Van Gogh Reborn!

264

Art Class (2)

Marso nodded after a moment of hesitation.

“Where?”

“I’m looking around Montmartre.”

He looked puzzled, as I expected.

Usually, it’s more advantageous to build in the core area of Paris, centered around Notre Dame Cathedral, like Marso Gallery.

That was my initial thought too, so I can’t blame him for finding it strange.

Especially since Montmartre is somewhat stagnant compared to other areas.

“Why there of all places?”

Marso asked.

“The land is cheap. And it has symbolism.”

“Symbolism?”

“It’s the street of artists.”

Starting with Manet and Monet.

Montmartre had been a place where non-mainstream artists gathered and worked for a long time.

Small people came together and made big names for themselves, and that history continues to this day.

The streets are full of people singing, drawing, and hanging out with them.

Since Chocolatier started at Place Dalida in Montmartre, I wanted to build a gallery there too.

“There are many areas with reconstruction restrictions.”

“I heard that. Mr. Taeho helped me with this and that.”

He said nothing when I mentioned that Bang Taeho helped me.

He had looked down on him when we first met, but he seemed to acknowledge him quite a bit lately, after watching him work a few times.

We arrived at the front of the house.

I exchanged glances with Arsene, who drove me.

“Thank you. But you don’t have to come tomorrow. Marso won’t have anything to worry about.”

“You think I’m free? I came here because of the Munster project.”

He was stubborn, even though I knew we could talk on the phone.

“See you next time.”

Before I got out of the car, I gave Marso and Arsene a piece of chocolate each.

I put my wrist on the gate and activated the vein recognition system and entered.

“I’m back.”

“Yes. Yes. Oh, you’re here. Then I’ll see you in 30 minutes.”

When I got home, Bang Taeho was on the phone.

“You came early?”

“Yes. How about Grandpa?”

As soon as I asked, Grandpa came out of his studio. He looked like he had been waiting for a long time.

“How was it?”

“It was normal. The food was good too.”

“What about your friends?”

“I just said hello.”

“That’s fine. You’ll get along better later. The bus came fast, huh?”

“Marso picked me up.”

“Marso?”

“For the Munster sculpture project.”

Grandpa and Bang Taeho grinned at each other.

“You can participate?”

“Yes. I agreed to work with Marso.”

“That’s great.”

I was doubtful when Bang Taeho accepted the proposal from the Bugrenelli shopping mall, but the problem was solved well.

Sculpture was something I had never done before, and Bang Taeho suggested that I submit a work using gapyeong.

The picture drawn with gapyeong was no longer distinguishable from installation art, interior art, sculpture, and painting.

It was a good opportunity to inform the progress of gapyeong, and Henri Marso accepted the proposal and proceeded.

The Munster sculpture project organizers were also happy to exhibit the gapyeong work after .

Bang Taeho’s skill shone.

“Come on, we’re late. Let’s go.”

“Yes.”

I headed to Montmartre with Grandpa and Bang Taeho.

There were many places with restrictions, and the area was so wide that we had to meet many people.

It wasn’t a problem that could be decided in a day, so I was going to take a leisurely look around.

I was buying land and buildings.

I would never see this again in my life.

The third day after I enrolled.

It was finally time for art class.

I was excited to hear what Nicolas Fouquet, the principal praised by Marso and Fabre, would tell us.

I grabbed my tablet and lined up in front of the art room. Someone poked me in the right side from behind.1)

I turned around and saw a kid who had been glaring at me. I think his name was Jacques.

“What?”

“What?”

He pretended not to know and laughed with his friends.

This kid must need some love.

I ignored him and looked ahead, but he poked me in the right side again.

He laughed when I turned around.

“Is it fun?”

“What are you saying? What did he say?”

“I don’t know.”

Should I poke him in the left side?

Or should I scold him once? As I was pondering, Jacques provoked me again.

“What are you looking at? Look ahead.”

I hoped he would be grateful to his grandfather, mother, and father.

If they weren’t there, I would have pulled his hair and stuffed it in his butt.

“Yeah. You like to play pranks, don’t you?”

I brushed off Jacques’ arm and turned around. A sharp pain shot through my side.

I grabbed his hand.

“Stop it.”

“What do you mean stop it? Are you not letting go?”

Jacques tried to pull his hand away, but it was useless.

I didn’t suffer for nothing from my grandfather and Marso for the past year.

