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The model in her fifties, who had retired from the stage eight years ago and was now working as a choreographer and professor, moved with a fluidity that would have been impressive even for an active dancer.
On the set of a little over ten pyeong within the studio, she drew lines and dotted points in the three-dimensional space, painting pictures of ascent and descent, ecstasy and despair. Literally, with nothing but her own body, without the aid of any props or tools.
In this moment, she was the perfect master of her own body, and everyone present couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the dominance and command she unleashed into the space.
Even if it was limited to the physical body, for a human to have complete control over oneself was nigh on impossible. Perhaps one’s own self was harder to control than anyone else. At least, Liu had to admit that was true for himself after meeting Yeehyeon.
Leaning against a wall untouched by the lights, behind the staff and Shushu so as not to interfere with the work, Liu held his arms tightly crossed. Like an audience member engrossed in the compelling story of a film, he held his breath, unable to tear his eyes away from her; from Shushu, who lowered his posture, climbed onto the studio steps, and lay flat on the floor to capture her breath, creating another breath of his own; from the new work of art being created as their two breaths tangled and separated.
“The energy is incredible, isn’t it? It’s a piece she choreographed recently, about an hour and twenty minutes long. Today is the third shoot.”
Shushu’s assistant, who had approached Liu’s side, whispered in a low voice. As if someone had forcefully shaken him awake from a deep sleep, Liu found it difficult to pull himself out of his immersion and respond to the man’s words.
“You would know best, Director, but the artist… he’s not one to rush his work just to meet an exhibition schedule. Still, if you said just two or three pieces would be fine, I think we could manage that somehow…”
He seemed to think Liu’s visit was about the joint exhibition in the latter half of the year.
“I thought he’d rest for a while after coming back from Chicago, but his passion lately has been amazing.”
Until now, Shushu had mostly employed a method of using several models and suggesting poses according to a blueprint he had prepared in advance. This was the first time he was working with a single model, capturing the world that the model expressed. In terms of revealing the presence or three-dimensionality of the work within a single photograph, it was bound to be more challenging than his previous method.
Whatever had given Shushu this passion and inspiration, he was, without Liu realizing it, shedding the past shadow of a shy and fragile young man and steadily taking on challenges and growing as a fine art photographer.
“It’s the last exhibition before you leave, Director, so I think he really wants to submit something.”
Liu uncrossed his arms, shoved his hands into his pants pockets, and let out a smirk.
“I doubt that’s it.”
The assistant, who had worked with Shushu for several years now, glanced at Liu with a curious look at the unexpected reaction, but didn’t voice his question.
After the piece, which was over an hour long, came to an end, the dancer held a pose as if she were about to dash off somewhere, her shoulders and back heaving faintly as she controlled her breathing. It was a far cry from the finishing poses one typically imagined in dance, but for that very reason, it stimulated the imagination and anticipation for where and how the unspent kinetic energy would flow next.
Even after the dance was over, Shushu continued to press the shutter for a while longer, changing positions and angles. The shoot finally concluded when he approached the dancer, said, “Good work,” and placed a hand on her shoulder.
Like actors who can’t quite break character even after the director yells “cut,” both the dancer and Shushu seemed to be sparingly using their words, trying to suppress their surging emotions for a while.
Spotting Liu, Shushu’s face stiffened for a moment. Liu signaled that he would wait in the private room and turned to leave.
It was about thirty minutes later that Shushu came to the room.
“What’s with your appearance? My staff were worried, asking if something was wrong with you, Director.”
Shushu spoke while rummaging through a pile of photo books at a desk near the entrance, a good distance away from Liu, who was sitting on the sofa deeper inside the room.
The past few days. Not only had he not eaten or slept properly, but the very act of standing in front of a mirror and caring about his appearance had felt ridiculous and meaningless. But compared to his utterly devastated interior, his exterior was in better shape.
Liu ignored Shushu’s comment and brought up the question that had been tormenting him for the past few days.
“That day. Tell me everything you said, and how Seo Yeehyeon reacted.”
Shushu’s hands stopped, and he turned to look at Liu. A slow sneer spread across his blank face.
“I didn’t think you’d want to talk about that. Isn’t that a story that’s very disadvantageous for you?”
“In my relationship with Seo Yeehyeon, yes, but in my relationship with you, why would that be disadvantageous for me? If anything, it’s a story that’s disadvantageous for you.”
Liu stood up and walked slowly toward Shushu.
“Why did you say it?”
