Read Online I'll Be Right There by Kyung-Sook Shin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kyung-Sook Shin
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fingers caught my eye.
“You can add the comments on the notes to the manuscript according to the directions I wrote down.”
I had learned to type while living with my cousin. The landlord’s daughter, who was the same age as me, attended a vocational high school and owned a typewriter. She must have owned a great many things, but all I ever thought about was that typewriter. I wanted it so badly that when I closed my eyes, I could easily picture the word Clover branded on the front. Whenever I had reason to go into her room, I would stand in front of the typewriter, stretch my fingers, and tap at the keys— tak tak tak . She did not like it at first when I touched her typewriter, but when she saw how fond I was of it, she taught me how to type. I learned the positions of all the keys and enjoyed the sound it made when I tapped them. Each time I moved my fingers— tak tak tak —the quiet keys leapt into action, and inky black letters appeared one by one on the white paper, like an answer to a question. Later on, the landlord’sdaughter started bringing it to our apartment so I could use it. Whenever that happened, I felt so excited and overjoyed that I clung to it like it was my mother. At first, I filled the paper with ga , na , da , ra , then me , you , us over and over, like someone first learning how to write. By the time I outpaced the landlord’s daughter at typing, I was copying the letters Van Gogh had sent to his younger brother Theo. I started typing them because I liked the sound of the words Dear Theo .
Careful study and the constant and repeated copying of Bargue’s Exercises au Fusain have given me a better insight into figure-drawing. I have learned to measure and to see and to look for the broad outlines, so that, thank God, what seemed utterly impossible to me before is gradually becoming possible now. I have drawn a man with a spade, that is un bècheur , five times over in a variety of poses, a sower twice, a girl with a broom twice. Then a woman in a white cap peeling potatoes and a shepherd leaning on his crook and finally an old, sick peasant sitting on a chair by the hearth with his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. And it won’t be left at that, of course. Once a few sheep have crossed the bridge, the whole flock follows. Now I must draw diggers, sowers, men and women at the plough, without cease. Scrutinize and draw everything that is part of country life. Just as many others have done and are doing. I no longer stand helpless before nature as I used to.
I stopped in the middle of typing to stare at the part where he talked about copying Bargue’s plates. He must have meantthat he no longer stood helpless before nature because he had drawn those plates over and over. I folded up the typewritten paper and sent it to Dahn, hoping all the while that Dahn, who had vowed to never stop drawing, would become an artist like Van Gogh. Now I felt that all of that time I had spent learning how to type had led me to Professor Yoon.
My eyes drifted over to the shelf where the books sat facing in.
“Are you wondering why I shelved them that way?” the professor asked.
“Yes.”
“They belong to writers who died before the age of thirty-three. I used to collect them.”
Writers who died before the age of thirty-three … I savored the words in my head.
“You’re probably now wondering why thirty-three. That’s the age at which Jesus was crucified and Alexander the Great created his empire and died. After thirty-three, you can’t really say you’re young anymore. And don’t we say that someone has died young if they die before the age of thirty-three? For artists, an early death is sometimes an honor. Their works fill me with awe and sympathy. If you’re interested, you may borrow them.”
“Thank you.”
Professor Yoon walked around the wall of books. Suddenly he asked, “Are you friends with Miru?”
“I met her for the first time today,” I said.
He looked at
“You can add the comments on the notes to the manuscript according to the directions I wrote down.”
I had learned to type while living with my cousin. The landlord’s daughter, who was the same age as me, attended a vocational high school and owned a typewriter. She must have owned a great many things, but all I ever thought about was that typewriter. I wanted it so badly that when I closed my eyes, I could easily picture the word Clover branded on the front. Whenever I had reason to go into her room, I would stand in front of the typewriter, stretch my fingers, and tap at the keys— tak tak tak . She did not like it at first when I touched her typewriter, but when she saw how fond I was of it, she taught me how to type. I learned the positions of all the keys and enjoyed the sound it made when I tapped them. Each time I moved my fingers— tak tak tak —the quiet keys leapt into action, and inky black letters appeared one by one on the white paper, like an answer to a question. Later on, the landlord’sdaughter started bringing it to our apartment so I could use it. Whenever that happened, I felt so excited and overjoyed that I clung to it like it was my mother. At first, I filled the paper with ga , na , da , ra , then me , you , us over and over, like someone first learning how to write. By the time I outpaced the landlord’s daughter at typing, I was copying the letters Van Gogh had sent to his younger brother Theo. I started typing them because I liked the sound of the words Dear Theo .
Careful study and the constant and repeated copying of Bargue’s Exercises au Fusain have given me a better insight into figure-drawing. I have learned to measure and to see and to look for the broad outlines, so that, thank God, what seemed utterly impossible to me before is gradually becoming possible now. I have drawn a man with a spade, that is un bècheur , five times over in a variety of poses, a sower twice, a girl with a broom twice. Then a woman in a white cap peeling potatoes and a shepherd leaning on his crook and finally an old, sick peasant sitting on a chair by the hearth with his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. And it won’t be left at that, of course. Once a few sheep have crossed the bridge, the whole flock follows. Now I must draw diggers, sowers, men and women at the plough, without cease. Scrutinize and draw everything that is part of country life. Just as many others have done and are doing. I no longer stand helpless before nature as I used to.
I stopped in the middle of typing to stare at the part where he talked about copying Bargue’s plates. He must have meantthat he no longer stood helpless before nature because he had drawn those plates over and over. I folded up the typewritten paper and sent it to Dahn, hoping all the while that Dahn, who had vowed to never stop drawing, would become an artist like Van Gogh. Now I felt that all of that time I had spent learning how to type had led me to Professor Yoon.
My eyes drifted over to the shelf where the books sat facing in.
“Are you wondering why I shelved them that way?” the professor asked.
“Yes.”
“They belong to writers who died before the age of thirty-three. I used to collect them.”
Writers who died before the age of thirty-three … I savored the words in my head.
“You’re probably now wondering why thirty-three. That’s the age at which Jesus was crucified and Alexander the Great created his empire and died. After thirty-three, you can’t really say you’re young anymore. And don’t we say that someone has died young if they die before the age of thirty-three? For artists, an early death is sometimes an honor. Their works fill me with awe and sympathy. If you’re interested, you may borrow them.”
“Thank you.”
Professor Yoon walked around the wall of books. Suddenly he asked, “Are you friends with Miru?”
“I met her for the first time today,” I said.
He looked at
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