The first novel I ever read, hoping it would never end, was Milan Kundera's "The Unbearable Lightness of Being." Even in the midst of a life filled with lament and self-deprecation, Kundera's humor, which always flashed like a blade, had the power to make even the most un-laughable situations seem laughable. Kundera's skill in subtly exposing the despicable nature of humans, which had never been properly denounced despite being a common way of living, was truly remarkable. But that wasn’t all. Kundera's novels, which became more piercing and painful the more I read them, yet paradoxically gave me a sense of relief, helped me endure the gloomy 1980s. His characters, who are connected to the mundane and trivial aspects of life, even in extreme moments, strangely put my mind at ease.
Just as Milan Kundera, who loved the concrete, everyday, and physical aspects of life, couldn't help but write novels instead of poetry, I too couldn't resist the prose of life that couldn't be filled with poetry alone. The appearance of humans, endlessly intertwining and revealing themselves within the world, is so strange and absurd that it cannot be summarized or explained in a single sentence. Therefore, a novel with a freer form seemed more appropriate to reveal this.
Milan Kundera said that the reason for the existence of a novel is to show life as it is, helping us to understand the inevitable failures of human life. In this painting, I tried to capture Kundera's message: instead of struggling to find answers in a life that offers none, just live it.