`The Little Gallerist
번역: 김미혜
Translated by Mihye Kim
어린 갤러리스트 – 박준수
My grandpa passed away when I was too young. I have only vague recollections of him―he wore a beret we called the “artist hat”, picked up some acorns for me during his stroll in the park while staying at Boramae Hospital, and handed them to me to play with. What I remember more clearly are his canvas, his brushes stained with oil paints, his palette knife, his palette, and his oil can in the attic, as well as his paintings hanging around the house. These inspired me to often imitate his paintings when I was young.
When I was in elementary school, my art teacher and friends used to praise my drawings, saying I was talented. I don’t believe I was born with special artistic talent. I was simply fortunate to grow up surrounded by my grandfather’s paintings, which made me a little better at drawing people or landscapes than my classmates. However, when I entered the art university, adults around me suggested I study art theory instead of just focusing on drawing. Because of that, I gave up the fabulous job which is an artist at the age of twenty-two. My watercolor works of plaster casts had been well received during my university entrance preparation period, but they were disregarded once I was actually in art school. I questioned why such works were even part of the entrance exam in the first place. Still, it was easy to put down the brush, thinking I would be free from the pain of creation or criticism.
In this way, I had to choose another job and I learnt to work at galleries and art fairs. Working in the art market meant meeting many people around the world. In my career, I have met plenty of serious people time and time again. That means I have lived in the world of grown-ups. I could observe them up close. The grown-ups were exhausted with their work, or too greedy, or said one thing and meant another, or they were often upset and angry.
Surrounded by them, I felt like I was becoming one of them, and so I left everything behind and went far away. I arrived in a distant land where nobody knew me and no one spoke the same language with me. And just a few days later, I met a pure and innocent little gallerist (or someone aspiring to be one), who was not yet well acquainted with the art market.
To improve my language skills―which were worse than a preschooler’s―I used to meet the little gallerist and talk with him around the same time every day. Day by day, I learned about the galleries he had worked at and the various gallery representatives he had met before.
The little gallerist used to work at a very small gallery located on Street 612 at Avenue B. The representative was always busy and rarely came to the gallery. So the little gallerist handled everything himself at his work. He dusted off the artworks―which were only a handful―and cleaned the windows and the floor. He even cleaned the tiny restroom shared with the neighbor. Then he sat at a small reception desk, sorted through luxury department store catalogues sent to the representative, and threw them into the discarded paper bin. The gallery representative used to visit once or twice a week, always with the demeanor of a teacher, instructing him to be polite and neat. The representative spoke rudely―except when discussing the two-month-overdue salary. That was the only moment he would speak politely and neatly. The little gallerist dreamed of being an exhibition planner and one day owning a gallery under his own name. That was why he stayed, unwilling to give up, even though he hadn’t been paid.
There were other galleries on Street 612 at Avenue B: Galleries 325, 326, 327, 328, 329 and 330. He decided to look around these other galleries, not just for a job but also for a lesson.
At the first gallery, there was Representative 325 reading intently Monarchism by Niccolò Machiavelli and An Essay on the Principle of Population by Thomas Robert Malthus. He exclaimed when he saw the little gallerist coming:
“My word is law. Do as I order!”
The little gallerist doubted and asked, “What if your order is wrong?”
Representative 325 shouted again, “My orders are never wrong―but even if they are, I’ll take responsibility. Don’t talk back―just do it.”
“But―”
“Hum! Hum!”
As the little gallerist was to keep questioning him, Representative 325 seemed upset. Above all, he wanted respect for his authority. Any disobedience was not allowed. He was the absolute monarch. Representative 325 declared without hesitation,
“Disobedience shall not be forgiven.”
The little gallerist admired such great authority.
“There is nothing for me to do here. I will go on my way!”
Representative 325, who was quite proud of having even one employee, replied, “You mustn’t go. Do not leave. I will appoint you as team leader.”
“Of what team?”
“Well…A leader of the exhibition team!”
