Van Gogh Reborn!

298

The Final Showdown (3)

[Repeated requests to withdraw from the Korean Art Association]

[Artists who cut ties with the association due to complicated withdrawal procedures]

[Choi Kyu-seo and Kim Su-hyuk refuse to comply with police summons]

[Prosecutors ban Choi Kyu-seo and Kim Su-hyuk from leaving the country]

[Auditors from Venice Biennale bewildered, audit target on the run]

[What will happen to the Korean Pavilion?]

The world was changing.

Ever since I joined the Korean Artists Union with my grandfather, the artists voluntarily withdrew from the association.

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Following the example of the Baewoom Art Museum and the Seoul Art Museum, art museums and galleries all over the country joined us.

They no longer interfered with the association and established independent relationships with the union members.

Right now, the union members’ exhibitions were doing well thanks to the great interest, but joining the union didn’t guarantee success.

In the end, it depended on how they showed their good works, how they organized and promoted their exhibitions.

From a marketing perspective, they might be lacking compared to some artists who were pushed by the association with a strong budget.

But the important thing was that the people who took unfair advantage between the artists and the audience, the audience and the art museum, were gone.

It was up to the artists and the art museum how the Korean art scene, which was just starting to return to normal, would grow.

“Tsk.”

My grandfather, who was watching the news, clicked his tongue at the news that Choi Kyu-seo and Kim Su-hyuk couple refused to comply with the police summons.

“Can they do that?”

“Well. They seem to be holding on, but they won’t last long.”

“What happens if they don’t show up?”

“Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe they’ll be wanted?”

Wanted posters.

My grandfather didn’t seem to know, but it would be interesting to see wanted flyers with Choi Kyu-seo’s face on them.

“What a disgrace. I don’t know what this is.”

The auditors sent by the Venice Biennale Organizing Committee arrived in Korea, but the audit target, the Korean Art Association, was on the verge of collapse.

I heard they were searched and seized and had to return home without anything to audit.

“Then what will happen to the Korean Pavilion?”

My grandfather sighed.

“It might be closed.”

“What?”

“The association was operating with government support, but the entity is gone. There’s no one to manage or exhibit, so I think that’s what they’re saying.”

“That’s ridiculous. How can they do that to a place we’ve been protecting?”

“Don’t worry too much. The union is constantly contacting the government and the biennale, so there must be a way.”

“…”

“What we can do is show them that there are great artists in Korea. Can you do that?”

It felt a bit roundabout, but there was no better way.

If the Korean Pavilion could continue to show good works, if they could prove it, the Venice Biennale wouldn’t close it for the sake of the box office.

“Your name.”

Choi Kyu-seo glared at the police who asked him.

He couldn’t accept the situation of being interrogated in a space of barely one pyeong, dragged here against his will.

“You don’t know?”

The police sighed.

“Don’t talk back. Tell me your name.”

“What are you going to do if I talk back? Don’t you know who I am?”

“Who are you?”

Choi Kyu-seo narrowed his eyes.

“You can’t tell cold water from hot water. Hey, lady. Where do you think this is? Are you threatening me? Get your act together.”

It was the first time he had experienced such humiliation.

“Just answer the questions I ask. How can you have so many charges?”

The police typed nervously on the keyboard.

“Name.”

“…”

“Name!”

“…Choi Kyu-seo.”

“Hurry up. It’s going to take days.”

“What?”

The police glared at him.

Choi Kyu-seo flinched and the police sighed.

The country was in an uproar over the fraudulent receipt of national subsidies, embezzlement of public funds, and betrayal. There was a mountain of things to investigate.

The president and the political circles urged a thorough investigation, and the higher-ups ordered to sweep away any dust. I couldn’t understand what this foolish person was relying on to do this.

“Hey, you. You must have some faith, but even former ministers and lawmakers don’t do this. Huh? Get a grip.”

Choi Kyu-seo, who had trusted the lawmaker who gave him political funds and the media outlet he had established a relationship with by placing ads, was flustered for the first time.

They were not the people in the art world who had been flattering him with the name of the daughter of the president of the Korean Art Association.

“Just answer me. You were born on August 9, 1997. Right?”

“Why do you keep asking me what you know?”

