The Teacher Who Inspired My Atelier Dream

The Teacher Who Inspired My Atelier Dream

How did I become an artist?

When I look back, I realize it began with a small but beautiful moment—a gentle spark that stayed with me.
As a child, I once wandered into a neighborhood art studio by accident. The teacher, wearing a blue apron, didn’t scold me. She welcomed me with quiet kindness and allowed me to paint freely, without asking for anything in return. I still remember the large sheets of paper hanging on the easels, and the joy I felt as I painted on them.

I don’t remember her face clearly, only that the studio was on the second floor and that she made space for me when I had none.

I often wonder:
Does she know that the little girl who quietly entered her studio that day has become an artist?

To this day, I carry a deep sense of gratitude for her.
And because of her, I’ve made it my mission to become a kind art teacher.
I want to one day create a studio like hers—one that’s open, welcoming, and free. A place where anyone can walk in and create without fear.

In contrast, my early experiences with music teachers were traumatic.
My first piano school felt like a factory—long hallways, tiny rooms, and a teacher who moved from one room to another, scolding and even hitting students. I remember hearing other children crying as I practiced, and knowing that my turn would come soon. After lessons, my back would be red from being hit.

Later, my middle school music teacher yelled at me for missing a beat, pouring out frustration and anger in front of everyone. These experiences left a scar, and I lost all interest in music.

Because of this, I now choose my children's teachers carefully. I look for people whose eyes shine with passion—people who love what they do. Those teachers never teach with fear.

Teaching with kindness and love is never easy. It takes patience. Children may speak their minds, test boundaries, and slow the process. But I know one thing for sure:

Teaching with fear may get results, but it also plants lifelong trauma.

It kills the joy of learning.
Whether it's art or music, learning should bring joy.
And because I know that joy so well, I hope my students will stay in that world as long as they can.
My second art teacher was in high school.
She always praised my paintings—specific, thoughtful compliments.
"You handle bleeding colors so well. Why don’t you try Korean ink painting?"
That suggestion lit a spark in me.

I’ve come to realize something powerful
:
We see the world through our teachers.

That’s why teachers must smile often, and offer inspiration whenever possible.
Of course, I struggle sometimes.
When a student spills permanent paint on the floor, I panic and yell, “Don’t step there!”

But afterward, I feel guilty. I wish I could have handled it more gently.
So I try to learn from every moment.

Next time, I want to pause, breathe, and smile—even in urgency.
That, too, is part of growing as an educator.
The classroom is full of unpredictable moments.

But if we continue to grow through them, that is the path of a true teacher—and a true artist.
I’m still walking that path.
Hoping that one day, like the woman in the blue apron,
I too will become a teacher who lives warmly in a child’s memory.