Van Gogh Reborn!

Chapter 242:

242

Banksy (1)

Thud-thud-thud-thud-

“…”

I thought Marso was coming to see the house, but something went wrong.

Grandpa was speechless, blinking his eyes.

was hanging from a rope and descending into our yard.

“Hoon-ah, did you ask for this?”

“No.”

“I asked him what he wanted for a gift and he said to just come with his body.”

I didn’t expect him to send his body.

Thud-thud-thud-thud-

The helicopter noise was loud.

“Balance yourself. Slowly! Slowly come down! Hold the rope!”

A man standing at the front gate instructed the helicopter pilot and the people waiting in the garden with a walkie-talkie and a loud voice.

“Sir, where do you want me to put it?”

The delivery company employee asked Grandpa where to put .

“I wish you would take it back.”

“Ha ha. That’s a funny joke.”

“Heh heh. I’m serious.”

“Excuse me?”

Thud-thud-thud-thud-

The humans who were ordered by Marso wouldn’t back off quietly, and I had to put it down first so that the noisy helicopter would go away.

It was lucky that the neighbors were understanding, or else there would be complaints soon.

I pointed to the pond in the garden.

“Put it there.”

“It’s pretty deep. Will the pedestal be high enough?”

“Please soak it if possible.”

“Hahaha. You two like jokes.”

The delivery company employees placed the pedestal in the middle of the pond and put on it.

It was fortunate that I hadn’t raised any fish yet, or should I say that? They also installed lights around the pond.

I can’t stand it.

I was wondering if I should sell it and use the money to build a gallery when Henri Marso arrived.

He saw it placed in the middle of the pond and raised his eyebrows, nodding his head as if he was satisfied.

“Not bad.”

“Not bad? What’s not bad? It’s not good at all.”

Why does he keep marking his territory in other people’s houses?

“Don’t worry, it won’t corrode in the rain.”

“I didn’t worry about that at all.”

“Do you think I’ll put that ridiculous umbrella and raincoat on it?”

Come to think of it, I left the SpongeBob umbrella on in the Seoul house.

“Do you plan to leave one every time we move?”

“Of course not.”

“That’s a relief.”

Grandpa sneered, but Marso didn’t blink an eye.

“I have to move it to your gallery when you build it.”

“Why!”

“Why? You said you wanted to exhibit my work too.”

I did say that I wanted to exhibit the works of the painter community members.

I was speechless and Grandpa chimed in.

“People will like it better if there are two works instead of one.”

He clearly didn’t want to have Marso’s self-portrait in the house.

“What are you going to paint there?”

Henri Marso frowned at Hoon’s sketch and photo.

It was a sketch of a hill filled with sunflowers and a photo of the uphill road.

"It’s the hill that goes up to the pink house from Dali Square."1)

“Why bother?”

“It’s a popular tourist spot. It’s better to be visible, right?”

Henri Marso looked back and forth between Hoon and the sketch.

He was curious why Hoon, who had been working on canvas until now, suddenly wanted to go out to the street.

“Did the city hall ask you to do it?”

“No. I’m going to do it with my own money.”

“Why are you wasting your money on a useless place when you said you wanted to build a gallery?”

“I didn’t have it, but now I do.”

“What?”

I showed Henri Marso, who looked puzzled, the monthly settlement amount.

In addition to the existing income.

There was the running guarantee and the art book sales revenue of , the Korean painting exhibition revenue, lectures, autograph sessions, broadcast appearances and appearances, and the YouTube revenue. A total of 9.14 million dollars was expected to be settled.

Henri Marso, who was looking at the details, tilted his head at the art book sales volume item.

“700,000?”

It was hard to believe that ‘s art book, which was sold for 60 dollars per volume, sold 700,000 copies in just two months after its first publication.

If 700,000 copies were sold, the total sales would be around 42 million dollars.

Of that, Ko Hun, who received 12% of the settlement, made more than 5 million dollars from the art book alone.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

I said proudly.

“People seem to like it because they can see the pictures in detail and the behind-the-scenes stories that are hard to know from the movie, such as the detailed settings.”

“…”

“I’m going to publish a personal art book later when I have some more works.”

At this rate, it seemed enough to build and operate a gallery in downtown Paris.

“Tsk.”

Henri Marso put down the settlement statement with displeasure.

His plan to tear off the works that Ko Hun had hung in the Marceau Museum Ko Hun Hall, using the fact that Ko Hun was short of money, was ruined.

“What’s wrong?”

“Shut up. Do you think this will happen often? Save it when you earn it.”

Henri Marso picked on me for no reason.

“It wasn’t that hard for me to do it. It didn’t cost much either.”

I explained that I got permission from the Montmartre district office through Bang Tae-ho.

Henri Marso opened his mouth as he looked at the street painting that I had planned.

“Stop at this point if it’s because of that Muslim kid. Don’t try to go any further.”

Montmartre district was an area where people from Islamic cultures gathered.

It was famous as a tourist attraction, being called the street of artists, but at the same time, it was the area with the highest crime rate in Paris.

