Van Gogh Reborn!

276

Caterpillar and Pork Rice Bowl (1)

It was the day of the third art therapy session.

I was so excited to see what we would learn today that I went to the art classroom as soon as I finished lunch.

Marso’s classroom was so dazzling that I couldn’t tell if it was a school or Nero’s emperor’s lounge.

He decorated it with new chairs and desks, saying that he couldn’t use the ones that others had used, and replaced all the old facilities, making it quite out of place.

I heard that he had remodeled the classroom as he pleased as a condition for giving lectures.

As I sat down and rested my arms, bored, Marso opened the classroom door and came in.

“Why are you so late?”

“Late? What do you mean late?”

There were only 20 minutes left for the class.

“What are we doing today?”

“Scratch.”

Marso showed me a black paper.

When I approached, he handed me a carving knife. As I carefully scraped it off, the black color peeled off and revealed colorful colors.

It seemed like a product that was prepared in advance so that there was no need to paint over it.

It was difficult to express it intentionally, but it was convenient and fun because I didn’t know what color would come out.

“Go get him.”

“Who?”

“The insect kid.”

He was talking about Blanche Fabre.

“How dare you skip my class twice?”

He seemed to have hurt his pride.

‘I wonder if he won’t come today either.’

I was worried.

He didn’t show up for the art therapy class for some reason. He said he wasn’t sick when I asked him, and he came to the chocolatier meeting well, so I thought he had some personal issues.

“I’ll call him. And he’s not an insect kid, he’s Blanche Fabre.”

“What do I care?”

He snapped at me and I left the classroom.

He didn’t answer the phone.

He must have come to school, so I decided to look for him myself and left the middle school building and headed to Henry IV High School.

“Isn’t that Ko Hun?”

“Yeah. The Arnuvo Contest. What’s he doing here?”

“He’s cute.”

Some students recognized me, but they didn’t approach me.

‘What class was he in?’

I couldn’t remember what class he was in, no matter how hard I thought. I didn’t think this would work, so I approached a group of students nearby.

“Do you know Blanche Fabre?”

“Blanche Fabre?”

They looked like they didn’t know, and one of them was about to ask someone else when another student opened his mouth.

“Isn’t that him? The weird white-haired kid.”

“Oh. Right. He’s probably in the backyard.”

There was a hint of mockery in their attitude towards Blanche.

It was annoying, but there was no point in talking to these kids any longer. I would be late for class.

As I headed to the back of the high school building, I could see the garden.

The plants were lush, thanks to the sunlight.

‘Ah.’

Blanche was squatting down and giving nutrients to the flowers and trees. He was covered in dirt on his jumpsuit over his uniform.

“Fabre.”

He turned around and his eyes widened.

“How did you get here?”

“It’s class time. I came to look for you.”

He looked at me quietly and then turned his head and continued what he was doing.

He must have had a reason for his attitude for the past two weeks.

I understood that he had wounds that he didn’t want to show to anyone and a heart that he wanted to hide, so I didn’t ask him.

Instead, I looked around.

I thought he might be raising insects in the backyard, but he wasn’t.

He seemed to be in the gardening club or had a personal hobby of growing flowers and trees.

‘He ran out of water.’

The sprayer was empty.

I gave him some water out of boredom and he finally opened his mouth.

“Thank you.”

He shrugged his shoulders as if it was nothing.

“What’s this?”

“Radish.”

I noticed he was growing radishes as I got closer.

With the right amount of sunlight and humidity, he was cultivating radishes and it was September, so I looked around the radish patch and sure enough, there were cabbage white butterflies.

“Cabbage white butterflies.”

“They’re pretty.”

“Yeah.”

They usually metamorphose from April to October and they’re often found around plants like cabbage, kale, and radish.

They have distinctive spots on a white background and they’re especially cute when they flutter around.

I think I know why Blanche is here.

“I thought you were raising insects when you said you were in the backyard.”

“I don’t.”

I waited for him to explain.

“I used to, but they kept dying, so I stopped.”

It must have been hard to lose the ones he loved. His masterpiece was also made out of his wish to keep his goldenrod leaf beetle alive, which he had raised himself.

He probably quit raising insects after he made .

"My dad said if I want to be with insects, I shouldn’t decorate a collecting box, but plant flowers and trees in the yard."1)

“That’s a wise thing to say.”

“Right.”

He nodded.

It means that you shouldn’t confine something to a certain frame if you want to live with it.

It only hurts if you try to own it completely, physically or mentally.

