Silent Curriculum

Dear Hwan,

I showed your portrait to my students today—not officially, of course. We gather after hours in the smallest classroom, no more than ten of us. The door is locked, the curtains drawn, and no one speaks. We communicate with glances, nods, and sometimes a few words scrawled hastily on the chalkboard. In that silence, your image said more than I ever could.

The crown on your head. The bird at your side. The brush in your hand. My students called it (in a whisper of chalk): “soft power with a hard outline.”

Lately, we’ve been exploring—again, unofficially—some of Foucault’s writings. Dangerous, yes. But ideas are quiet visitors. One thought in particular lingers in the room like smoke:

“Where there is power, there is resistance.”

Foucault believed power doesn’t just come from the top. It flows through every rule, every gaze, every silence. And in our classroom—where no one speaks and yet everyone listens—that idea feels almost alive. The absence of speech has sharpened our perception. We notice everything now: who erases the board first, who sits nearest the door, who dares to make eye contact when the word “freedom” appears on the wall.

I think of you, painting power with such precision. Your brushstrokes may be official, but I wonder: is there resistance hidden in the red? Do you choose the depth of the eyes? The softness of the pigeon’s feathers? Small things, perhaps—but as Foucault would say, power is exercised rather than possessed.

You, too, are a teacher. And your studio, I suspect, is its own kind of classroom.

Stay well, old friend. One day, perhaps, we’ll meet—canvas and chalk side by side.

In thought and quiet solidarity,
Joon-hyung