“But there are no team members!”
“You never know. A team leader is supposed to recruit his team members.”
“I think I really have to go.”
“No way,” said Representative 325.
But the little gallerist, having now completed his preparations for departure, no longer wished to bother the representative. Quietly, he opened the door and stepped out.
At Gallery 326, there was a conceited representative. Representative 326 exclaimed from afar, when he first saw the little gallerist coming,
“Ah! My gallery is about to receive a visit from a collector!
The little gallerist said,
“Hello. But I’m not a collector―I’m a gallerist.”
“Oh! Then you can work at my gallery. You’ll be a great collector someday.”
“Do you pay a good salary?”
“I’ll give you art pieces instead of money.”
“But I need money for my living, not art pieces.”
“You would make a lot of money selling those art pieces later.”
“Later when?”
“They are excellent artworks. You can sell them anytime you need cash.”
“In that case, why don’t you sell them and pay me a salary?”
“You’d regret it. Those are valuable pieces.”
“I want a monthly salary―paid on time.”
“Stupid. Don’t you want to make big money and become a collector?”
The little gallerist stood up and turned his back on Representative 326, who preferred offering art pieces over salary.
At Gallery 327, the representative was a mean drunk. It was a very short visit this time―but a deeply shocking one.
Representative 327, sitting down in silence before a collection of empty bottles and also a collection of full bottes, suddenly grabbed the little gallerist’s hand. Startled, the little gallerist quickly pulled it away. Slurring his words, the tippler representative shouted,
“Don’t you want to work in this field?”
The little gallerist didn’t say a word. He just dashed out the door. His whole body was trembling from the shock. But he was not even scared with the threat of the tippler.
At Gallery 328, the representative was a businessman. He was so much occupied that he did not even raise his head at the little gallerist’s arrival.
“Good morning,” said the little gallerist. “Sir, I think I’ve seen those artworks on the wall somewhere else.”
“Five hundred million!”
“But I don’t think they are by the famous artist.”
“How do you know all the artists? Five hundred million!”
“Five hundred million what?”
The businessman representative raised his head.
“In the thirty years I’ve been in this field, I’ve only been disturbed three times. The first was twenty years ago, when I was investigated by the National Tax Service―caught up in a black money scandal of a major corporation. The second was ten years ago, when collectors staged a sit-in in front of my door after a piece I sold became the subject of an authenticity controversy. And the third time―well, this is it! Let’s see… in the meantime, it’s gone up for auction. Five-hundred-and-one million…?”
“What price on the earth jumps by a million in minutes?”
“That’s how it works! Art prices just keep rising―unlike stocks or real estate.”
“Who buys it?”
“There’s an endless stream of people who treat art as money.”
“But that artwork on the wall looks like a fake.”
“It is not by the famous artist, but it’s not a fake. It just has a similar style of painting.”
“Then I still don’t understand that price.”
“Well, the price of art is whatever the seller decides! If people want to get rich, they’ll buy it.”
The little gallerist couldn’t make sense of anything Representative 328 said. He just opened the door to get out.
The representative of Gallery 329 seemed enervated. Upon the little gallerist’s enter, he said,
“Would you like to go out for dinner?”
The little gallerist, who had not yet looked around at any of the artworks hanging in the gallery, answered,
“But I haven’t seen any art piece yet.”
“What for? Come on, let’s just eat out.”
“What kind of exhibition is going on in this gallery?”
“I just rehung pieces from previous exhibitions. There’s nothing new to see. We just go out for dinner.”
“What about the next exhibition?”
“Not in my plans.”
“It’s a gallery. Why isn’t the next exhibition in the plans?”
“There would be―if someone rents the space.”
“What about planning the exhibition? Cultivating or discovering artists?”
“I did all that back when I was young. I was full of passion. Yet the art pieces didn’t sell. After each exhibition, I ended up buying all the unsold pieces. Now I’m living off those―selling one or two of those art pieces I bought at that time. I just want a comfortable life now. Let’s just go for dinner.”