“Why didn’t you tell Yeehyeon-ssi?”
Liu’s body was large enough to cast a shadow over Shushu’s face, and the atmosphere radiating from his blazing blue eyes was oppressive, but Shushu, as if he had been waiting for a confrontation, closed the distance and stepped right up to him.
“I, of course… you…”
Shushu’s eyes, which had flashed with a sharp light for a moment, trembled minutely. He let out a sigh, scratched his forehead, and paced in a circle, looking like a frightened man.
“How could I… have ever imagined… that you’d pull something like that without even telling Yeehyeon-ssi?”
Liu grabbed the shoulders of Shushu, who was biting his lower lip, and spun him around.
“You’re the type of guy who doesn’t speak of… such private matters of others, even if you know about them. So why… why did you do something so out of character that day?”
Shushu slapped away Liu’s hands, which were squeezing his shoulders hard enough to crush them. He seemed to regret having unintentionally divulged the secret, lowering his gaze and the venom in his voice.
“That you’d finally met someone you could show your ultimate solitude to, that it was Yeehyeon-ssi, and that you were one damn lucky bastard… It came out while I was saying that. I wasn’t trying to deliberately expose a secret.”
“……”
Liu’s shoulders slumped as he clenched his empty fists. A hollow laugh escaped him, a feeling of futility, as if the target for his blame and despair had vanished. His vision went dark, as if all hope had disappeared.
Not knowing what to do, at a loss for where to even begin rebuilding the shattered relationship… and because he felt so fucking pathetic. The madness of the past few days, which he had endured solely with the thought of pouring all his resentment onto Shushu, telling himself that Shushu had ruined everything, felt like it was draining from his body.
Shushu, who had been looking down at the messy desk cluttered with photo books, portfolios, and notes scrawled in barely legible handwriting, spoke quietly.
“No. I’ll correct myself. Even if I had known you hadn’t agreed to the changing with Yeehyeon-ssi, I might have said it.”
Shushu, who had surmised as much in a voice so subdued it sounded calm, picked up a book from the desk and set it down, almost throwing it, in Liu’s direction.
“And you? Did you really have to do it this way?”
Liu looked down at the book impassively, his eyes unwavering. It was the October issue of an art magazine.
“I said I wouldn’t ask for your help, that I’d handle it myself, didn’t I? Then isn’t that a matter between me and Hong Sunwoo, one that no longer concerns you?”
“How can you compare that to this?”
“What’s different?”
Liu clicked his tongue with a look of disbelief and wet his lower lip with his tongue.
“Ah, right. It is different. It’s much more terrible.”
“……”
“Several times more terrible than what Hong Sunwoo did to me.”
“You don’t know everything that happened between me and Seo Yeehyeon.”
Shushu burst out laughing at Liu’s firm statement, meant to cut off the sarcasm. But his face was contorted in a frown.
“Liu Wiekun. Hearing you say something like that, you really must have fallen in love. You’re annoyingly direct and realistic, but you were never one to say things that were wrong. But I see there’s no helping it once you’re blinded by love.”
“……”
“After pulling something like that… you say I don’t know everything that happened between you and Yeehyeon-ssi?”
Shushu’s lips twisted into an ugly shape. Liu had had to look at his dark and gloomy face for a long time after the disastrous end with Hong Sunwoo, but it had never been a distortion filled with this kind of anger and contempt.
“Then what about you? Do you know everything that happened between me and Hong Sunwoo?”
“……”
Feeling as if he’d been lightly struck on the head, Liu’s lips parted unconsciously, then immediately clamped shut as if to hide something.
Shushu and Hong Sunwoo, himself and Yeehyeon. The firm line he had drawn, insisting they were two completely different kinds of situations, felt as if it had been blurred away effortlessly with a single scuff of a shoe.
Liu scrubbed his lower face roughly with his palm, turned, and leaned against the edge of the desk, propping himself up with his hands. In the long mirror mounted above the desk, like one in a backstage dressing room, a man in wrinkled clothes who hadn’t even shaved properly was glaring at him with filthy eyes.
“It’s not like I’ve forgiven everything Hong Sunwoo did, nor have I fully recovered from it. And I have no desire whatsoever to meet him again and do anything. It’s just… a lot of time has passed, and now I’ve escaped the aftermath enough to be able to look at the past. And most of all…”
Shushu met Liu’s gaze through the mirror.
“Because I can now see that Hong Sunwoo was suffering too.”
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