Return of the Genius Photographer

A narrow alleyway barely wide enough for a person to pass through.

After squeezing through, I found myself in a small open space.

And in the middle of that space stood a tiny shop.

‘Where am I?’

I looked around the shabby paint shop I had stumbled upon, but—

Surrounded by buildings and walls, I couldn’t quite figure out where this open space was located.

It seemed like a random gap between buildings…

‘Wait, more importantly…’

After glancing around the open space enclosed by high walls, I peered into the paint shop.

The old paint shop bore the marks of time, as if it had been standing there for ages.

Beneath a slightly crooked sign.

Colorful fabrics hung down.

Behind the glass door, shelves were filled with paints and strange materials I had never seen before.

The worn and humble atmosphere of the shop was the complete opposite of the glamorous New York I knew.

Along with the quiet open space, this place felt like it had been plucked from another world.

It had a unique charm.

―Ding, ding!

Carefully opening the door, a cheerful bell rang.

“Hello?”

As I stepped inside and looked around.

“Who’s there?”

An elderly man with white hair, showing the marks of time just like his shop, greeted me.

“I haven’t seen you before. What brings you here?”

“Ah, I just stumbled in. Do you mind if I look around?”

“Here?”

The shop owner looked puzzled.

It seemed like he was asking why anyone would come here to look around, as customers were rare.

“Yes. I’m a photographer, and I was shooting around the area when I found this place. I really like the vibe of your shop.”

I explained to the old man why I had come in.

I told him I had been drawn to the shop while wandering aimlessly.

And that I wanted to take a look around because I liked the atmosphere.

The old man seemed pleased with my explanation, his eyes crinkling as he smiled warmly.

“A photographer, huh? I’m a painter. Guess we’re on opposite sides.”

He joked and offered me a handshake.

But his claim of being a painter seemed true, as his beret and gloves were stained with paint.

“I was bored with no customers, so this is perfect. Do you know much about paints?”

“No.”

“Then let me introduce you to some paints.”

The old man, looking pleased, began guiding me and introducing the paints.

“What’s this?”

“That’s white paint made from pearl oyster shells. Next to it is Ivory Black, made from elephant ivory.”

“You make black paint from elephant ivory?”

“Yes. You heat and crush the ivory, then wash it with water to get a warm, luxurious black. Of course, it’s hard to come by these days…”

“What about that one next to it?”

“That’s brown paint made from Italian ochre.”

The shop owner kindly explained each paint as I asked.

“The one in front is yellow paint made from the diluted urine of cows fed a specific diet. Behind it is gold paint made with real gold…”

I nodded quietly as he explained.

Cobalt ore, used to make a bluish-green paint.

Red paint made from mercury, and so on.

The paints the old man described were all rare and seemed expensive—especially in a time when cheap chemical paints were commonly used.

It was astonishing that such a shop still existed, right in the heart of Manhattan, New York.

Even if it was hidden away.

“You’re amazing. To have collected such a variety of rare paints…”

I was genuinely impressed.

Though they were all high-quality paints, they were either hard to find or expensive.

The fact that he had gathered them over such a long time must have been purely due to his dedication.

“Even if I have to skip meals, I don’t hold back when it comes to painting. Isn’t that the calling of an artist?”

The old man continued his explanation calmly.

“There are still many paints in the world that possess beautiful and mysterious colors, ones that can’t be achieved by mixing ordinary oil paints or commercially available ones.”

The old man’s eyes seemed to be dreaming.

As if gazing at some distant utopia.

The eyes of a boy dreaming of something sparkling…

“But now, it’s all useless. These days, cheap chemical paints are so good that people have no interest in expensive paints.”

“Then, why did you collect all these paints?”

The old man soon made a bitter expression and said, “Well… I’m not sure. But I believe that art requires desperation to be born.”

I nodded slightly at his words.

“I’ve painted over 100 versions of the same picture just to find the one hidden in my heart.”

Every word from the old man revealed his unwavering dedication to art.

