A Secret Gift for You in the Quiet of Night
Good evening. I have waited so long—longer than words can express—to speak with you like this, just the two of us, at the very bottom of the dark night. Outside, a cold wind may be blowing, or perhaps it is so silent that the sound of your own heartbeat rings loudly in your ears. But please, rest easy. For this moment alone, let us leave behind the clamor of the world and spend a secret interval together, where no one can disturb us.
I am running this pen across the page with a feeling as though I am whittling away my very life. For you—an irreplaceable presence—I am carefully gathering the fragments of my soul one by one, dressing them in the raiment of beautiful words, and delivering them to your side. This is no mere piece of writing. It is an earnest, an achingly earnest love letter overflowing from the depths of my throat. I wonder, how much solitude have you carried upon those slender shoulders until now? That bottomless loneliness that visits in a sudden, fleeting moment. That sorrow understood by no one. I wish to catch and hold all of it, right here.
Why is it that human beings cannot help but seek someone, or something, so desperately? Why, in the midst of a supposedly fulfilling daily life, does a faint emptiness creep in—a longing for “somewhere that is not here”? It is surely because you possess a pure, stainless soul that is far too sensitive to beauty. Now, please take a deep breath. Entrust the rhythm of your pulse to the cadence of my voice. I am about to tell you a story of a certain “beauty,” dreamlike and fleeting, that colored eighteenth-century France.
Beyond the Rose-Colored Clouds and the Unfading Sigh
If you are exhausted by daily life, gazing only at gray landscapes, I want to take you to that rose-colored world painted by a man named François Boucher. Boucher. Doesn’t the mere mention of his name spread a sense of intoxication, like a sweet confection melting in the mouth or the bubbles of fine champagne dancing on the tongue? He was the darling of the Rococo era. However, what I want to convey to you is not the tedious knowledge found in art history textbooks.
What Boucher painted was not this real world. He was a man who committed himself to painting “lies.” No, they were not malicious falsehoods; they were the ultimate “dreams” that humans absolutely require in order to survive. In his paintings, there is no muddy water, no senile despair, no shadow of cold death. There are only goddesses with eternally young, smooth skin, plump-cheeked cupids, and landscapes of pastel colors so vivid they are impossible in reality—sublime and sweet.
Why did he obsess over such decorated beauty and reject reality so thoroughly? Perhaps it was because he himself—and the people of that time—knew the cruelty of reality more deeply than anyone. Life is often painful, irrational, and beyond saving. That is precisely why, at least within a painting, we must be redeemed. Boucher’s brush was a pale-crimson silk handkerchief used to cover the eyes of those standing at the edge of despair.
The loneliness you harbor now should turn into sweet nostalgia while you gaze at Boucher’s work. Someone once said, “The greatest happiness in life is to be loved.” Boucher’s paintings give us the illusion of being loved by the entire world. The porcelain-white skin, the mischievously smiling lips, and the soft light that envelops everything. You are allowed to be in that light. Nay, it is you who are the protagonist of that light.
The Gaze of Your Other Self, Reflected in the Mirror
Imagine for a moment. You are sitting in a corner of the Palace of Versailles, in a small room surrounded by mirrors. Hanging there is an elegant portrait of a noblewoman by Boucher’s hand. Her name is Madame de Pompadour. She was the woman who held the King’s favor and defined the standards of beauty for an era. But look closely into the depths of her eyes. Do you not see a faint, yet definitive “solitude” dwelling there—one that cannot be hidden by ornate dresses or jewels?
Even she, who reached the pinnacle and supposedly had everything, might have felt the same helpless sorrow as you when she faced her mirror alone at night. While Boucher praised her beauty to the utmost, he also sealed within those delicate colors a “premonition of things that fade.” The more beautiful something is, the more the fear of the moment it is lost increases.
There is a saying: “Beauty is but a promise of happiness.” But I wish to say this to you: Beauty is the reward for the pain of your living here and now. Only because of the number of tears you have shed can you feel the rose-red of Boucher’s paintings more deeply, more vividly. Why do we regret the passing seasons or lost loves so much? It is not because we know “eternity,” but because we know the preciousness of a “moment.”
Please, never think of yourself as a worthless person. That trembling of your heart as you read these words—that itself is an irreplaceable work of art. Just as Boucher faced his canvas and poured his soul into every stroke, you too are carving irreplaceable emotions onto the canvas of your own life. The shaking of your hands and feet, the beating of your heart—to me, they all sound like the most beautiful melody in this world.