It was obvious that he wanted to make the atmosphere of the place better with his paintings.

“Are you worried about me?”

Henri Marso glared at me.

“Yeah.”

I was surprised by his unexpected answer.

“You and Michel are both nosy, so I don’t care if you take in a beggar.”

“You’re being harsh again.”

“It’s natural for an artist to say what he wants to say.”

“…”

“But do it only when you can protect yourself. What do you think will happen if you go beyond this and try to defend Muslims?”

“People who are hurt will be sad.”

Henri Marso stopped talking at my answer.

“At first, I thought about drawing people who were terrorized or the pain of being discriminated against, but I realized that it wouldn’t solve the problem. That’s not what I want.”

“…”

“I just want to give a little comfort to those who are struggling to live.”

Like a wheat field that embraced the grace of the sun.

If that was not allowed, he wanted to be a grain and fill the stomachs of the poor.

“Rabani, and those who lost their families to terror, too. I don’t want them to get hurt more.”

Henri Marso, who understood what I was thinking when I wanted to paint on the street, felt relieved.

He might have made enemies of both Europeans and Muslims if he had stepped in clumsily.

“It would be nice if they were happy when they walked this street.”

“…Yeah.”

Henri Marso answered hesitantly, and I chuckled.

“Were you that worried?”

“Who.”

“You just said so and now you pretend you don’t know.”

He couldn’t help but tease him for lying poorly and being embarrassed.

I smiled brightly and Henri Marso frowned and got up.

“Stop talking nonsense. Tell me about the group.”

“Group?”

“You said you made one.”

“Well, I did, but I don’t have any plans to register or anything. I just want to meet and work with people who share my mind when I feel like it.”

“It’s annoying without a corporation.”

“How are you going to do it?”

“What kind of activities are you planning? Exhibitions, fanzines, you said you wanted to make them. Don’t you need a contract?”

“Ah.”

Ko Hun lifted his head.

“It would be better to set up a corporation if you want to manage sales and profits internally.”

“I guess so. We need to manage the capital and divide the income.”

“We should split it according to the contribution.”

“Of course.”

Ko Hun thought of Blanche Fabre and Vida Lavani.

Blanche Fabre, who didn’t have a management contract, would get help from various activities.

Vida Lavani, who would grow and contribute to the corporation, would be able to earn some money as a salary.

“Just so you know, I don’t work with anyone else.”

“It’s only you and Marso right now. What should we name it?”

“Gaebok.”

“That’s what you use when you work alone.”

“M&G.”

“What does M&G mean?”

“Marso and Ko Hun.”

Ko Hun glared at Henri Marso.

He didn’t even name his pet dog properly, he seemed to have no sense of naming.

“How about Sunflower of Canaan?”

“Are you naming a church?”

“Yellow House. How about painting the gallery’s exterior wall yellow?”

“Didn’t you say you didn’t want to hear about the little Van Gogh?”

“Then don’t just sit there and give me some opinions.”

“M&G.”

Henri Marso scribbled M&G on a paper.

“That sounds like Dashida.”

“What’s Dashida?”

“MSG.”

Henri Marso narrowed his eyes at the logo he wrote after Ko Hun’s remark.

“How about Potatoes?”

“Don’t joke. Do you want to join that kind of place?”

“They’re delicious. And high in calories.”

“We’re an artist group. What does calorie have to do with it?”

“How about Penguins?”

“Even a children’s baseball team wouldn’t use that name.”

They argued for an hour, but they couldn’t narrow down their differences.

“Forget the name. How are we going to generate revenue?”

“We should focus on exhibitions.”

“Where.”

Ko Hun stared at Henri Marso.

Henri Marso, who didn’t understand what he meant at first, pursed his lips.

“You’re going to put other people’s works in my gallery?”

“Can’t you do it?”

“No.”

“But you did it for me.”

Henri Marso closed his mouth.

Ko Hun and some other writers couldn’t bring up the word ‘exception’ in front of him. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

“Anyway, you know it’s impossible.”

Henri Marso said firmly, and Ko Hun gave up early.

It seemed easier to find another way than to persuade him, who was stubborn.

“Then I’ll have to rent a place.”

“Yeah.”

“But managing this kind of thing requires people. Do you know how to do it?”

“Why me? I can just hire people.”

“Don’t you know? Hiring people costs money.”

“I have a manager.”

“It’ll be hard to go back and forth between Korea and here.”

“I’ll settle down then.”

“That’s not an easy thing to do, you know. You have a family. And writer Lee Hanna has to write too.”

“Write together?”

“No, not that.”

“Then. Write on paper?”

“Of course I’ll write on a computer.”

“Then what’s the difference between writing in Seoul or Paris?”

“…Is that so?”

“Anyway, if you want to keep your manager, you have no reason to stay in Korea. It’s better for him to come over here before it’s too late. If he takes over the corporation and gets a salary, his income will be stable. Right?”

Ko Hun nodded as he sorted out his thoughts.

Place DALIDA (Place Dalida: Dalida Square), La Maison Rose (La Maison Rose: The Pink House)