“But I’d like to plan the exhibitions and meet the artists.”
“Take it easy. Why are you trying so hard? Let’s go eat.”
“No, I…”
No matter how much more he said, the little gallerist felt like he would end up going to dinner anyway. So he opened the door and walked out.
At the end of the street was Gallery 330, small and simple. Once the little gallerist came in, the representative greeted him warmly.
“Welcome. I’m having tea with the artist right now. You can join us.”
It was the first gallery where an artist was present. On the walls were the works of young, almost unknown artists, not famous ones. Representative 330 spoke to the little gallerist who was gazing at the paintings.
“These pieces in this space are by artists who are growing alongside us. Selling is not everything. Of course, it’s not easy though...”
“The little gallerist asked,
“Then how do you operate?”
“Well…not easy. But if you want to survive in this market for the long term, you have to grow with the artists, not just with the art pieces. A gallery won’t last if it only exhibits profitable artworks. What truly matters is the trust you establish with those who are with you through it all.”
“What do the collectors say about that?”
The representative laughed.
“The collectors with true insight know that a gallery is a place to appreciate ‘works built over time and effort,’ not ‘pieces that immediately skyrocket in price’.”
The little gallerist nodded.
“I want to be a gallerist who works in a gallery like that. I hope to grow alongside someone.”
Representative 330 smiled looking at the little gallerist.
On the way back to his gallery, the little gallerist tried to keep in mind the saying:
“The art market is where art pieces are traded, but what’s truly important is about people. It is the place where we should pay for people and time, rather than pictures. In that sense, I want to be a gallerist who grows old together with artists over the long haul.”
And the little gallerist realized―
that becoming a grown-up means finding someone to walk the long road with.
And I came back to my place, cheering his days ahead.
2025.05. ACK 발행. ACK (artcritickorea) 글의 저작권은 필자에게 있습니다. May. 2025. Published by ACK. The copyright of the article published by ACK is owned by its author.
`The Little Gallerist
번역: 김미혜
Translated by Mihye Kim
어린 갤러리스트 – 박준수
My grandpa passed away when I was too young. I have only vague recollections of him―he wore a beret we called the “artist hat”, picked up some acorns for me during his stroll in the park while staying at Boramae Hospital, and handed them to me to play with. What I remember more clearly are his canvas, his brushes stained with oil paints, his palette knife, his palette, and his oil can in the attic, as well as his paintings hanging around the house. These inspired me to often imitate his paintings when I was young.
When I was in elementary school, my art teacher and friends used to praise my drawings, saying I was talented. I don’t believe I was born with special artistic talent. I was simply fortunate to grow up surrounded by my grandfather’s paintings, which made me a little better at drawing people or landscapes than my classmates. However, when I entered the art university, adults around me suggested I study art theory instead of just focusing on drawing. Because of that, I gave up the fabulous job which is an artist at the age of twenty-two. My watercolor works of plaster casts had been well received during my university entrance preparation period, but they were disregarded once I was actually in art school. I questioned why such works were even part of the entrance exam in the first place. Still, it was easy to put down the brush, thinking I would be free from the pain of creation or criticism.
In this way, I had to choose another job and I learnt to work at galleries and art fairs. Working in the art market meant meeting many people around the world. In my career, I have met plenty of serious people time and time again. That means I have lived in the world of grown-ups. I could observe them up close. The grown-ups were exhausted with their work, or too greedy, or said one thing and meant another, or they were often upset and angry.
Surrounded by them, I felt like I was becoming one of them, and so I left everything behind and went far away. I arrived in a distant land where nobody knew me and no one spoke the same language with me. And just a few days later, I met a pure and innocent little gallerist (or someone aspiring to be one), who was not yet well acquainted with the art market.
To improve my language skills―which were worse than a preschooler’s―I used to meet the little gallerist and talk with him around the same time every day. Day by day, I learned about the galleries he had worked at and the various gallery representatives he had met before.
