Chapter 146 (2) - The Mysterious Art Museum

Chapter 146 (2) - The Mysterious Art Museum

Van Gogh walks towards me, taking out the letter to read.

He mutters to himself as he reads. Unable to read French, I have no choice but to stick close and listen attentively to his voice.

"Brother, I've received the letters and paintings you sent with much gratitude. Some of the paintings are truly outstanding. They're so vivid and fresh from the first impression. They look like landscapes freshly plowed from the fields. There's a tremendous energy in your paintings. I'm confident that one day this power will be recognized. As for my news, I've been busy preparing for Claude Monet's exhibition. Monet completed ten landscape paintings while staying in Antibes last spring. They are vibrant and full of life. With a firm handshake, your brother, Theo."

The famous letter from Theo.

The letters exchanged between the two brothers were even published as a book by Theo's wife.

Van Gogh neatly folds the letter, puts it back in the envelope, and takes out the enclosed money.

"Phew, I can pay the overdue rent now."

Van Gogh murmurs to himself as he counts his fingers.

"The overdue rent and food bills amount to about 90 francs... Just enough to pay everything off and buy some paint."

I watch Van Gogh and suddenly recall my own past.

I was the same. During my days as a street artist, I would count the day's earnings, calculate the rent and utilities, and after setting aside money to send to my mother, I'd spend almost all of it on paints and art supplies.

I followed him at a brisk pace, crossing farmlands and entering the village, arriving at a small, unimpressive hotel.

At the counter, which resembled a modern motel's, Van Gogh confidently approaches the half-bearded owner, waving the money.

"The rent has arrived."

"Oh, finally your brother sent the money, huh? Let's see, the total overdue rent and food bills come to 90 francs."

"Here it is. Now don't bother me for a while. I'm going up."

"Ah, wait a minute."

"What now?"

"You owe another 67 francs for the wine."

“He came to buy paint amidst all this.”

A born artist. He came to buy paint with the remaining money his brother sent him, even in his rage.

Upon entering the paint shop, Van Gogh immediately shouts.

“Give me a tube of chrome yellow paint.”

The female clerk searches among the paints and then, with an apologetic face, says, “We're out of chrome yellow.”

“Good heavens!”

“We still have plenty of red.”

“Crazy! Chrome yellow and red aren't the same! What a bolt from the blue! Damn it! Damn it!!”

Van Gogh rages, clutching his head.

But he doesn’t resort to throwing or breaking things. After cursing in Dutch, he storms out of the shop.

Van Gogh kicks the ground and a pillar in his anger. He never uses his fists, no matter how mad he gets. Hands are crucial for an artist.

I smile at his antics.

‘Don’t worry. You only have to pay 12 francs, not 67.’

I know that, as per the decision of the French judicial magistrate, Van Gogh will only have to pay 12 francs to get his belongings back.

Life is a tragedy up close but a comedy from afar. That's exactly how I feel watching Van Gogh.

‘If someone were watching my life, would these tragedies I'm experiencing now seem like a comedy to them?’

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