to learn wore me out before it wore them out.

“Let’s stop. Forget it. It’s not like the world will end if you don’t know Korean. Just don’t blame me later for not teaching you.”

I gave up more times than I can count.

I called a church in Queens that had Korean classes, but they coldly hung up, saying no buses came from Brooklyn. And we practically lived next door!

Watching me struggle, my husband finally put up a chalkboard and, like an old-time village schoolteacher, began:
“Ga-na-da-ra-ma-ba-sa... a-ya-eo-yeo-o-u-i...”

The real lessons began.

“Out of all the writing systems in the world, Hangul is the only one where we know exactly who invented it and when,” my husband said.

“Really?”

The kids would gasp and actually show interest.

Now grown up and in Korea, my son was thrilled he could read menus and pick out what he wanted to eat.
“At restaurants, the ajummas ask me how old I am, what I do, and if I go to church. They even give me extra side dishes! Why are Korean people so curious about others’ lives?”
“They’re not being nosy, just warm and friendly. So answer kindly—don’t get annoyed.”

“Do you have a girlfriend yet?” I asked.
“Korean girls are different from the ones in New York. They kind of look the same, wear matching clothes with their boyfriends, the same shoes and even couple rings. And they talk in this cute baby voice and always want to be with their boyfriends. Why do they do that?”
He seemed a bit surprised by the cultural differences among people his age.

“But Korean people are really kind. They always tell me not to hesitate to ask for help,” he said.

He even knew the word “burden” in Korean! I was amazed at how his Korean pronunciation and vocabulary kept improving with every call.

“Mom, when I speak English, they tell me to speak Korean instead.”

Finally, he seemed to realize how valuable it is to speak another language—especially his parents’ native tongue. Just as important as doing well in school.

“If you want to eat food like I made at home, look for something called baekban.”
“What’s that?”
Come to think of it, I’m not even sure if restaurants still use the term baekban—a typical set meal from the '60s and '70s.
“Just look carefully at the menu.”
“Hmm... I think I saw grilled fish or something.”

“Mom, thanks for teaching me Korean so well.”
I was so moved I couldn’t say anything. After a moment of silence, all I could manage was,
“You are welcome.”

나의 신선도

“마누라 얼굴이 왜 이래?” 

문을 열어 주며 놀라는 남편을 보며 나야말로 당황했다. 

“왜? 내 얼굴에 뭐 묻었어?” 

“얼굴이 한 줄로 패었어. 어, 왼쪽도.” 

거울을 보니 오른쪽은 눈 밑 코 옆으로 쭉 턱까지, 왼쪽은 눈 밖에서 아래로 눌려 패인 자국이 심했다. 

“그래서 사람들이 지하철에서 쳐다봤구나.”

밤이 깊어, 잘 때가 되었는데도 눌린 자국은 여전했다. ‘아! 이러다 영영 펴지지 않고 흉터로 남는 것은 아닐까?’ 걱정으로 잠이 오지 않았다.

마덜스 데이 선물이라며 작은 아이가 센추럴파크 근처에 있는 한 시간 반짜리 바디 마사지 쿠폰그룹을 사줬다. 스파 이용권의 반값에 구매했다나. 그윽한 향기 속에 잔잔한 음악, 점잖은 멋쟁이들이 들락거리는 것이 분위기는 좋았다. 어두컴컴한 방으로 안내되어 구멍 뚫린 베개에 얼굴을 묻었다. 생각 같아서는 조금 세게 시원하게 해줬으면 좋으련만 살살 만지작거리는 것이 감질났다. 점잖은 곳에서 불평도 못 하고 엎어져 친구 집 뜰에 만들어 놓은 노천 온돌방을 생각하다 잠이 들었다.

날씨 좋은 LA에 사는 친구의 집 뜰엔 온갖 과일나무와 화초가 무성하다. 아침마다 친구는 커피잔을 들고 나무들에게 이야기하며 하루를 시작하고 밤이 되면 노천 온돌방에 누워 별을 쫓는다는데.

"뭐니 뭐니해도 온돌방만 할까? 아니 찜질방에 누워도 이보다는 낫겠다."

불만을 가득 품은 일그러지고 쭈그러진 얼굴을 구멍 뚫린 베개에 처박고 잤으니, 각인될 수밖에.

“엄마, 좋았어요?” 

오며 가며 시간 뺏기고, 택스에 팁에 속에서 올라오는 화를 꾹 누르고 

“그래 좋았다. 그런데 다음엔 다른 것으로 해줄래.” 

“왜요?” 