Choi Kyu-seo snapped as the police glared at him.

“It’s a procedure. A procedure. Just answer.”

“…Yes.”

Henri Marso, a genius artist who had been actively working on his works, was recently suffering from a serious slump.

He had reached his limit after making over 800 self-portraits and self-awareness paintings.

He had been working on a new work concept for a month, but he couldn’t find an idea that satisfied him.

He had been working hard in his studio all day, thinking that Henri IV Middle School would have a vacation. He was pushed to the edge of the cliff both physically and mentally.

“Henri?”

Christmas Eve morning.

Michel and Kohun, who visited the studio, found Henri lying on a huge canvas.

There was paint all over the canvas and Henri Marso.

“Hey?”

As Michel approached Henri, he opened his eyes wide. Then he got up, but one side of his body was covered with white paint.

Kohun and Michel flinched.

They knew that Henri was having trouble with his new work concept and that he was originally a weird person, but his condition seemed to be getting worse.

“What were you doing?”

Kohun asked.

“Can’t you see?”

Kohun looked at where Henri Marso had been lying.

He seemed to have a lot of worries, enough to paint his body and lie down.

“A murder scene?”

“Ha.”

Michel laughed.

As the boy said, the place where Henri Marso had been lying looked like a place where a corpse had been marked.

Henri Marso wiped his face with a towel and sat down on a chair.

“What are you here for?”

“It’s Christmas. You’ve been in the studio all the time, so let’s cheer up a bit.”

Kohun nodded and agreed with him.

“I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re not in the mood, so you have to do it. Look at yourself.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re half a corpse right now.”

Henri Marso licked his lips.

He couldn’t forgive Kohun for calling him a corpse, the jewel of the noble Marso family.

“You.”

Henri got up from his seat and stopped.

‘Is this me?’

He narrowed his eyes as he looked at himself in the mirror that Michel had brought out.

His hair was messy and oily, and his eyes were dark.

He didn’t look good because he didn’t eat or sleep properly due to work stress.

And half of his face was covered with white paint, which was not the look of the hero Henri Marso.

“Who told you to go to bed early and get up early and do this?”

“That’s what I’m saying. Just wash up.”

“And eat. Don’t just fill up with chocolate.”

“Stop using recovery capsules.”

“And stop drinking coffee.”

“Can’t you clean up a bit?”

“Sleep a little. How long.”

“Shut up!”

Henri Marso shouted and Kohun and Michel left the studio laughing.

Henri Marso, who was left alone, looked around the studio and bit his tongue.

A little later.

Henri Marso, who had taken a bath, couldn’t overcome the drowsiness and went into the recovery capsule.

He shouldn’t have abused it, but he wasn’t feeling well right now, and he could sleep soundly, so Kohun and Michel couldn’t stop him.

The country was in an uproar over the illegal receipt of national subsidies, embezzlement of public funds, and betrayal. There were mountains of things to investigate.

The president and the political circles urged a thorough investigation, and the higher-ups ordered me to sweep everything under the rug. I couldn’t understand what this reckless person was relying on.

“Hey, you. You must have some faith, huh? Even former ministers and congressmen don’t act like this. Huh? Get a grip.”

Choi Kyu-seo, who had trusted the congressman who gave him political funds and the media outlets he had advertised with, was flustered for the first time.

They were not the art world insiders who had been flattering him just because he was the daughter of the president of the Korean Art Association.

“Just answer me. You were born on August 9th, 1997. Right?”

“Why do you keep asking me what you already know?”

Choi Kyu-seo snapped back as the police glared at him.

“It’s procedure. Procedure. Just answer.”

“…Yes.”

Henri Marso, a genius artist who had been active in his work, was going through a serious slump.

He had reached his limit after creating over 800 self-portraits and self-awareness paintings.

He had been working on a new piece for a month, but he couldn’t find an idea that satisfied him. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com

He had locked himself in his studio all day, working hard, while Henri IV Middle School was probably on vacation. He was physically and mentally on the edge of a cliff.

“Henri?”

Christmas Eve morning.

Michel and Kohun, who visited his studio, found Henri lying on a huge canvas.

There was paint everywhere between the canvas and Henri Marso.

“Are you awake?”