The little gallerist used to work at a very small gallery located on Street 612 at Avenue B. The representative was always busy and rarely came to the gallery. So the little gallerist handled everything himself at his work. He dusted off the artworks―which were only a handful―and cleaned the windows and the floor. He even cleaned the tiny restroom shared with the neighbor. Then he sat at a small reception desk, sorted through luxury department store catalogues sent to the representative, and threw them into the discarded paper bin. The gallery representative used to visit once or twice a week, always with the demeanor of a teacher, instructing him to be polite and neat. The representative spoke rudely―except when discussing the two-month-overdue salary. That was the only moment he would speak politely and neatly. The little gallerist dreamed of being an exhibition planner and one day owning a gallery under his own name. That was why he stayed, unwilling to give up, even though he hadn’t been paid.
There were other galleries on Street 612 at Avenue B: Galleries 325, 326, 327, 328, 329 and 330. He decided to look around these other galleries, not just for a job but also for a lesson.
At the first gallery, there was Representative 325 reading intently Monarchism by Niccolò Machiavelli and An Essay on the Principle of Population by Thomas Robert Malthus. He exclaimed when he saw the little gallerist coming:
“My word is law. Do as I order!”
The little gallerist doubted and asked, “What if your order is wrong?”
Representative 325 shouted again, “My orders are never wrong―but even if they are, I’ll take responsibility. Don’t talk back―just do it.”
“But―”
“Hum! Hum!”
As the little gallerist was to keep questioning him, Representative 325 seemed upset. Above all, he wanted respect for his authority. Any disobedience was not allowed. He was the absolute monarch. Representative 325 declared without hesitation,
“Disobedience shall not be forgiven.”
The little gallerist admired such great authority.
“There is nothing for me to do here. I will go on my way!”
Representative 325, who was quite proud of having even one employee, replied, “You mustn’t go. Do not leave. I will appoint you as team leader.”
“Of what team?”
“Well…A leader of the exhibition team!”
“But there are no team members!”
“You never know. A team leader is supposed to recruit his team members.”
“I think I really have to go.”
“No way,” said Representative 325.
But the little gallerist, having now completed his preparations for departure, no longer wished to bother the representative. Quietly, he opened the door and stepped out.
At Gallery 326, there was a conceited representative. Representative 326 exclaimed from afar, when he first saw the little gallerist coming,
“Ah! My gallery is about to receive a visit from a collector!
The little gallerist said,
“Hello. But I’m not a collector―I’m a gallerist.”
“Oh! Then you can work at my gallery. You’ll be a great collector someday.”
“Do you pay a good salary?”
“I’ll give you art pieces instead of money.”
“But I need money for my living, not art pieces.”
“You would make a lot of money selling those art pieces later.”
“Later when?”
“They are excellent artworks. You can sell them anytime you need cash.”
“In that case, why don’t you sell them and pay me a salary?”
“You’d regret it. Those are valuable pieces.”
“I want a monthly salary―paid on time.”
“Stupid. Don’t you want to make big money and become a collector?”
The little gallerist stood up and turned his back on Representative 326, who preferred offering art pieces over salary.
At Gallery 327, the representative was a mean drunk. It was a very short visit this time―but a deeply shocking one.
Representative 327, sitting down in silence before a collection of empty bottles and also a collection of full bottes, suddenly grabbed the little gallerist’s hand. Startled, the little gallerist quickly pulled it away. Slurring his words, the tippler representative shouted,
“Don’t you want to work in this field?”
The little gallerist didn’t say a word. He just dashed out the door. His whole body was trembling from the shock. But he was not even scared with the threat of the tippler.
At Gallery 328, the representative was a businessman. He was so much occupied that he did not even raise his head at the little gallerist’s arrival.
“Good morning,” said the little gallerist. “Sir, I think I’ve seen those artworks on the wall somewhere else.”
“Five hundred million!”
“But I don’t think they are by the famous artist.”