“아니 골고루 다 해보고 싶어서.”

거울 속의 눌린 얼굴 자국을 이리저리 들여다보다 지인과 일본식당에 갔던 기억이 떠올랐다. 사시미를 태운 커다란 보트가 테이블에 선착하기가 무섭게 지인이 사시미 종류마다 젓가락으로 눌러보는 것이 아닌가? 신선도를 감별하는 거라나. 싱싱한 생선은 누르자마자 탄력에 의해 바로 원래의 모습으로 되돌아오고 그렇지 못한 것은 누르면 눌린 대로 그대로 있다는 나름의 노하우에서 얻은 장황한 설명이 떠올랐다.

나라는 인간의 신선도가 얼마나 떨어졌으면 눌려 패인 부분이 자정이 넘었는데도 그대로 있는지? 갈 때까지 멀리 간 되돌릴 수 없는 젊음이 원망스러웠다.

"청춘! 이는 듣기만 하여도 가슴이 설레는 말이다.’"

우보 민태원의 ‘청춘 예찬’ 첫 구절은 어디로 가고 

"청춘! 이는 듣기만 하여도 가슴이 패이는 말이다."

Freshness of my skin

“Honey, what happened to your face?”
My husband looked shocked as I opened the door.
“What? Is something on my face?”
“Your face has lines on it. Look, one on the right, and another on the left.”
I rushed to the mirror. Sure enough, there was a deep crease running from under my right eye down to my jaw, and another one on the left side, starting from my eye.

“So that’s why people kept staring at me on the subway...”

Even late into the night, the creases were still there. I couldn’t sleep, worrying,

“What if they never go away? What if they leave scars?”

It had all started with a Mother’s Day gift. My younger child had bought me a one-and-a-half-hour body massage voucher at a spa near Central Park, saying it was a great deal—half price on Groupon. The atmosphere was lovely: soft scents, calm music, and stylish people coming and going.

I was led into a dim room and told to lie face down on a massage bed with a hole for my face.
Honestly, I wanted a firm massage that would really work out the knots, but the therapist was just lightly patting and rubbing. I couldn’t complain—it was a fancy place—so I lay there quietly, thinking about my friend’s outdoor “ondol” room.

My friend lives in sunny L.A., where her garden is filled with fruit trees and flowers. Every morning, she chats with her trees over a cup of coffee, and at night, she lies in her outdoor ondol room and watches the stars.
“Nothing beats an ondol room. Even a Korean sauna bed would be better than this!”
With those grumbles in my head, I fell asleep, my face pressed tightly into the round pillow with the hole—no wonder I woke up with dents!

“Mom, did you like it?”
The massage took time, energy, and money—including tax and tip—but I smiled and said,
“Yes, it was nice. But maybe next time... get me something different?”
“Why?”
“Well... I want to try a little of everything.”
(What I meant was: I never want that again.)

Looking in the mirror at my creased face, I suddenly remembered dining with a friend at a Japanese restaurant. When the giant sashimi boat arrived at our table, she started poking each piece with her chopsticks. She said it was to check freshness—“If the fish springs back right away, it’s fresh. If the dent stays, it’s not.”
That explanation now echoed in my mind.

How “un-fresh” must I be that my face still hasn’t sprung back even after midnight?

Youth... How I miss it.

“Youth—it’s a word that makes your heart race just hearing it,” 

begins Min Tae-won’s famous essay Ode to Youth. But for me now?

“Youth—it’s a word that makes your face dent just hearing it.”

피카소도 오나시스도 아니지만

풀타임 화가인 우리 부부도 한때는 여느 한인 이민자들과 마찬가지로 3년 동안 치열하게 장사를 했던 적이 있다.

1985년 초, 당장 뭐라도 해서 먹고살아야 했다. 가진 돈도, 뚜렷한 기술도 없는 처지를 탓하며 브루클린 그린포인트 상점가를 맥없이 걷고 있었다. 그러다 상가 입구에 먼지가 가득 쌓인 채 비어 있는 가게 하나를 발견했다. 창문에는 임대(Rent) 사인이 붙어 있었다. 배고픔이 만들어낸 무모한 용기였을까. 나는 덜컥 집주인에게 연락을 취했다. “두 달 치 보증금(Down payment)과 한 달 치 월세로 계약을 맺어주십시오.” 우리 형편으로는 감히 시작조차 할 수 없는 조건이었지만, ‘시작이 반’이라는 심정으로 집주인에게 간곡히 사정했다. 우리 부부를 위아래로 한참 쳐다보며 이야기를 다 듣고 난 집주인은 뜻밖의 제안을 건넸다. “그럼 먼저 장사를 해서 돈을 벌어 보증금을 채우고, 일단은 한 달 치 월세만 내고 시작해 봐요.”

