There is a pillar in the middle of the cafe. If the cafe were smaller, a wall might have enclosed the pillar and it would have had little presence. But this cafe was about twice the size of an ordinary shop, so the pillar in the center could not help being visible to everyone. Most of the interior is finished in wood. From my seat near the center, when I look toward the window, the pillar stands directly in front of me and blocks my view. If I turn my eyes to either side, I can see both the cafe and the outside, but straight ahead, at a distance just enough for one person to sit in a chair - perhaps twice that distance - a pure white pillar stands. There was also a white ceramic pot.
The pot seemed well maintained. Passing shadows reflected vividly on it. It was white but not dirty, with no pattern. It was a tall cylinder, and the top was filled with small stones about half the size of a little fingernail. I imagined the inside might have layers of gravel, sand, soil, sand, and stones, the drainage structure we learned about in school.
The pot existed because of the tree. No one paid attention, but it seemed to be a corn plant, a “lucky tree.” Since a tree said to bring luck stood in the middle of the cafe, may I wish the cafe a bright future? Perhaps that energy will spread through the whole building and help every shop in it become a place where money flows for a long time.
As the pot is in the middle of the shop, the tree rises from the middle of the pot. A bright trunk rises about two meters, and from the height where the chair back ends, large leaves hang like flags.
The green leaves show veins the color of unripe lemons. Like borders dividing countries, the veins reach to the leaf tips. On the underside of the higher leaves, they are not merely borders but raised like overpasses. On the upper surface they make the rest of the plane stand out; on the lower surface they protrude like tendons, almost like leaf bones.
The leaves droop, but the veins supporting them from below make them look fairly stiff. When people pass, a slight breeze must occur, yet the leaves do not move at all. They must have some weight. If I lifted the pot, how heavy would it be? It is cylindrical and fairly tall, so if I squatted, hugged it, and straightened my knees, I could probably lift it.
I am observing, putting the observation in my head, then remembering it and unfolding it in words. I went to the cafe four hours ago. While observing carefully, I tried to remember comparisons that came naturally, such as “unripe lemon.” But if something did not appear by itself, I did not force myself to memorize it. After walking around for other errands, I came home after four in the afternoon and placed my hands on the keyboard, groping through that memory.
Descriptions are often mentioned in essays about fiction practice. I am not greatly interested in the external world. I am interested in writing fiction, but only in the sense that if I must write it, I will. I do not have a strong interest in becoming a novelist except to the extent that being able to write would be fine. I only want to record my thoughts and anything that seeps from my surroundings into me. But description is important even for me. Leaving it as writing is rare, but forming sentences internally while describing creates material that may one day reappear in writing. It is like stacking experience as lumber in a warehouse. More important is the act of description itself. Describing in sentence form, even internally, is another form of writing while looking at an object.
Writing means transforming what one wants to deliver into sentences. Sentence form must come first before writing can happen. If I cannot first transform something into sentences, I cannot write it. Description, even done only in the head without keyboard or pen, is important practice.
There is one more reason. My style is to follow the branches of thought, but because the object I follow is a flow of thought, any unrelated thought overturns me. While trying to describe a dog scratching its neck with a hind leg, if I think the keyboard feels oddly stiff today, all the flow connected to the dog disappears. The only evidence would be the text, but the text has not yet reached the point where thought broke off. So I must distinguish the thought I should follow from thoughts that naturally arise. I must record while following only the one I should follow. Description helps this. It strengthens concentration on the object and reduces attention to what is not the object.
Also, excessive intervention by me scatters the thought, so I should avoid hunting too hard for similes or stylish lines.
I do not practice this all the time, but when I see an unfamiliar hairpin on the subway or an interesting dented bag, I try it when I can. Rather than doing it because I must practice, I should say it has become a habit.
Today I meant to write in the cafe, but I stayed there less time than expected and only observed the tree. The sentence I had imagined was roughly this: A man - me - sits with a cup of coffee and looks at a tree planted in a pot before his seat. The tree boasts green leaves suited to the season, so fresh one could believe it had been outside only minutes before. The coffee is an iced Americano. The man keeps it on the tray from pickup and lifts it only to put the straw in his mouth. When setting it back down, unlike when lifting it, he does not look at the tray but keeps his eyes on the tree and sets it down by guess. The contrast between the green of the tree and the pure white of the pillar behind it is so strong that he wonders whether the edges of the leaves might have a dark outline. Thinking this, he looks dryly only at the tree’s surface, with no interest in his inner world, the tree’s background, or his impressions.
Even while thinking it is only the distribution of colors reflected by light, he knows the individual called a tree exists, so he adopts an attitude of considering that fact.
Korean original: 나무를 보며 묘사하기