Chapter 85 (2) - The Mysterious Art Museum
Those scary sisters.
Please leave me alone.
You're 130 years older than me.
And I don't want to do anything in such a germ-infested place.
And what?
Do you have scales on your back? And what's with the webbed feet on your feet?
Do I not even look human to you, despite being unfamiliar with Asians?
I kept my mouth shut and just went ahead, filling my bucket with water at the water jar. The water didnt look clean enough to be drinking water, but I felt nauseous watching a prostitute next to me drink from a cup and wink at me. Drinking such water, no wonder they get sick.
Arriving next to Henri, I set down the bucket, sweating coldly. Henri, who was mixing paints on his palette, looked at me and asked.
"Do you feel sick? You're sweating a lot."
".............."
Listen, I am a modern person.
Its natural to be scared since I came to a brothel in this era.
Henri, not expecting an answer, started to whistle and began painting. His brushwork, drawing without even sketching. To my eyes, trained in art, it looked impressive.
'That's because the most remarkable thing about this person is his rough and bold yet accurate brush touch.'
I can't believe I'm seeing this in person.
I don't like the environment, but it's truly an honor.
Still, being a painter myself, seeing a master at work calms my frozen heart a bit. The vivid colors of the paints leave a picture like a lie as the brush passes by.
But Henri's paintings, even though they depict people, give off a feeling of abstract art. Prostitutes half-lying down with their shoulders fully exposed in their slipped-down clothes. Had I not known who they were, I would have thought it a beautiful scene just as it was.
Transferring that landscape as it is would make a very beautiful painting, but the people in Henri's painting look ugly, dark, and miserable.
"Henri."
"Hmm?"
"Is this your style of painting?"
Henri looked at me sideways as he stopped painting.
"Why, don't you like my paintings?"
"No, it's not that."
"Do you think my paintings are worthless, like Edgar Degas?"
I quickly waved my hands.
"No, that's not what I mean at all."
Of course, I had to say no. I know who this person in front of me is.
But my true feelings are a bit different.
A woman who had been a model for Henri's paintings once said,
'Please don't paint me so ugly, just a little. Many people screamed when they saw the sketches you sent. No one saw them with an artistic eye, not one person. Why do you always paint women so ugly?'
Many of Henri's paintings were so miserable and ugly that even the women who modeled for them turned away. Perhaps it was natural that people of the time didnt understand paintings that didnt look more beautiful than reality?
Henri, looking into my eyes, said,
"Critics accustomed to Academism, painters who just copy the paintings of artists from a hundred years ago. These people annoy me. They hope I complete my artwork, but I only paint what I see. So what? Can't I paint the kind of paintings they want?"
Henri took down the canvas he was painting on and brought out a new one. Then, smearing his brush with paint, he began to paint on the blank canvas.
"I could paint like Bastien-Lepage."
I couldn't close my mouth looking at Henri's second painting. Not because I was amazed at the quality of the work. I could paint that level too. But time was the issue.
'If I had painted that work.'
It would have taken at least six hours. But it didnt even take Henri an hour.
"See, it's easy? There's nothing simpler than completing a painting with superficial meaning. This is precisely the most plausible lie. I just don't want to live as a street liar."
".............."
Rather than the paintings others want, I paint as I see.
Its the ideal of a painter. But reality is the problem.
"But Henri. If you stick to your style, people won't buy your paintings."
Henri burst into laughter, picking up his brush.
"Fortunately! Our house is doing well. I can live independently, economically. Well, maybe not. I'm living off my father's money, so I can't say I'm independent. Anyway! I dont need to sell paintings, so I dont have to consider other people's tastes! How about that, isn't it enviable? Haha!"
Yeah, that's great. It's hard for someone like me to live like you. That makes it even more enviable, damn it.
Even when watching the Avengers, I envied Iron Man the most, a genius scientist born into a wealthy family, more than the other heroes with superpowers. Frankly, even if born a genius, without the money to buy the materials for Iron Man, you can't be part of it.
Ha, having a lot of money is the most enviable thing in the world.
Henri puts down the canvas and picks up the painting he was originally working on, quietly observing the prostitutes' resting area.
"Ugliness always has its fascinating aspects, wherever and whenever. It's very delightful when one discovers it where no one else has noticed."
Henri, having cleaned his brushes in the water jug, dips them in fresh paint and says,
"Here, there's a mix of diversity and contradiction, instinct and restraint, human limits and the ambition of a genius, good and evil, ostentation and self-reflection, intellectual culture and naivety, youth and old age, happiness and depression. This is the reality I've intensely explored and want to express convincingly and vividly."
I put aside my frivolous thoughts and focused on Henri's words.
As he started painting again, the playfulness in his eyes disappeared, replaced by seriousness.
"In places and situations that other painters reject and find shameful, I found my essence. In places and situations deemed unworthy of painting by others, I discovered myself."
His brush dances vigorously across the canvas.
"Nobody in the world has the right to exclude others. I paint everything that is marginalized, just like repeatedly painting my own portrait."
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