하지만 당장 첫 달 집세를 내야 하는 것은 물론, 가게를 꾸미고 물건까지 채워 넣으려니 고민이 이만저만이 아니었다. 그때 또 어디서 그런 뻔뻔한 용기가 났는지 모를 일이다. 예전에 선배 소개로 서너 번 눈인사만 겨우 나눴던, 같은 동네에서 델리(Deli)를 운영하시던 분을 덥석 찾아가 사정이야기를 털어놓았다. 그랬더니 그분은 아무런 담보도 없이 선뜻 몇천 불을 꿔주셨다. 궁하면 통한다고 했던가. 지금 생각해도 고맙기 그지없는 은인이다.

폴란드계 유대인인 헨리는 70년대형 낡은 자동차 트렁크 문을 열고 봄 재킷들을 내게 넘겨주었다. 도매상에서 덤핑으로 나온 물건을 대량으로 구매해 소매상에 대주는 중간 상인이었던 그를, 나는 1년 전 옷가게에서 점원으로 일할 때 알게 되었다. 내가 옷가게를 연다는 소식을 듣자마자, 그는 물건을 먼저 대줄 테니 팔아서 갚으라며 가장 먼저 내게 달려와 주었다.

가게 내부 수리부터 간판 제작까지 모두 남편이 손수 도맡았다. 미처 간판을 달기도 전이었는데, 지나가던 동네 주민들(대부분 폴란드계 이민자들이었다)이 신기한 듯 기웃거리며 몰려들기 시작했다. 한쪽에서는 남편이 여전히 망치질하며 가게를 수리하고, 다른 한쪽에서는 내가 손님을 맞이하며 장사를 했다. 물건은 떼어 오기가 무섭게 무서운 속도로 팔려나갔다.

아무것도 모르고 뛰어든 시점이 마침 부활절(Easter)과 어머니날(Mother's Day)로 이어지는 미국 대목과 맞물렸던 것이다. 미국인들이 부활절을 전후해 봄옷으로 화사하게 갈아입는다는 사실조차 몰랐던 시절이었다. 폴란드인들이 옷을 차려입는 데 돈을 아끼지 않는 민족이라는 사실도 나중에야 알게 되었다.

2차 세계대전 후 미국으로 건너온 폴란드인들의 취향을 누구보다 훤히 꿰뚫고 있던 헨리 덕분이었다. 그가 가져다준 봄 재킷과 겨울 코트는 동네 아낙네치고 우리 가게 옷을 한두 벌 입지 않은 사람이 없을 정도로 셀 수도 없이 팔려나갔다. 장사를 시작한 지 얼마 되지 않아 텅 비어 있던 가게는 물건으로 가득 찼다. 빌린 돈을 모두 청산하고, 집주인에게 두 달 치 보증금을 마저 치르고도 손에 쥐는 현금이 꽤 쏠쏠했다. 다음 날 끼니를 걱정하던 예전의 내가 아니었다. 머릿속은 온통 돈 벌 궁리와 또 다른 가게를 늘려갈 생각으로 가득 차 있었다.

그러던 어느 날, 모처럼 시아버님이 알래스카에서 하던 일을 잠시 내려놓고 뉴욕으로 오셨다. 그리고 장사가 잘되어 싱글벙글하는 내게 찬물을 끼얹는 말씀을 던지셨다. “네 남편을 돈 많은 선박왕 오나시스로 만들 것인지, 아니면 화가 피카소로 만들 것인지 잘 생각해 보거라.” “오나시스는 아무나 되고, 피카소는 또 아무나 되나? 말도 안 되는 소리를 하시네.” 속으로 궁얼거리며 한 귀로 듣고 한 귀로 흘려버렸다. 하지만 그 한마디가 묘하게 머릿속을 뱅뱅 맴돌며 마음을 뒤숭숭하게 만들었다. 시아버님 당신께서 그 모진 세월 속에서 화가의 꿈을 접고 생활인으로 고단하게 사셨던 분이었다. 그렇기에 아들만큼은 온전한 화가의 길을 걷기를 바라셨는데, 새로 들어온 며느리가 돈맛을 들이며 장삿속으로 빠져드는 것이 마뜩잖으셨던 게다. 남편 역시 처음에는 장사가 제법 잘되니 신이 났지만, 장사와 그림을 병행한다는 것이 생각만큼 만만한 일이 아니었다. 결국 아쉽지만 우리는 박수 칠 때 가게를 처분하기로 결단했다.

