Van Gogh Reborn!

Chapter 173: Eroica (9)

Chapter 173 Eroica (9)

The security guards rushed in and subdued the man in an instant.

“What are you doing?”

Henri Marso jumped up and thrust his face forward.

“I was trying to help.”

“Help? What help? You almost got me shot!”

I pushed him away when he tried to fire the gun, but it seemed that was more dangerous.

“Are you hurt?”

“Hmph. I’m not going to be hurt by a scum like him.”

Henri Marso brushed off his hands as if nothing had happened. He took off his coat and threw it away with a disgusted expression, as if something dirty had stuck to it.

He reached out his hand and Arsen tried to hand him a wet tissue, but at the same time, Michelle rushed in.

“What, what are you doing!”

Marso was startled and tried to push her away, but Michelle said nothing and buried her face in his chest.

At first, Marso was flustered, but soon he stroked her back.

I was worried that their relationship would be exposed, but on the other hand, I felt warm in my heart, wondering how much he had been worried.

“It’s okay.”

Marso’s touch and gaze were tender as he checked if he was injured.

He looked affectionate.

“Ouch!”

Marso, who was soothing her with his lovely touch, took a clean hit to his abdomen.

I didn’t know Michelle was a boxer.

It was a neat body blow.

“Are you crazy? What do you think you are? Why did you step in? What if you got hurt!”

“Hey…”

Marso groaned and leaned on her, and Michelle hugged him with tears in her eyes.

By the way, I wondered why he, who was skilled enough to subdue the gunman in a flash, couldn’t avoid my shove and Michelle’s punch.

“Damn it. Damn it!”

The man who was restrained on the floor kicked and screamed.

“Stay still!”

“What are you angry about? You did well?”

“Don’t you feel sorry for the kid?”

“Damn bastard.”

“What kind of bastard is this. Are you even human?”

Everyone in the gallery spat out a word, but their eyes were full of hatred only for Henri Marso.

“It’s all his fault!”

The man shouted.

“He. He took everything from me. He had everything since he was born, and how can he be so cruel!”

The man couldn’t give up, no matter how unfair he felt.

“You threw away your pride and everything. Because you’re not as great as him! You praised his work and did whatever he asked you to do! How could you do that to me! Are you even human?”

I don’t know this person.

I’m just guessing from what he’s saying now, but he seems to have given up his path as an artist because he had no talent, and he spent his time criticizing Henri Marso and other people’s works.

I don’t know what Henri Marso asked him to do, but it must have been something related to SNBA.

And he cheated with the Antermittang system and resented Henri Marso for trying to correct his mistake.

Did he kill someone?

“I too. I wanted to be like you. I wanted to be a recognized artist like you! But I couldn’t! I knew I couldn’t, so I helped you with the association work! Have you ever thought about how ordinary people who can’t be like you live?”

Henri Marso plugged his ears.

“What are you talking about, you trash.”

The police arrived late, but Henri Marso raised his hand to stop them.

“Whatever reason you have, you’re still a criminal.”

He was right.

No matter what his past or reason was, it was a fact that he threatened many people and took a child hostage.

And ordinary people don’t pity themselves so much.

“You made me like this. If it wasn’t for you, if you hadn’t pushed me, this wouldn’t have happened!”

Henri Marso snickered.

“Don’t you feel sorry for yourself?”

“…What?”

“Don’t you feel sorry for yourself, blaming everything on others?”

Henri Marso propped up the man’s chin with the tip of his shoe.

The man writhed at the insulting act, but it was useless.

“You threw away your pride? Is that so hard?”

“Ugh!”

“Throwing away is easy.”

There was no compassion or sympathy in Marso’s voice. Only contempt.

“You want to be a recognized artist? Then you have to draw. You wrote instead because you thought you couldn’t, and when that didn’t work, you leech off others. What do you want?”

Henri Marso looked down at the man with a cold, merciless eye.