I could subdue a kid who didn’t even lift a dumbbell once, even if he was bigger than me.

I wanted to teach him a lesson, but I had to love even this brainless kid if I wanted to deal with many people in the future.

Violence can’t solve any problem.

I let go of his hand.

“If you have something to say, do it after school. I’ll listen.”

“What!”

“What’s going on?”

As Jacques was about to rush at me, Principal Fouquet came over.

“He bullied Jacques.”

Principal Fouquet heard the kids’ words and asked me.

“I’d appreciate it if you could tell me too, Hun.”

“He was poking me in the side from behind, so I told him to stop.”

Before Principal Fouquet could ask anything, the kids intervened.

“That’s a lie! Jacques was talking with us.”

Look at them.

I thought they were young, but they learned how to lie and trick others when they entered middle school.

I don’t know where they learned this rotten thing, but they deserved a good scolding.

“Then why did Hun bully Jacques?”

Principal Fouquet asked the kids again. They seemed to have not thought that far and hesitated.

“Jacques, what do you think?”

“I just did.”

“Without any reason?”

“Yes. He’s Asian. Asians are always.”

“Jacques!”

Principal Fouquet sternly reprimanded Jacques.

“Go to the principal’s office right now and reflect on what you did wrong.”

“But.”

Principal Fouquet glared at Jacques with a furious face, as if he had nothing more to say.

Jacques had no choice but to walk along the hallway.

“Let’s go to the classroom.”

Some kids asked me if I was okay as we were going to the classroom.

I sat down and Principal Fouquet looked around and opened his mouth.

“I hate to hear that old people are stuck in their ways.”

Everyone looked puzzled.

“Some of you here must have heard it. Your parents told you not to hang out with that friend.”

Principal Fouquet, who had brought up his own experience, now spoke from the kids’ perspective.

“We’re friends. He’s fun. Why do my parents tell me not to hang out with him? Have you ever had that experience?”

Some kids nodded. 𝔣𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖜𝔢𝔟𝔫𝔬𝖛𝖊𝔩.𝖈𝖔𝔪

“Also. They say you must be good at studying because you go to our school. What about studying? I hate studying.”

The kids chuckled.

The tense atmosphere eased a bit.

“Is there anyone who likes computer games?”

“Me!”

“Good. Philip. You must have some friends who curse at you when you play games, right?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do when they curse at you?”

“I just ignore them.”

“You have a lot of patience. But I heard that there are some very bad kids who curse at your parents these days. Did that happen to you too?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do then?”

Philip hesitates.

“It’s okay.”

“I cursed back at them.”

Principal Pusang nods.

“That’s right. Philip showed a very natural reaction. You were really angry, weren’t you?”

Philip nods nervously.

“An educated person can tolerate some insults directed at themselves. But they can’t do that when their group or someone precious to them is criticized. They feel a very strong sense of humiliation.”

Principal Pusang seems to have a point.

“It’s because cursing at someone’s group is denying their life. If they tell you not to hang out with bad friends, what does that make me who is close to that friend? Do I have to study hard because I go to Henry IV Middle School? What if I like something other than studying? What if your parents and grandparents are black? Is that wrong?”

“…”

“Criticism to hurt someone is violence. And denying someone’s origin or life is unforgivable. I hope this never happens again in our school.”

Rather than the following story.

He speaks based on what the kids might have experienced, so it’s easy to understand.

He’s a good teacher.

“Then let’s start the class.”

Principal Pusang writes art on the board.

The old touchscreen is a bit slow to respond, but the viewing angle is wide enough that there is no worry of not being able to read the letters.

“Today we’re going to study art. What is art?”

“Drawing!”

One kid answers.

“That’s right. Drawing. Is drawing the only art?”

“Sculpture!”

“Eiffel Tower!”

“Chandelier!”

The kids actively answer and participate.

“That’s right. Everything you just said is art. It’s also called visual art because you can see it with your eyes, and it’s also called plastic art because it uses space, like the Eiffel Tower or the chandelier. Art is one of the many forms of art.”

Principal Pusang looks around the kids and asks another question.

“Then one more thing. Is the picture you’re going to draw today art?”

No one answers, so he opens his mouth.

“It’s art.”

In France, they operate a subject-classroom system.

Students have to move to the corresponding classroom before the next class starts, and they have to wait in line in front of the classroom until the teacher allows them to enter.