5. Insadong, Seoul, 2017

Daniel and Yuriko

"We have art in order not to perish from the truth." Friedrich Nietzsche

"We have art in order not to perish from the truth."

Friedrich Nietzsche

Insa-dong, Seoul, 2017

As Daniel looked closely at the curator’s face again, he felt as if time and space were collapsing. For a fleeting second, he felt like he was seven years old again, standing in the middle of an exhibition hall with his mother. Watching the curator intently, he felt his heart begin to race. This woman, who bore a striking resemblance to his mother, was looking back at him with the same gentle, melancholic smile he remembered so well.

"Why is the exhibition titled 'Hidden Paintings'?" Daniel asked in English, stepping closer to her.

"Ah, yes," she replied. "During the Gwangju Democratization Movement, these paintings were left forgotten, stored away in a warehouse above a cafe."

Daniel recognized the name of the movement but knew little of its substance. "What exactly was the Gwangju Democratization Movement?"

The curator began to explain. "To understand modern Korean history, you must understand what happened in Gwangju in May 1980. It was a very dark time when a military dictatorship was seizing power. The citizens and students of Gwangju took to the streets demanding a return to democracy, but the martial law army suppressed them with brutal violence. The most heartbreaking part was that the state’s bayonets and bullets were turned not against an enemy, but against ordinary civilians. In just ten days of resistance, over 160 deaths were officially confirmed, and including the missing, the casualties reached into the hundreds. Thousands more lived the rest of their lives in agony due to injuries or the trauma of torture. Yet, the people of Gwangju never surrendered. They shared rice balls and held the line for democracy for ten days. Though much blood was shed, their sacrifice became the cornerstone of Korea's eventual democratization."

Daniel, who knew so little about his mother’s homeland, listened with rapt attention.

"The cafe was being used as a makeshift clinic to treat the wounded at the time," she continued. "The paintings were locked away in the warehouse, and for decades, no one even knew they existed. Then, in 2015, during a building renovation, they were discovered in that hidden storage room at the back. We tried to find the artist, but we learned that after traveling to Gwangju for an exhibition in 1980, he vanished when the city was sealed off. The junior colleague who had been helping him prepare the show died during the uprising, and since then, no one knew the whereabouts of these works. In 2016, after consulting with the artist's estate, I acquired the entire collection."

Daniel slowly walked among the paintings that had been hidden for forty years. Strangely, he felt as if he were meeting an old, dear friend.

His eyes were drawn to the largest piece in the collection. It radiated an intense yellow light—like the sun, or perhaps moonlight. It felt like a supernatural cosmic ray or the primal nuclear energy of an atom. However, he noticed a tear in one corner of the canvas.

"The canvas is torn here... are you planning to sell it as is, without restoration?"

"Ah, yes. This was the only piece standing in the corner of the cafe itself, rather than the warehouse. That small red mark you see isn't paint from the artist; it’s a bloodstain from someone who was being treated in the cafe during the uprising. I felt there was a profound story held within that mark, so I hung it exactly as it was. It reminds me of Lucio Fontana’s intentional 'slash' paintings, though in this case, it wasn't the artist who tore the canvas—it was history."

Listening to the curator’s voice, Daniel felt that if he closed his eyes, he could almost hear his mother speaking. Who is this woman?

"By any chance... do you know of a woman named Ko Mi-hee who went to study in Germany in the 1950s?"

"Was she an artist?"

"She was... my mother. She wasn't a famous artist, but she held a few exhibitions here in Insa-dong. I remember coming to a place called Dong-a Gallery with her back in the 70s."

"I see. Was she a painter?"

"No, a sculptor."

"Is she still active?"

"No... she passed away from leukemia in 1977. I was only seven years old."

The curator studied Daniel's face for a moment before speaking slowly. "I see... No, I’m afraid I haven’t heard the name Ko Mi-hee."

"I understand. She wasn't well-known. And I know almost nothing about her Korean family. I only know she went to Japan in the late 1940s and then eventually to Germany. She never spoke of her family in Korea."

The curator furrowed her brow slightly in sympathy. Even that expression—the way her eyebrows knit together when she heard something sad—was identical to his mother’s.

"Korea was in a state of absolute chaos back then," she said. "Did you know that at the time, Korea was the sixth poorest country in the world? If she went to Japan in the late 40s, she likely came from a wealthy family." She gave him a bright smile. Again, it was his mother’s smile.

"I... I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but you look so much like my mother. It's uncanny."

The curator looked slightly embarrassed. "Westerners often say all Asians look alike... perhaps we just have a similar style. My name is Yuriko. I’m a curator from Tokyo."

Daniel introduced himself while looking intently at her face. "My name is Daniel von Klitzing. I am German."

"The 'Von' in your name... you must be of noble descent then."

Suddenly, the 'Von' that proved his aristocratic blood felt embarrassing. "Yes, my father is a nobleman. But in today's world, I prefer to just go by Daniel Klitzing."

Yuriko felt that even if he dropped the title, the aristocratic aura (Aura) radiating from his entire being was impossible to hide. Standing over 180cm tall with a lean frame, brown hair, and striking eyes, he was the image of a European aristocrat, yet possessed a mysterious, refined Eastern elegance.

