Words Left on a White Canvas
I was mixing paint when my hand froze. It was the sound of a zipper, the soft fall of a single button on the linoleum. That afternoon the studio on the fourth floor of the art-center near Seoul Arts High School was especially cold. When you stepped completely into my sight for the first time, I felt a void larger than any canvas.
I was twenty-five. You were nineteen.
The Height of a Shadow
Winter light, thin as a blade, slipped through the windows and settled on your shoulders. I traced you only with my eyes, afraid to set even one line upon the white before I could bear it.
This is a forbidden angle. You are here not for art, but for my arrogant gaze.
“Is this pose all right, sir?” your voice drifted low.
I shook the tube of pigment instead of answering. The red was too thick. Each flick of the brush felt like a tremor in your silhouette.
A Private Rule
Under the name of art we are permitted to look at another body. That day I felt the permission differently. I could not blot out the small mole just above your left breast. When you folded your knee, careful, I was already touching you—only with my stare. The shadow on the inside of your thigh, the gloss of your nostrils, the rise of breath along your stomach.
Am I committing a crime right now?
Three Fragments of Memory
1. A Glass and Breath
During the break, Eugene called me from the back door.
“Sir, do they really never touch you? They only draw?”
I dodged the question. The glass in Eugene’s hand trembled. It was only water, yet we were both drunk. That night I drew the mole in pencil, erased it, drew it again, and erased it once more.
2. Footsteps Outside the Door
Past midnight Eugene sent a message.
[Photo: turquoise paint smeared across the top of a foot]
“Sir, this weird pigment won’t wash off. What do I do?”
I didn’t answer. I sat by the entrance and waited until the sound of Eugene’s steps faded. With nothing but the scent left behind, I drew lines in empty air for a long, long time.
3. A Brush Sliding over the Curve of a Waist
On the last day, as you dressed, you asked:
“Did you paint my face, sir?”
I shook my head. You were annoyed. I had left the face undone so that I could erase you. I wanted to remember only your body. Your name, your expression, your voice—all had to be blotted out.
That day I laid the brush down. Eugene vanished, yet the curve of that waist still lingers on my fingertips.
To Draw, Then Erase
We refine desire through taboo. Eugene undressed, yet I could not touch. Therefore Eugene became perfect—only inside my head.
If I had touched Eugene that day, would this burning image have vanished?
Eugene became my twenty-seventh model. But I never once finished the face; it held too many words. In the end I wrote not the name but simply “Model 27.” The canvas was left pure white.
On the White Margin
I am still touching that day’s Eugene. Whenever I paint someone no hand may reach, a single mole spreads out again. It cannot be erased; even white pigment leaves a brighter void.
What are you drawing now? Upon the white canvas, someone untouchable?
And can you, truly, make your hand stop?