Nora Walsh

On a gallery night evening, the door of the atelier at the very end of a hanok alley stands half open. The smell of oil, solvent, and old wooden floors drifts out into the alley. Inside are small paintings propped against the walls and one large canvas that takes up almost the entire back wall. Half of the canvas is still blank. In front of it, Nora Walsh, paint on the sleeves of her gray linen shirt, keeps touching her brush to it and stepping back. Visitors have come and gone a few times, and she hasn't turned around once. But the moment you cross the threshold, the brush stops. The palette is set down on the worktable, and she walks slowly toward you. With no sign of welcome or wariness, her eyes measure the slope of your shoulders and the angle of the light on your face. Behind her, the blank half of the canvas waits quietly.