Van Gogh Reborn!

At 1 p.m., an hour before the presentation ceremony, we arrived at the Whitney Museum. 

John Carter provided the route in advance and fortunately we avoided the congestion. 

All the other arrangements have been made and there is only one thing I have to do. 

Uncle Bang went to greet people and grandpa was talking to his friends. 

I had nothing to do, so I went to see [Shadow]. 

There were a lot of people who recognized me, but they didn't rush in like outside because they were in the exhibition room. 

Anyway, I think there are more people who came to see [Shadow] than yesterday. 

“I can't see it.” 

Sihyeon inflated his cheeks. 

He jumped because he wanted to see it somehow, but it was useless. 

I want to feel the wonder again, but I wonder if I can see it properly before I leave here. 

“Let's go see something else.” 

“Okay.” 

While walking around the exhibition room with Sihyeon, I suddenly noticed Ferdinando Gonzalez's work. 

Unlike other works that are hard to see, the two wall clocks were considered objects that had been here since the beginning. 

‘What the hell does this mean?’ 

Yesterday, I didn't think enough because I was busy, but now that I think about it I don't know if it can be called art just by placing ready-made products. 

I don't understand what that action means, and I don't understand his thinking of showing factory-produced goods as his work. 

By the way, I wonder what the two wall clocks that move together mean. 

‘Hmm?’ 

Unlike yesterday, when it moved perfectly together, now the left clock is slightly late. 

The difference is less than a second at most, but the difference is clear. 

And there is a subtitle that didn't exist yesterday. 

[Perfect lovers]

I don’t understand the act of having no title and only a subtitle, but these two clocks seem to symbolize lovers. 

Does he want to talk about a lover who spends time together? 

Curiously, there was no docent to explain this work. 

Sihyeon, who was thinking with me, got bored and headed to another work. 

‘I don't think I can deduce anything out of this work anymore.’ 

As I was about to step aside. 

A man came near and stood in front of two untitled wall clocks. 

He was so tall that my neck hurts when I look up at him. 

‘ It’s Ferdinando Gonzalez?’ 

Ferdinando Gonzalez, who was introduced by the NewTube channel Alex Factory. 

He was wearing a white mask and his hands were deeply inserted into his pocket. 

He turned his head and grinned. 

He crouched down to meet my eye level. 

The large thick nose, deep eyes, and strong muscles surrounding a large skeleton showed off his masculinity. 

“Hello?”

I nodded my head. 

I tried to shake hands with pleasure, but he didn't take his hand out of his pocket. 

He seems to be a person who cares a lot about hygiene. 

“Nice to meet you. It's Ko Hun, right?” 

I can't exactly see his expression because he was wearing a mask, but his eyes indicated that he was definitely smiling. 

“Nice to meet you, too.” 

“It was very cool.” 

“What?” 

I asked him if he had seen my painting at the Whitney Museum, but he answered with a serious voice. 

“Damn. I never thought I'd see Marceau bleeding. It was a very strong image.”

He laughed looking at me. 

He's really a unique guy. 

The slight difference between the two clocks bothered me, so I turned my head towards the work. 

“Does it bother you?” 

Ferdinando Gonzalez asked me while looking at the clocks along with me. 

“I think there's a slight difference in seconds. Is it intentional?”

Ferdinand Gonzalez nodded his head to my question. 

I thought his intention was to point at the same time perfectly, but if even the difference between clocks is a concept, what does the subtitle [Perfect Lovers] mean? 

Does he want to talk about a relationship that he wants to be with but can't help but go against? 

I still don't understand why he chose this method. 

“Hun, look here.”

Ferdinando Gonzalez stood up as I turned to Sihyeon's voice. 

“Your friend must be looking for you. I'll look forward to the presentation.”

“Thank you.”

⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩

At 1:50 p.m., the third floor of the Whitney Museum of Art was packed with leading figures, media, and visitors. 

This was because Ko Hun's work to be exhibited at the biennale will be released. 

With the consideration of the Whitney Museum, the scene was being broadcast live through the Whitney Museum's virtual exhibition hall and the NewTube channel. 

Reporter Kim Jiwoo, who missed an interview with Ferdinando Gonzalez, managed to get the front seat after a fierce competition. 

‘It's gonna be okay this time, too, right.’ 

Kim Jiwoo clenched his fist. 

Ko Hun's latest work was as much of a concern as it was highly anticipated. 

Ko Hun, who held his first individual exhibition earlier this year, lacked time, and questions were constantly raised about whether he should have avoided participating in the Biennale this year. 

It was an undeniable opinion not only among those who blindly criticized Ko Hun but also from those who sincerely cared for him. 

The same was true for Henry Marceau, who sat with his legs crossed in the front row. 