The man twisted his neck and glanced at Marso.

“What do you know. Do you know how a talentless person feels? If I had as much money as you! If I had talent! I could have been like that. Do you think you’re in that position because you’re great?”

The people who had been harsh softened their expressions a little at the man’s appeal.

“No. You can’t be like me.”

Henri Marso mocked him.

“Do you think you can do it if you have a hundred billion euros? No. If you were in my position, you would give up on envying that guy.”

Henri Marso pointed at me.

“If you were in his position, you would probably envy your grandfather, and if you were Gossouyeol Kyung, you would resent Picasso. If you were Picasso, you would curse Matisse, and Gauguin, Van Gogh, Monet, and all of them. Why did they draw everything and leave?”

“…”

“You’re running away.”

I usually argue with his arrogant tone, but this time I agree with Henri Marso.

Everything becomes meaningless when you compare yourself to someone else.

There is always someone better than me.

When I lived in Paris, some people complained that historical figures like Raphael, Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Botticelli, and Caravaggio had already drawn everything.

Most of those people didn’t last long.

“It’s easy to throw away your pride.”

Henri Marso emphasized again.

“It’s hard to keep it. I’m the best. My painting is the best. Even though you know it’s not, have you ever wondered what you have to do to be like that?”

“Don’t act so smart. I worked much harder than you. I’ve been painting longer than you’ve been alive!”

“Don’t look down on me.”

Henri Marso knows what it means to work hard.

He sacrificed and invested a lot to complete a single painting with me.

But he doesn’t know that.

He is the most diligent man I know when it comes to effort. He seems to want to tell me that.

“How dare you compare yourself to a genius like me?”

Maybe he just wanted to brag about himself.

“I poured everything I had into it. My inheritance, my talent, my effort, my time. I gave it all up.”

“So!”

“So that’s why you can’t do it. You don’t know your place and you do as much as others do, and then you blame them when you fail. Even I, the great me, had to give up everything I had.”

Henri Marso said that even people who were born with brilliant talent and blessed environment like him had to stake their lives on painting.

“Do you really want to paint?”

A painter is someone who paints.

A person who wants to be a painter will inevitably face their limit someday.

Only those who want to paint endlessly, who have to paint, who love painting, can overcome their limit when they face it.

When the canvas is scary.

The courage to willingly paint is not given by anyone.1)

You have to find it yourself.

You have to constantly face your fear to move forward.

“If you wanted to paint something, you should have painted it. Instead of wasting time on this nonsense.”

Henri Marso’s scolding sounds strangely warm to me.

I don’t misunderstand his feelings.

Unsold paintings piled up.

How much he wandered in the uncertain future and the penny-pinching pocket.

I can’t not know the feeling of wandering in the foggy forest where I can’t see an inch ahead.

I know better than anyone.

But I had to walk like Henri Marso said.

Because I wanted to paint.

Because only I can do it. Because it’s not something that can be done by someone else’s order or help.

“You don’t know.”

The man gritted his teeth.

“You don’t understand people without talent! You know very well that it won’t work no matter how hard you try, and you tell me to paint? You tell me to be lost in vain thoughts?”

Henri Marso grabbed the man’s collar.

“Even if not others, you should have believed in yourself!”

Henri Marso, who had been looking at him coldly, got angry for the first time.

“If you don’t have money, earn it, if you don’t have time, sleep less and paint. If you don’t have talent, paint ten times, a hundred times more than others.”

I was worried that he might use more violence than necessary because of his bulging eyes and voice, but it was a false alarm.

“You should have believed that you would make it someday. Even if others treated you like trash, you should have loved your painting. You wanted to be a painter without doing that? You couldn’t paint because the conditions weren’t right?”

Matisse shook his head.

“No. You didn’t want to paint, you wanted to be famous. A person who is admired by others and has a lot of money. Isn’t that right?”

He won’t admit it, but I think the same.