As Michel approached Henri, he opened his eyes wide. He got up, but one side of his body was covered in white paint.

Ko Hun and Michel flinched.

They knew Henri was a weirdo who had been struggling with his new work idea lately, but his condition seemed to be getting worse.

“What were you doing?”

Ko Hun asked.

“Can’t you see?”

Ko Hun looked at where Henri Marso had been lying.

He seemed to have a lot of trouble, enough to smear paint on his body and lie down like that.

“A murder scene?”

“Ha.”

Michel laughed.

It looked like Henri Marso had marked the place where he had been lying as if there had been a corpse there, just as the boy said.

Henri Marso wiped his face with a towel and sat on a chair.

“What are you here for?”

“It’s Christmas. You’ve been in the studio all the time, so let’s cheer up a bit.”

Ko Hun nodded and agreed with him.

“I’m not in the mood.”

“You have to do it because you’re not in the mood. Look at yourself.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re half-dead right now.”

Henri Marso licked his lips.

He couldn’t forgive Ko Hun for calling him a corpse, the jewel of the noble Marso family.

“You.”

Henri got up from his seat and stopped.

‘Is this me?’

He narrowed his eyes as he looked at himself in the mirror that Michel had brought out.

His hair was messy and greasy, and his eyes were dark.

He didn’t look healthy because he hadn’t eaten or slept properly due to work stress.

And his face was half-covered with white paint, which made him look nothing like the heroic Henri Marso.

“Who told you to go to bed early and get up early and you’re doing this?”

“Exactly. Go wash up first.”

“And eat something. Don’t just snack on chocolate.”

“Stop using recovery capsules.”

“And stop drinking coffee.”

“Can’t you clean up a bit?”

“Get some sleep. How long has it been?”

“Shut up!”

Henri Marso shouted and Ko Hun and Michel left the studio laughing and teasing him.

Henri Marso, who was left alone, looked around the studio and bit his tongue.

A little later.

After taking a bath, Henri Marso couldn’t resist the drowsiness and went into a recovery capsule.

He shouldn’t have abused it, but he wasn’t feeling well and he could sleep soundly, so Ko Hun and Michel couldn’t stop him.

Instead of waking him up, we decorated the Christmas tree together while waiting for him.

“Are you starting construction next spring?”

Michelle asked Ko Hun about the Chocolatier Gallery.

“Yes. I’m going to build it better than the Marso Gallery.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Will you invite me?”

Michelle handed Ko Hun a ring shaped like a gift box.

“Of course. When will the Marso Museum be completed?”

“I was thinking of the year after next, but it might be faster. Maybe next fall?”

“That’s very fast.”

“Yeah. Henri is in a hurry.”

Michelle wanted to tell Ko Hun about the ‘Ko Hun Hall’, but she had to hold it back.

The Ko Hun Hall itself was a surprise, but there was another gift that Henri had prepared.

She couldn’t take away that joy.

“Hmm.”

Ko Hun climbed the ladder and reached for the top of the Christmas tree, but his hand didn’t reach the top.

He tried a few more times, but he had no choice but to hand the star to Michelle.

Michelle Platini climbed the ladder instead and hung the star.

“Is Henri okay?”

“Yeah. He’ll be fine.”

“I’ve never seen him work so hard.”

Michelle smiled as she came down from the ladder.

“He does that sometimes. You saw him when he made the jewel of Marso.”

Ko Hun recalled the event from several years ago. Henri Marso, who was still thinking about how to express the statue after the exhibition started, was not much different from now.

“I’m worried about him.”

“Me too.”

He always took good care of his health, but when he got into his work, he ignored everything else. It was inevitable that the people around him would worry.

But he didn’t worry about his next work at all.

He was the kind of person who would break through any wall that blocked him, or smash it if he couldn’t.

“But he’s not someone who gives up. We have to help him not to collapse.”

Ko Hun smiled at Michelle’s words.

He realized why Henri Marso didn’t have any big problems even though he was so devoted to his work.

They cheered and protected him from the side.

And after he finished his work, they prepared the most amazing exhibition for him. He had nothing else to worry about.

“It would have been a disaster without you, Michelle.”

“Right.”

The two laughed softly.