“How do you know all the artists? Five hundred million!”
“Five hundred million what?”
The businessman representative raised his head.
“In the thirty years I’ve been in this field, I’ve only been disturbed three times. The first was twenty years ago, when I was investigated by the National Tax Service―caught up in a black money scandal of a major corporation. The second was ten years ago, when collectors staged a sit-in in front of my door after a piece I sold became the subject of an authenticity controversy. And the third time―well, this is it! Let’s see… in the meantime, it’s gone up for auction. Five-hundred-and-one million…?”
“What price on the earth jumps by a million in minutes?”
“That’s how it works! Art prices just keep rising―unlike stocks or real estate.”
“Who buys it?”
“There’s an endless stream of people who treat art as money.”
“But that artwork on the wall looks like a fake.”
“It is not by the famous artist, but it’s not a fake. It just has a similar style of painting.”
“Then I still don’t understand that price.”
“Well, the price of art is whatever the seller decides! If people want to get rich, they’ll buy it.”
The little gallerist couldn’t make sense of anything Representative 328 said. He just opened the door to get out.
The representative of Gallery 329 seemed enervated. Upon the little gallerist’s enter, he said,
“Would you like to go out for dinner?”
The little gallerist, who had not yet looked around at any of the artworks hanging in the gallery, answered,
“But I haven’t seen any art piece yet.”
“What for? Come on, let’s just eat out.”
“What kind of exhibition is going on in this gallery?”
“I just rehung pieces from previous exhibitions. There’s nothing new to see. We just go out for dinner.”
“What about the next exhibition?”
“Not in my plans.”
“It’s a gallery. Why isn’t the next exhibition in the plans?”
“There would be―if someone rents the space.”
“What about planning the exhibition? Cultivating or discovering artists?”
“I did all that back when I was young. I was full of passion. Yet the art pieces didn’t sell. After each exhibition, I ended up buying all the unsold pieces. Now I’m living off those―selling one or two of those art pieces I bought at that time. I just want a comfortable life now. Let’s just go for dinner.”
“But I’d like to plan the exhibitions and meet the artists.”
“Take it easy. Why are you trying so hard? Let’s go eat.”
“No, I…”
No matter how much more he said, the little gallerist felt like he would end up going to dinner anyway. So he opened the door and walked out.
At the end of the street was Gallery 330, small and simple. Once the little gallerist came in, the representative greeted him warmly.
“Welcome. I’m having tea with the artist right now. You can join us.”
It was the first gallery where an artist was present. On the walls were the works of young, almost unknown artists, not famous ones. Representative 330 spoke to the little gallerist who was gazing at the paintings.
“These pieces in this space are by artists who are growing alongside us. Selling is not everything. Of course, it’s not easy though...”
“The little gallerist asked,
“Then how do you operate?”
“Well…not easy. But if you want to survive in this market for the long term, you have to grow with the artists, not just with the art pieces. A gallery won’t last if it only exhibits profitable artworks. What truly matters is the trust you establish with those who are with you through it all.”
“What do the collectors say about that?”
The representative laughed.
“The collectors with true insight know that a gallery is a place to appreciate ‘works built over time and effort,’ not ‘pieces that immediately skyrocket in price’.”
The little gallerist nodded.
“I want to be a gallerist who works in a gallery like that. I hope to grow alongside someone.”
Representative 330 smiled looking at the little gallerist.
On the way back to his gallery, the little gallerist tried to keep in mind the saying:
“The art market is where art pieces are traded, but what’s truly important is about people. It is the place where we should pay for people and time, rather than pictures. In that sense, I want to be a gallerist who grows old together with artists over the long haul.”
And the little gallerist realized―
that becoming a grown-up means finding someone to walk the long road with.
And I came back to my place, cheering his days ahead.
2025.05. ACK 발행. ACK (artcritickorea) 글의 저작권은 필자에게 있습니다. May. 2025. Published by ACK. The copyright of the article published by ACK is owned by its author.