If I really wanted to paint, I would have painted in any condition.

He chose a comfortable life instead of giving up painting on his own free will.

He is one of those who deluded themselves into thinking that they tried to be a successful painter.

A successful painter is not a finished point or stage, but a process. How can he say that he failed, that he can’t do it, after trying for a limited time?

He can’t insult Henri Marso by bringing up his old dream.

It’s an insult to Matisse’s success, which is serious about art more than anyone, to attribute it to talent and environment.

I’m not denying that he had innate talent and enjoyed a rich environment.

Not everyone can be like Henri Marso.

But I can paint what I want to paint.

“Do you think you would get more recognition if I wasn’t here? Huh? Do you think so if there was no one more famous than you?”

Henri Marso growled.

“No way. Even if all the painters in the world died and you were the only one left, you wouldn’t be recognized with that kind of mindset.”

The Muslim boy Vida Rabani listened to Henri Marso’s words with fear and pain.

He didn’t have money to buy a pastel.

He was lucky if he could eat breakfast, let alone a paintbrush.

His house was full of mold and pests, so it was better to be outside.

Sometimes he would wake up in the middle of the night by someone’s scream. There were robberies on the street day and night.2)

He didn’t know how hard the scary man lived.

Did he have no money either?

Did he have no talent either?

But Henri Marso still said he should have painted.

His words were a comfort to Vida Rabani.

The boy who felt guilty for his own self, who even considered wanting to paint a luxury.

Because he had no money or talent.

But Henri Marso said he should love painting in any environment, and he should value himself.

He felt like he didn’t have to give up painting.

Even if he had no pastels, no money to buy paper, Vida Rabani wanted to paint. Henri Marso’s words were his salvation.

“Are you okay?”

Michelle, who had a face, approached Vida Rabani.

“Uh, yes…”

“Are you kidding? Your wound is serious.”

“Ah!”

“We can’t do this. Let’s go to the hospital with my sister.”

“Ah, no.”

The boy shook his head. He couldn’t afford the hospital bill because he couldn’t get medical insurance benefits.

She noticed that and lied casually.

“If you get involved in this, the country will treat you. Didn’t you know?”

“Huh?”

“My sister will take care of it, so you just need to get treated. Can you stand up?”

“Yes…”

“Let’s go.”

“Wait, wait a minute.”

Vida Rabani looked around anxiously. He found the child who helped him and approached him.

“Hey.”

Go Hoon turned around. He felt sorry to see the burn on his jaw.

“Are you okay? You should go to the hospital soon.”

“Uh, yeah. He said he would take me.”

Go Hoon turned his head and met Michelle’s eyes. He felt relieved. She seemed to take good care of the boy.

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Vida Rabani took out the candy he had in his pocket.

He wondered if he would feel bad for giving him free candy, but he wanted to give him something for helping him in that situation where even the adults were scared.

Go Hoon smiled and picked up the candy Vida Rabani handed him.

“I’ll enjoy it.”

His smile was so bright that he felt relieved.

The two heroes he met today took a deep place in the boy’s heart.

****

“You don’t know how powerless a blank canvas makes a person.”

“Many painters feel fear when they stand in front of a blank canvas.”

“On the other hand, a blank canvas is afraid of passionate and serious painters.”

“Even if life seems empty and worthless, even if it seems meaningless, a person who has confidence, strength, and passion knows the truth and does not easily lose. He faces difficulties, works, and moves forward. In short, he resists and moves forward.”

From a letter Vincent van Gogh sent to his brother Theo van Gogh in October 1884.

Translated excerpt source:

Vincent van Gogh,『Van Gogh, Letters of the Soul』, translated by Shin Seong-rim, Wisdom House (1999), p. 115

2)Vida Rabani’s house is in Butte Montmartre district.

It is where the Montmartre hill where Vincent van Gogh stayed for a while, and where many Hindu-speaking people live.josei

The security is not good.