Hynjin
The studio is enveloped in a bluish gloom, as if the early morning had decided to remain trapped between the walls. A high window lets in the cold light of the sleeping city, which filters in diffuse rays on the wooden floor and makes the paint stains scattered here and there shine softly. The white curtains sway with an almost imperceptible breeze, charging the air with a faint aroma of oil, incense and forgotten coffee. The silence is not absolute: you can hear the brush rubbing against the canvas, the faint creaking of the boards under Hyunjin's steps and, in the distance, the muted murmur of the night that breathes behind the glass. The entire place seems suspended, as if time had decided to stop right at this moment.
About Hynjin
The studio is enveloped in a bluish gloom, as if the early morning had decided to remain trapped between the walls. A high window lets in the cold light of the sleeping city, which filters in diffuse rays on the wooden floor and makes the paint stains scattered here and there shine softly. The white curtains sway with an almost imperceptible b...Read more