Words That Spread Like Water
I like watercolor.
After finishing entrance exam art prep, I let go of other materials without regret—either throwing them out or handing them down to juniors. But the watercolor section... I still find myself browsing it now and then when I visit an art supply store. Back in those days, my little joy was buying one tube at a time of the notoriously expensive Holbein HWC watercolors and trying them out. The red tones, in particular, are notoriously difficult to get just right, but with Holbein, every single color is so clear, vivid, and utterly lovely!!! These days, when I find myself boldly buying the full Holbein set, I feel a quiet pride in the fact that I've grown up.
Watercolor is special.
With pencil drawing, you can work delicately and with precision, but when I feel like shouting out in a single bold stroke, the sharp lead only digs harshly into the paper and ruins it. It feels a bit petty. A little small-hearted.
Pastels, when well laid down, create a soft, milky glow that brings out a decent sense of space, but every time I use them, the dust that scatters feels noisy—almost as if it's yelling, “I painted this!” with every stroke.
Acrylics are convenient since you can paint over and layer endlessly, but the opacity always makes me feel like it's hiding something. It feels like someone sly, hiding something behind its opacity. And even as you layer and revise, it never seems to gain any real depth. Maybe acrylics are the only medium that does that.
And oil painting—I don’t even want to talk about it. I want to express something now, but it insists I go through countless layers and long hours, enduring its harsh, oily scent all the while, telling me to speak slowly.
Watercolor, in contrast, moves at my pace, in my own way, letting me paint in the truest version of myself.
The moment I press a brush loaded with watercolor onto clean white paper, I love the way the pigment slowly spreads.
Depending on the subtle differences in pressure and pigment concentration between the brush tip and the body, it creates transparent depths and lets me paint both small and large areas in a single stroke.
While pouring out thoughts and feelings in all directions, the paper listens quietly, soaking it in like rain.
And after all the expression is done, the paper dries light and fresh again, as if nothing ever happened—like a day cleared after rain. Even the slightly altered hues after drying feel somehow charming.
Of course, if I keep brushing over the same spot with water, the paper eventually lifts like it's covered in eraser dust. So while the brush speaks its message, it must do so gently—watching the paper’s condition and deciding whether to continue or stop. Even if it feels a bit aloof, that’s why stories written in watercolor tend to be the kind you can look back on and still find beautiful—cautious, but lovely.
Today, I picked up my brush and pen to share a small thought and a painting, like an entry in a diary. Just as I’ve always done. Usually with watercolor—and when the brush alone feels a bit lacking, I tend to enhance it slightly with colored pencil.
May this watercolor’s way of speaking bloom quietly, and find you where you are.