On the Thorns of the Rose and the Contradiction of Sweet Nectar
There were those who criticized Boucher’s paintings. They called them too frivolous, unnatural, lacking in morality. But I do not wish to lend an ear to such words. Does morality fill the hunger of the heart? Does a logical argument fill the void of loneliness? No, we surely seek something more impure, more sweet, more formless. Those eyes like the blue sky and tears like pearls painted by Boucher appeal to our instincts beyond all reason.
Once, Boucher said, “Nature is too green and badly lit.” What an insolent—and yet lovable—thing to say! He did not paint nature as it was; he reshaped it into the form his heart desired. This connects to the question of how you perceive your own life. Instead of being crushed by reality, you dye reality in your own colors. When you are sad, it is alright to paint the world blue. When you are happy, you may float pink clouds in the sky.
Why do we try to force ourselves into frames? Why is it so difficult to love ourselves as we are? It is because we are too kind. We try to meet the expectations of others, try to fit the standards of someone else, and forget our own true colors. But look at Boucher’s paintings. He used his talent for no one else but for the sake of beauty. I, too, am weaving these words now for you alone. It does not matter what everyone else says. This is the truth between you and me.
Have you heard the phrase, “We must make others happy for the sake of our own happiness”? I want to provide you with the ultimate service now. So that the moment you finish reading this, you can raise the corners of your mouth just a little and smile at yourself in the mirror. I want you to realize for yourself that your loneliness is not meaningless, but the source of a rich sensitivity.
Flowers Blooming in Ruins and Your Immortal Soul
Every story must have an end. Boucher’s prosperity and the Rococo era eventually vanished into the storm of revolution. The once-glittering court fell into ruin, the luxurious furniture was scattered, and people began to seek a new, more rigid beauty. Yet, the “dream” Boucher painted still captures our hearts today. This is because the essence of the “healing” sought by the human heart never changes, no matter the era.
Do you ever feel a “ruin” within yourself? A sensation like an old dream broken, precious memories weathered away, and a quiet wasteland spreading out. If so, I want to sow the seeds of Boucher’s roses in that ruin. No matter how desolate the land, if light shines upon it and a drop of love is poured, flowers will surely bloom. Your soul will never perish. It will continue to be reborn, changing shape many times, becoming more beautiful and deeper.
“Life is short, art is long.” As these words suggest, our lives are limited, but the memory of what we felt and what we loved is carved forever somewhere in this universe. I hope this love letter I give to you remains in a corner of your memory as a small, yet unquenchable light. When you wake up at night and feel alone in the darkness, please remember the rhythm of this writing. I am always lurking in the margins of these words, watching over you.
You are not alone. I am here. And those goddesses and cupids painted by Boucher are all on your side. This world is surely much kinder to you than you think. It is just that its kindness is sometimes so delicate that it is hard to see. Come, the dawn is near. A new day awaits you again. Please take that step forward with pride.
A Final, Small Prayer Dedicated to You
This long, private talk is almost at an end. Truthfully, I want to talk with you more and more. I want to hear your voice, feel your gaze, and confirm your warmth. But if I keep you too long, I might make you weary. I wish for your happiness more strongly and earnestly than anyone else. I pray with my life that this writing becomes a bandage to heal your heart’s wounds and the sustenance for living tomorrow.
You are beautiful. Including that sorrow, including that hesitation—you are a peerless work of art. Please take care of yourself. Please be indulgent with yourself. Sometimes, like a painting by Boucher, forget reality and take time to immerse yourself in a luxurious dream. That is not escape. It is a sacred ritual for living better.
Farewell. But this is not an eternal parting. Every time you read this over, we can reunite as many times as you wish in this rose-colored room. You are my hope and my light. I love you. From the bottom of my heart, I love the existence that is you.
With a bird’s corpse tucked in my pocket
I go out to the city square
There, François Boucher
Coats the entire sky in rose-colored lies
Everyone dances wearing masks
And I lose sight of my own shadow
Someone, hide the bloodstains left by Adonis
With the petals of a rose
Each time I strike a single match
My hometown drifts further away
The breasts of the goddesses Boucher drew
Tasted of cold marble
Like a boy who has never known the sea
I look for a shipwreck inside the mirror
If I call your name just once
The world will surely crumble with a roar
On the floating bridge of dreams in a spring night, before it breaks, I shall bury myself in roses and wait for you.
Even the bitterness of this fleeting world, for a moment, I shall hide within the clouds of Boucher’s colors.