A Confession to You, in a Vacant Drawing Room
Ah, at last, we are together. How long have I yearned to speak with you like this—just the two of us, tucked away in a quiet corner of a room, guarded by the flickering shadows of a lamp? Is that rain I hear outside, or perhaps only the whispering wind? It does not matter. In this fleeting moment, there is no one in my world but you. Gazing into your eyes—eyes that hold a hint of loneliness yet remain as noble and clear as a mountain spring—I have taken up this pen with the resolve to offer you every fragment of my life.
Do you know the true color of the word “loneliness”? I believe it is not a pitch black, but rather a translucent ultramarine. That inexplicable ache you feel in the depths of your chest, a sharp, twisting pang that visits you in the quiet hours—that is the very proof that you possess a soul more pure than anyone else in this vulgar world. I feel your pain as if it were my own. No, let us be more precise: your pain is my pain, and your solitude is my sanctuary.
Therefore, please, put your heart at ease. What I am about to share with you is a tale of truth, lies, and love, gifted only to a chosen soul like yours. Let us embark, for a moment, on a mysterious journey.
“It is a greater happiness to love than to be loved.” (Goethe)
A Truth Too Beautiful, Named “Forgery”
Now, let me whisper a secret to you. People in this world are obsessed with “the real thing.” Real diamonds, real lineage, real talent. But, my dear friend, what exactly is the “real thing” after all?
There once was a man named Han van Meegeren. He was a lonely painter who lived in the Netherlands during the twentieth century. In his early days, he was cruelly mocked by the powerful critics of his time, dismissed as “old-fashioned” and “devoid of originality.” With your delicate heart, you surely understand the despair he must have felt then. The wretchedness of having the beauty you believe in trampled upon by the world. Those heavy nights spent staring at a cold ceiling, wishing only to erase your own existence.
Why must humans be so eager to judge one another? Why do they turn a deaf ear to the cry of the soul and value only outward form?
Meegeren made a decision. He decided to become Johannes Vermeer, the seventeenth-century master. He obtained old canvases, ground his pigments according to ancient recipes, and spent years exhaustively studying Vermeer’s every brushstroke. Then, he painted “newly discovered” Vermeers that were never supposed to exist.
Astonishingly, the very critics who had once ridiculed him praised these forgeries as “Vermeer’s greatest masterpieces,” treating them as national treasures. Is it not ludicrous? And yet, what a sorrowful victory.
“Human beings willingly believe what they wish to be true.” (Julius Caesar)
Whose Shadow Fills the Void of Your Loneliness?
Have you ever found yourself playing the part of someone you are not, simply to meet the expectations of others? Behind your gentle smile, I know there is a “true self” weeping in the shadows. Perhaps Meegeren, too, felt his soul being liberated only when he was painting those lies.
Meegeren even sold a forgery to Hermann Göring, a high-ranking Nazi official. After the war, he was branded a traitor for selling national treasures to the enemy and was sentenced to death. To save his own life, he was forced to shout in court: “Those are forgeries I painted myself!”
Can you believe it? To prove his genius, he had to confess to being a swindler. What a paradox. What irony. He actually painted a canvas in the courtroom to prove he was a master forger. In 그 moment, he was transformed from a criminal who deceived the state into a national hero who outwitted the Nazis.
But I wonder… was a hero’s throne what Meegeren truly desired? No, surely not. He simply wanted someone to look at the “beauty” he created. His loneliness—the fact that he could not convey his love unless he wore the mask of Vermeer—does it not resemble your own loneliness, living while hiding your true self?
“Solitude is having the courage to leave the harbor and cross the sea.” (Saint-Exupéry)
The You in the Mirror Is Another Me
Why do we seek the understanding of others so desperately? Why is standing alone so profoundly lonely?
Whenever I read Meegeren’s story, my thoughts always drift to you. I think of your profile as you suddenly stop in the hustle and bustle of the city to look up at the sky. You may be surrounded by many people, but in the most precious part of your heart, no one is allowed entry. There, you surely have a secret garden that you have nurtured in silence, a place you tell no one about.
I want to be the gatekeeper of that garden. I want to wrap your sadness in the magic of words. What Meegeren layered onto those canvases was not mere paint. It was a revenge against the world that refused to recognize him, and at the same time, a desperate love letter to that very world.
The emptiness you feel now—it is not a bad thing. It is because you are empty that my words, my love, can soak into you. You are beautiful exactly as you are. It is fine to be a “fake,” and it is fine to be acting. That very suffering is the one and only absolute proof that you are human.
“Love is the trembling of the soul when it encounters a soul similar to itself.” (Plato)
A Final Service, Offered by Wasting My Life
My fingers tremble as I hold this pen. In order to convey these feelings to you, I am shaving away my own life, bit by bit like shavings of wood, and sprinkling them over this manuscript. This is not my last will and testament. It is a life-risking “service” for you.
Please do not take the word “service” lightly. It is a saint-like act of exposing one’s own entrails to satisfy the hunger of another. I want you to laugh. No, I want you to cry. Or perhaps, after reading this, I want you to let out a long sigh and think, “Maybe I will try living through tomorrow.”
Meegeren passed away in prison. His life could be said to have begun with a lie and ended with a lie. However, the tears shed by the people who stood before those forged paintings were surely not fake.
If you will love me, I will tell as many lies as you need. Beautiful lies, kind lies, lies like a soft blanket to wrap you in. But this heartbeat alone—this rhythm that never stops seeking you—is the greatest truth in the galaxy.
Why are the nights so long? Why are words so frustratingly inadequate? Yet, if I think of this as the cord that connects me to you, I can find even this suffering precious.
“Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.” (Charlie Chaplin)
The Moonlight Shines on You, and Eternity Begins
Before the dawn breaks, I will call your name in my heart one last time. You are my only reader, and my only salvation.
Just as Meegeren’s paint dried upon the canvas, I pray that these feelings of mine set firmly within your heart and never leave. No matter how far away you are, no matter how much you come to hate yourself, I am here. I live eternally within these sentences, waiting for you.
When you feel lonely, you can always return. Return to this hideaway woven of letters. This is a place for you alone. A sanctuary for you and me, where no one can interfere. Your tears become my ink. Your sighs become my rhythm.
Now, dawn is near. The time approaches to return to the world where the cold winds of reality blow. But please, never forget. In your heart, the small seed of hope I planted has surely taken root. No matter how hard the rain falls, it will never wither.
I love you. As long as you do not cease to be yourself. No, even if you lose sight of who you are, I will find you. Because that is the life-risking service I have chosen.
“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” (New Testament: John 15:13)
Pulling on an invisible thread
I embrace your shadow
The Meegeren in the mirror
Beyond the lies, let us
Quietly arrange
The flowers of truth
My love
Layers of strange pigments
Brushed on thick
Though it be a deception
Only you shall know
“Love your neighbor. But first, learn to love yourself.” (Old Testament: Leviticus 19:18 – In the spirit of)
“Wait quietly, without moving, until you hear the footsteps of happiness.” (Osamu Dazai)
“If life is nothing but ‘goodbye,’ then what is the spring that comes again?” (Shuji Terayama)