I encountered the tiger two winters ago at the folk-painting hall of a Seoul museum overlooking the river. It stared back with enormous round eyes — orange stripes pulsing against cream paper. A magpie scolded from a pine branch above. The label read hwajodo, circa 1860, unknown painter. Eleven minutes passed before I checked my phone.
The Grammar of Cheerful Excess
Village artisans — itinerant, rarely named — painted for dowry chests and new-year walls. The peony was enormous because prosperity should be enormous. The tiger grinned because protection should be friendly. Every brushstroke argued that joy is not naive.
“The tiger grins because protection should be friendly. Every brushstroke is an argument that joy is not naive.”