지금 남편은 억만장자 오나시스도 아니고, 세기의 거장 피카소도 아니다. 하지만 온종일 작업실에 틀어박혀 묵묵히 캔버스를 채워가는 그 시간, 그 삶 자체가 이미 작가로서 누릴 수 있는 가장 순수하고 자그마한 기쁨이 아니겠는가!

It's neither Picasso nor Onassis, but

My husband and I are full-time painters now, but like many other Korean immigrants, we once spent three intense years running a retail business.

In early 1985, we desperately needed to find a way to make a living. Blaming myself for having neither money nor any real technical skills, I was walking aimlessly through the Greenpoint shopping district in Brooklyn. That was when I spotted an empty storefront with a dusty entrance. A "For Rent" sign was posted in the window. Driven perhaps by the reckless courage born of hunger, I picked up the phone and called the landlord. “Let us sign a lease with a two-month security deposit (down payment) and one month's rent,” I pleaded. With our financial situation, it was a store we couldn't even dream of starting. But believing that "well begun is half done," I earnestly begged the landlord. After looking my husband and me up and down and hearing our whole story, the landlord made an unexpected offer. “Alright then, go ahead and start. Earn some money first to fill in the security deposit, and for now, just pay the first month's rent.”

Still, paying that first month's rent was one thing, but fixing up the shop and filling it with merchandise was a whole other challenge. Looking back, I have no idea where I found such shameless courage, but I marched right over to a man who ran a deli in the neighborhood—someone I had only exchanged quick nods with a few times through an introduction from a senior colleague. I poured my heart out to him, and without asking for any collateral, he readily lent me several thousand dollars. They say necessity is the mother of invention, and to this day, I am endlessly grateful to that savior.

Henry, a Polish Jew, opened the trunk of his faded 1970s car and handed over stacks of spring jackets to me. He was a middleman who bought wholesale items in bulk at liquidating prices and supplied them to retail shops. I had met him a year earlier when I was working as a clerk at a clothing store. The moment he heard I was opening my own shop, he rushed over to me before anyone else, offering to supply the merchandise first and let me pay him back after I sold them.

My husband took care of everything from the interior renovations to making the store sign by hand. Before the sign was even hung up, neighborhood residents—most of whom were Polish immigrants—started gathering out of curiosity, peeking inside. On one side of the store, my husband was still hammering away at the renovations, while on the other side, I was greeting customers and making sales. The merchandise flew out the door the moment we brought it in.

Without knowing anything about retail, we had jumped in right at the peak season, catching the wave from Easter all the way through Mother’s Day. Back then, I didn't even know that Americans traditionally change into bright, fresh clothes around Easter. I only learned later that Polish people are deeply passionate about dressing well and do not hesitate to spend money on clothing.

It was all thanks to Henry, who knew the tastes of the post-WWII Polish immigrants better than anyone. The spring jackets and winter coats he brought us sold in countless numbers—so much so that almost every woman in the neighborhood owned a piece or two from our shop. Not long after we started, the once-empty store was bursting with merchandise. We cleared all our debts, paid the landlord the remaining two months of the security deposit, and still had a very comfortable amount of cash in hand. I was no longer the person who had to worry about the next day's meals. My mind was completely consumed with ideas on how to make more money and scout locations to expand into another store.

Then one day, my father-in-law arrived in New York, taking a break from his hard labor in Alaska. Seeing me beaming with joy over how well the business was going, he threw cold water right on my excitement. “Think carefully about whether you want to turn your husband into Onassis, the wealthy shipping tycoon, or Picasso, the painter.” “As if anyone can just become Onassis, or Picasso for that matter! What nonsense,” I grumbled to myself, letting his words go in one ear and out the other. Yet, that single sentence kept spinning in my head, making my heart restless. My father-in-law himself had been forced to give up his dream of being a painter during those harsh years, living a grueling life just to survive. Because of his own past, he deeply wished for his son to walk the path of a pure artist, and it pained him to see his new daughter-in-law getting sucked into the commercial world of business. My husband was also excited at first because the business was doing so well, but juggling a retail shop and painting was far from easy. In the end, though it was bittersweet, we decided to sell the shop while we were still on top.

Today, my husband is neither the billionaire Onassis nor the legendary Picasso. But spending the entire day tucked away in his studio, quietly filling canvases with paint—isn't that time, that way of life, already the purest and most profound joy an artist could ever ask for?