“It’s the same with paints. Even though chemical paints are advancing and traditional paints are disappearing…”

As I listened to the old man—

“Colors can represent past eras. I collect them with a desperate hope that these colors won’t disappear.”

—I fell deep into thought.

As the old man said…

Art is not eternal.

As time passes and eras change, art also changes accordingly.

Just as artistic trends shift with each era.

Or as new forms of art, like postmodernism, emerge to challenge the values of traditional art.

The flow of time and the evolution of art are inseparable.

Especially now, when the pace of change has accelerated, art is undergoing unprecedented transformations.

Artists at the forefront of this change are also forced to adapt.

But the old man in front of me seemed completely unconcerned by such things.

Like a towering tree firmly rooted, unshaken even in a raging current.

A person who remains in the same place, even as times and art change.

Someone who values the worth of the past above all else.

Ironically,

In a world where everyone seeks quick changes and stimulation, the old man, who had remained unchanged for so long, steadfastly holding his ground—seemed more fresh and new than anything else.

Isn’t someone like him exactly what this era needs…?

“Well, my works don’t sell anymore. No one comes looking for dyes either, so I’m thinking of giving it all up and closing the shop.”

Despite my admiration, the old man laughed bitterly, like someone who had given up.

It seemed truly tragic.

A person whose attitude toward life was closest to art, losing his spark due to financial struggles…

I, too, had felt profound despair in the face of the harsh reality of losing my sight.

I understood the old man’s feelings better than anyone.

“By works, do you mean the paintings you’ve done?”

I cautiously asked the old man.

“Sir, would it be possible to see some of the paintings you’ve done?”

“There’s nothing I can’t show you. Just wait a moment.”

With that, the shop owner disappeared somewhere.

Then, after some rustling sounds, he pulled out a painting he had carefully stored among the dyes.

And showed it to me.

And the painting was…

“Wow…”

It was an incredible work that surpassed all my expectations and imagination.

A man in a beret, engrossed in his painting, oblivious to the paint staining his hands, in a dim and shabby studio.

It was a self-portrait of the old man.

The intense colors reminiscent of Rembrandt’s works, and the harmony of light and shadow made it a beautiful piece.

The artist in the painting looked small and weary, as if struggling with life’s hardships.

But strangely, the painting itself felt warm and hopeful.

‘So this is the kind of work he creates.’

I had suspected from his explanation about paints that he wasn’t an ordinary person…

But his claim of painting with desperation was no exaggeration.

Emotion and determination poured out from the painting.

It had been one surprise after another since I entered this place.

This wasn’t a famous gallery in New York dealing with expensive works.

Nor was it an exhibition filled with renowned artists.

Who would have expected to encounter such a painting in an old shop tucked away in a quiet alley?

Truly impressed, I asked the shop owner with a sense of regret.

“This is… truly amazing. I can feel the desperation you spoke of in this work.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

“But you’re saying you’re going to stop creating works like this?”

Though my knowledge of art wasn’t on par with experts.

Even so, it was clear at a glance that the old man’s painting was extraordinary.

If I had encountered this piece in a Wall Street lawyer’s office or the lobby of a famous fine dining restaurant, what would I have thought?

I would have assumed it was an expensive masterpiece by a renowned artist, bought for tax purposes…

But the old man seemed saddened by my praise.

“My paintings aren’t works of art—they’re just scribbles.”

“Huh?”

“They say if a painting sells for a high price, it’s a work of art. If it sells cheap, it’s just a scribble.”

The old man gently touched his painting.

“As customers stopped coming, I kept lowering the price of my paintings.”

A self-portrait painted with rare pigments…

“Then it hit me. Maybe the one turning my paintings into scribbles is none other than myself…”

His expression as he looked at the painting mirrored the figure in the self-portrait.

A mix of sorrow and deep affection for his art…

“I don’t want to paint scribbles anymore.”

Moved by his poignant explanation, I felt compelled to help.

An idea struck me.

“Sir, would it be alright if I photographed this place?”

At that moment, I realized what kind of photo I needed to take.

“I think I can help you.”