Fabre’s father said a very wise thing.

“Where did you hear that?”

“It’s a good quote.”

We laughed together.

Maybe it was because the mood had loosened up.

Fabre told me why he hadn’t participated in the classes.

“The kids at school hate me.”

I knew that from the article about him being bullied.

I wanted to grab the reporter who spread the news of Fabre being bullied all over France.

“So you don’t want to listen.”

“No.”

I looked into Fabre’s eyes.

“I don’t care what they say.”

He was as defiant as ever.

He didn’t seem to be intimidated by being hated by many.

I didn’t know if he was trying to act that way, or if he had gotten used to it.

But I hoped Fabre wouldn’t forget how great an artist he was.

“Just.”

Fabre paused for a moment.

I could see the emotion he was suppressing from his trembling eyebrows and pursed lips.

“I don’t want Henri Marso to see me.”

“…”

I think I know why he didn’t show up for the classes.

He didn’t want Marso to see him being ignored and bullied by his peers.

He was fine.

He didn’t care.

But he didn’t want to be exposed.

Fabre, who used to say he would beat Marso as a habit, must have admired him.

Maybe he wanted to be recognized as an artist by him.

“Marso’s classes are fun.”

“…”

“You’ll regret it if you miss them.”

“…”

“He’s not the kind of person who looks down on people for things like that.”

Marso had a very clear standard for judging people.

He respected anyone who did their best in their work.

On the contrary, he didn’t treat anyone as a human being if they weren’t sincere in their lives, no matter how rich or famous they were.

Fabre must have known that from watching him at the chocolatier’s gatherings.

“He didn’t oppose you and Rabbani because he acknowledged you in his own way. Don’t be disappointed or anything because someone hates you.”

Fabre hit the ground with a hoe.

“If you think about it, there are more people who hate Marso.”

“…”

“About 100 million.”

“Hmm.”

A smile escaped from Fabre’s lips.

Five minutes after the class started, Henri Marso was angry that Ko Hun didn’t show up.

‘These damn brats dare not attend my class?’

The kids were scratching the paper they had received.

As Marso, who was watching the clock with his arms crossed, was about to kick his seat, the classroom door opened.

Ko Hun and Blanche Fabre entered.

Some of the high school students who turned their heads murmured.

“What’s that? Did he take this class?”

“I guess so. What was he thinking not showing up?”

“He must have been playing with bugs in the backyard. He’s not even a kid. What’s that?”

“He must want to stand out. Isn’t he doing that because he wants to get Henri teacher’s attention? Why. He followed Henri teacher before.”

Blanche Fabre glared at the students in the same class.

“What are you going to do if you look?”

“Are you acting tough in front of the teacher?”

“Shut up.”

Marso threatened the students who were chatting during the sacred lecture time. The students closed their mouths and he pointed to the scratch paper and the carving knife set.

“Take it.”

“What were you doing?”

“Self-portrait.”

Ko Hun and Fabre, who had prepared their materials, found their seats.

There were empty seats where the high school students were sitting, but the students did not budge, crossing their legs.

Ko Hun led Fabre to sit side by side in the middle school seat.

The two students soon became absorbed in their work, and some of the high school students sent mocking eyes to Fabre.

“…”

Watching them, Henri Marso had a rough idea of what had happened to Fabre.

After about 30 minutes.

The students who had finished the assignment given by Marso lost their concentration and started to do other things.

Marso, who saw that Ko Hun and Fabre had put down their hands, pointed to the student sitting at the far right.

“You. Come out and present.”

“Oh~”

The first student who was pointed out came out awkwardly with the response of his friends.

“Uh. Well. It’s me.”

The high school student showed his face drawn with scratch.

It was a skill worthy of an advanced learning class for students who wanted to major in art.

The proportions of the eyes, nose, and mouth were accurate, and the expressions of the eyebrows and hair were also carefully expressed.

He scraped off the parts that were to be painted black, either densely or sparsely, and also adjusted the strength to create shades.

The students gasped softly and the presenter smiled satisfactorily as if it was a matter of course.

“Is that it?”

“Yes?”

“Is that it?”

The student nodded.

Marso gestured for him to go in and gave his attention to Blanche Fabre, who was sitting upright.

“Next, you.”

Fabre, who was pointed out by Marso, opened his eyes wide.

“Come out.”

“The way to live with birds is not to cage them, but to grow grass and trees in the yard.”

Park Joon, “I named you and ate you for a few days” 中, Munhakdongne, December 5, 2012.