The Meaning of Painting - Part 1: Plein Air Drawing

I am a plein air painter. I am a plein air artist who paints landscape scenery in oil on canvas.

That does not mean I never paint abstract or non-representational works. I often enjoy painting them from time to time.

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For the past ten years, I have gone out for plein air painting at least four or five days a week, enduring suffocating, dizzying summer heatwaves, howling winds that threatened to blow away my easel, and freezing winter days when my hands went numb. Yet, that hard work has not brought me financial reward.

It is no exaggeration to say that painting is a grueling journey—one that forces you to face the constant reality of poverty, hunger, and mountainloads of debt. At least, that is how it has been for me.

Perhaps artists who come from wealthy backgrounds, inherit fortunes, and never have to worry about money are the exception.

Being looked down upon by people around me, hearing cynical remarks as I struggled late in life to make a living while pursuing art as a penniless nobody—blocking out their voices and quietly walking my own path was never easy.

What has been even harder to bear is the malicious mockery of someone close to me who used to work in a similar field. They have never bought a single painting of mine, never once visited an exhibition, never even sent a congratulatory postcard or a single penny of encouragement. Yet they say things to me without a second thought: "Most painters end their lives in suicide because of debt, and there are merchants who make a living buying up such artists' paintings cheaply. Most artists die or commit suicide in such miserable ways." I cannot fathom the motive behind saying such things to someone's face. How can someone be so petty? How can a human being utter such cruel words?

When someone I trusted or someone else says something utterly absurd and unbelievable, I simply keep my mouth shut and do not reply.

I deleted their phone number.

There is no reason to receive calls from or listen to someone who lacks basic human decency, treating them as if they belong among decent people. Experience has taught me this.

There were times when I saved people who were driven to the brink of death, only to be stabbed in the back later. Instead of gratitude, I faced resentment, mockery, and ridicule for being poor—more times than I can count.

Because of this, I no longer trust people the way I used to.

Materialistic as this world may be, we should at least live with basic human dignity and character. That is what humanity is all about.

I have deleted the phone numbers of subhuman beasts who judge people solely by the size of their wealth. They probably won't come looking for me, but even if they do, I will not meet them. Because they are not human. -- Is that too extreme? I don't think so.

Do good people die young? Unfortunately, I would say, "Yes."

Does that mean those who live long are not good? I would say, "No."

At least in my life, the people who genuinely liked and cared for me are mostly gone too soon, no longer of this world.

The friends and acquaintances who loved me purely as a human being have sadly passed away one by one. Two of them have already left this world just this year, and the ache in my heart is something I cannot help.

Is life just a continuous series of hardships? Or is it a path of spiritual practice for deeper realization?

Perhaps the question of life and death is minuscule amid the vast expanses of time and space, and my own existence might be too insignificant for anyone to even care about. Yet, I am still alive, and because I am alive, I can awaken and stand upon eternal freedom.

Painting is an arduous battle with oneself.

As is true for any path in life, this is especially the case for painters, who can never escape the shackles of poverty no matter how hard they work.

< Summer scenery of the Nakdong River viewed from Agyang Ecological Park, June 2026 >

These days, I no longer paint with the desperate, life-risking intensity I had last year.

After years of painting day and night, risking my life, I found myself hanging on the cliff of financial ruin—drowning in debt, threatened by survival, and physically exhausted with aches and pains all over my body.

That does not mean I am giving up painting. I have decided to go out for plein air at least once a week, and write these stories with the time I have left.

Call it writing or whatever you will, but I simply want to share the honest, everyday stories of how I live out my days.

Life is truly peculiar.

In any case, a day passes, and whether I chase the ideals I dream of within that given day or not, no one really cares.

The world shapes itself according to what I desire and how I move.

I am a painter. A plein air artist who paints the landscape in the open air.

I am a painter. A spiritual seeker walking the path of peace and coexistence on a blank white canvas.

I am a painter. An artist whose passion has not cooled, with so much more left to do.

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