After looking around the gallery once more, Daniel spoke. "I will buy every painting in this exhibition."

Yuriko laughed. "If you buy them all in bulk like that, it makes it very difficult for me to set the prices. Please, let me explain them one by one. Take your time and choose carefully."

Daniel replied awkwardly, "I don't mean to sound arrogant, but please don't worry about the cost. Just name your price."

"You have no idea how difficult it is to put a price on art," she said softly. "Often, it feels like putting a price tag on your own child before sending them off for adoption."

Daniel watched her speak with such quiet contemplation. "Forgive me if I was disrespectful. Please, show me which pieces are available."

"I cannot sell the torn yellow abstract, 'The Origin of the Universe.' As for the other works, we can discuss them."

"Why isn't that one for sale?"

Yuriko smiled. "I am not someone who sells art just to make money. I believe art has a magic that connects us to dimensions humans can't otherwise explain. This painting, in particular, possesses a strange sort of magic. I intend to uncover the secret it holds before I ever put it up for auction."

Daniel looked like a child about to start a game. "Then you must tell me that secret, and you must invite me when the auction begins." He felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of desire to own that painting. Perhaps it was simply because she said he couldn't have it.

"Very well," she agreed. Daniel pulled out his checkbook. "Tell me the price for the first one."

Seeing this, Yuriko challenged him. "Since you know the historical background now, Mr. Klitzing, why don't you name the price?" She looked at him with eyes that were cold yet soft, like a dealer starting a high-stakes game in Las Vegas.

The first painting was a small Dansaekhwa (monochrome) piece.

"A Korean Dansaekhwa. It's small, needs a new frame, and the varnish needs to be reapplied. I’ll offer 50,000 dollars. That price should include the cost of the framing and the varnish work."

Yuriko fired back in perfect, New York-accented English, like a pro returning a serve in a ping-pong match. "If you want the framing and varnish work included, you’ll have to make it 60,000."

Daniel smiled at her professional response and wrote out a check for 60,000 dollars.

"Let's settle the total after you've finished choosing," she suggested.

Watching Daniel sign the check with an Aurora Diamante fountain pen, Yuriko felt a slight prickle of annoyance. This pen was an Italian masterpiece worth over 1.4 million dollars, encrusted with over 30 carats of diamonds, and sold to only one person in the world each year. Seeing him pull such an extravagantly expensive pen and a checkbook from his pocket made her feel as though he were trying to intimidate her with his wealth.

But for Daniel, the pen was simply a precious, meaningful gift from his father that he carried everywhere. He never gave a second thought to its actual cost or whether the diamonds were real or fake. On the day he turned eighteen, his father, Hans, had given him the pen with his name engraved on it. Hans had given it to him to teach the weight of responsibility and the meaning of money to a son who had to make many major decisions alone, without a mother.

When Hans gave it to him, he had said: "This is a masterpiece that no one your age should be carrying. You will have many things to sign in the future, so take care of it. Every time you sign your name with this pen, think about what 'true value' really means."

Daniel looked at Yuriko. "I prefer handing a check directly to the artist or curator in front of the work. Perhaps it's my way of reminding myself that art and money are never truly separate."

Yuriko smiled faintly. "When art becomes money... it's like a secret transaction between people who believe in magic. Do you understand what I mean?"

Daniel nodded in deep agreement. "That is why love and art are so similar. Magic happens, and value is created by those who believe in that magic."

As they moved through the pieces, Daniel purchased nearly every painting in the exhibition, and their conversation flowed. As time passed, he fell further into the illusion that he was walking through a gallery with his mother. He felt a sense of familial intimacy and safety. The comfort offered by these paintings felt like the peace of a home he had longed for his entire life but had never been able to visit—his mother’s home.

"You've bought almost everything except the torn abstract... Let's head to my office to process the certificates of authenticity and the insurance."

Standing side-by-side like old friends, they walked into the office at the back of the gallery. One wall was lined with bookshelves filled with English-language art books. As Daniel scanned the titles, he was struck by a shock that took his breath away.

On a shelf sat a wooden sculpture of a young girl's face—the very kind of piece his mother used to work on. Staggering slightly, Daniel approached the sculpture.

"This... where did you find this?"

Seeing his visible shock, Yuriko replied, "Oh, that. My mother brought it with her when she was adopted into a family in Japan. My mother was an orphan; she was adopted as the daughter of an acquaintance when she was two years old. It is the only thing left of the few mementos of her biological mother that she brought from Korea. My mother grew up in Japan never knowing who her biological mother was."

Daniel lowered his head, listening as if trying to solve an impossible riddle. "Do you know what year your mother was adopted into Japan?"

"Around 1950, I imagine... that’s when the Korean War broke out. Why do you ask?"

Daniel's trembling hand was already reaching for the sculpture. "May I... may I examine this wooden piece for a moment?"

"Of course."

Yuriko carefully picked up the sculpture and handed it to him. Daniel turned it over slowly, inspecting every inch as if finding a missing puzzle piece. And there, on the bottom of the sculpture, he found the clearly engraved initials:

(M.H)