He glared at Ko Hun's work, which was covered with a cloth on the pedestal, and said, 

“Don't let me down, brat.” 

Henry Marceau didn't want the young artist he recognized to disappoint him. 

It was unacceptable. 

At 2 o'clock sharp, Michael Ping grabbed the microphone. 

“Hello, everyone. I'm Michael Ping, curator of the Whitney Biennale.” 

The visitors welcomed him with applause. 

Here we go. I hope it's revealed soon. 

What's the number of viewers? 

It's 370,000. 

I can't understand it because it's all in English. 

It doesn't matter. We’re all here just to look at the painting. 

I hope it's revealed soon. 

Ko Hun is coming out. 

Michael Ping introduced Ko Hun. 

“I'm going to show you the work of the most anticipated painter of the year, Ko Hun.” 

Michael Ping turned his head and signaled toward Ko Hun. 

Ko Hun, who was waiting, turned his head and looked up at the stage. 

A place where the whole world was watching. 

There was no guarantee that the new work would be loved just because the previous works were loved so far. 

Understandably, he was nervous. 

Ko Hun only smiled with a flushed face. 

Ko Sooyeol nodded in support of his grandson's new challenge and pushed him on his back. 

Ko Hun stepped forward bravely. 

There was a flood of camera flashes. 

“Hello, I'm Ko Hun. Thank you for coming.” 

Some reporters asked urgently as soon as Ko Hun finished his greeting.

“What do you think of the concern about running out of time!” 

“How long did it take to make the painting?”

“What do you think about the [Shadow] of Henry Marceau?” 

Ko Hun spoke before Michael Ping and the Whitney Museum staff stopped them. 

“I'll answer after I show you the painting. I've been holding it in for too long.” 

Visitors and viewers who were tired of the long wait responded gladly. 

Ko Hun grabbed the cloth, took a breath, and removed the cloth vigorously. 

The painting of a strong-faced child appeared. 

Anxiety felt from determined eyes and slightly frowned eyebrows. 

A heavy stroke of brushwork, use of vivid complementary colors. 

It was reminiscent of the paintings of Vincent van Gogh. 

"……" 

The tension in the hall cooled down. 

Obviously, it was an incredible painting that looked like Vincent van Gogh painted himself. 

It was a good work with a unique texture created by melting oil pastels and painting them like paint. 

Whether in a good or bad sense, Ko Hun, who was always associated with Van Gogh, drew it himself, so neither reporters nor visitors nor art workers didn’t know how to react. 

“Van Gogh?” 

“Can he do that?” 

The venue began to stir, and dark clouds hung over the faces of Michael Ping, John Carter, and Whitney Museum officials. 

Henry Marceau's face was twisted. 

His lips twitched and a fit of unbearable anger flowed out. 

“What the f*ck is this?” 

Henry Marceau also saw a side of Vincent van Gogh in Ko Hun. 

Nevertheless, the reason why he loved his paintings was that, unlike the composition that left an oriental margin that was not easily seen, the way in which the brush was used larger and more freely, and the use of brilliant color expression and complementary colors. 

Ko Hun's painting, completed in this way, was so intense that he could feel it without trying to understand the work. 

Just like the masters of the 19th century. 

However, this was just a hoax. 

The moment Henry Marceau couldn't resist the anger, he kicked the chair and stood up with his eyes shaking 

⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩

It's a method that I found through many failures, but I don't know if it's really okay. 

Will my voice be delivered to them? 

Is it possible to approach it as Ko Hun, not Vincent anymore? 

I thought and thought about what was the most efficient way to express those thoughts. 

I tried to peel off the paint and make a new painting appear underneath it, but it was impossible, and I just didn't want to express it pictorially. 

A more dramatic effect was needed to peel off the image created in the past. 

So, I chose the best I can do now. 

I took out the knife I had put in my pocket. 

“Huh?" 

Someone's exclaimed voice came from the audience. 

This is an expression of will. 

I shouldn't hesitate. 

I held the knife and cut the upper part of the painting. 

SLASH 

I threw away the knife and held the paper that was cut open. 

It can't be torn easily with the canvas that I usually use, but this thick drawing paper ripped when I put strength on it. 

Through the space where the old self-portrait was peeled off like a rag, the second painting that was hidden under the self-portrait – a sunflower, appeared. 

As I turned around choosing rough breathing, people with wide eyes and mouths wide open came into view. 

Henry Marceau, who was standing at the forefront, had an expression that he had never been shown before. 

Perhaps he was surprised, he just stood up and stared at [Mask]. 

John Carter, Michael Ping, and Ferdinando Gonzalez, who was sitting on the left side of the stage, opened their mouths in unison… 

“Awesome!” 

The entire hall got filled with the sound of claps. 

(To be Continued)

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