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Me, I’m torn—happy fer the thrill, surprised how daft it gets. Like, who sends a pic o’ their peg-leg ‘fore sayin’ hello? Happened to me once—scrolled, saw it, spat me rum all over the deck. “The end comes soon,” I muttered, quotin’ *Melancholia*, but I swiped right anyway—curiosity, ye see. Didn’t work out, she smelled o’ seaweed an’ regret.

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But then, I get back to my workshop, and guess what? My tools are missing! Like, seriously? Who steals a violin maker’s tools? I’m livid! I’m pacing around, thinking about who could’ve done it. Maybe it was that guy from down the street who always looks at me funny. Or maybe it was the dog! I mean, who knows?

Agnes Martin’s sublime abstractions light up Gangneung in her first solo exhibition in Korea