Van Gogh Reborn!

Chapter 268:

Chapter 268:

268

Meeting in a Strange Place (1)

The more I know about René Magritte’s works, the more amazing they are.

Especially the work called .1

He drew a very fine tobacco pipe and wrote ‘This is not a pipe’ below it.

I was quite confused when I first saw it.

I couldn’t tell if René Magritte was mocking me or playing a prank on me.

I even checked if there was any trick in the tobacco pipe, but there was nothing strange.

But I couldn’t give up.

Even though I could dismiss it as a weird painting, I was drawn to the unfamiliar image and text and stared at for hours.

After a while.

I gradually understood René Magritte.

The answer was in the title .

He drew a pipe, but the image of the pipe could not be a real pipe, could it?

In fact, all paintings are like that.

It’s a simple fact.

The sunflowers I drew are just sunflower paintings, not sunflowers. Paintings and reality cannot be the same.

It’s not just because they don’t look alike, but also because the sunflowers I see cannot be complete sunflowers.

Images and words cannot fully represent reality.

I and people call too many sunflowers sunflowers, but no sunflower can be the same.

Images and words cannot perfectly capture an object and a concept. That is René Magritte’s claim.

Based on this idea, I can continue to think further.

After the invention of the camera, the style of reproducing reality declined.

Naturally, painters tried to find a reason to paint.

René Magritte was no exception.

He drew a picture that was exactly like a real tobacco pipe, and by saying that it was not a tobacco pipe, he redefined the meaning of the painting.

Painting is not just transferring reality to canvas, but giving it a new meaning.

What a clear answer.

As if to prove it, René Magritte continued to experiment with various works.

One of the works that I was interested in was , which René Magritte painted in 1929.

It was a beautiful and ordinary landscape painting with a meadow and a mountain, except that there was a glass goblet bigger than the mountain.

An image that cannot be seen in reality. That is, by making it strange, René Magritte created his own world.

What a brilliant idea.

Nowadays, the synthesis technology is so advanced that you can create such things with photos or computer graphics.

But at that time, it would have been hard to show such a scene with the photo technology.2

It was something that only a painter could do.

Something that you can freely play with brushes and paints.

I was immersed in René Magritte’s strangeness all weekend, when my appointment with Marso was canceled.

“Did you say you’re going to be late today?”

Monday morning.

During breakfast, Grandpa asked me if the school class ended late.

I have an advanced art class in the afternoon, so it ends an hour later than usual.

“Yes. It ends at 3 o’clock.”

The advanced art class was also the reason why I entered Henri IV Middle School.

Nicolas Poussin, a famous art educator, gave advanced lectures to art students in Henri IV High School and Middle School.

I’m looking forward to it as much as Marso and Fabre praised it.

“You’ll see Fabre, too.”

I shook my head.

“He won’t be there today. He only takes art therapy classes.”

“Art history.”

Grandpa scooped up a spoonful of kimchi stew and said.

“You’re studying with Gombrich’s book?”

“How did you know?”

“It’s very famous.”

I bought Ernst Gombrich’s with the coupon I got from school, but Grandpa seemed to know it well.

“It’s a good book. But you shouldn’t blindly trust it.”

I didn’t know what he meant by that, since it was a book that was good enough to be used as a textbook at school.

“What do you mean?”

“I described it very systematically and artistically, but I couldn’t explain anything about contemporary art.”

“Ah.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It’s a book written for young people or those who don’t know much about art, so it’s logical and easy to understand.”

I had a vague idea of how to take my grandfather’s words.

He was someone who always thought from various perspectives, so he was telling me to understand it with a critical attitude.

“Then I’ll pick you up on time.”

He was worried about me even though I had been alone for a week.

“I can come by myself. The bus drops me off in front of the house. What are you talking about?”

“You forgot.”

My grandfather smiled.

“Didn’t you say you were meeting someone today?”

I tried to recall what he said over the weekend, but I couldn’t remember.

I was so immersed in René Magritte and his ‘making strange’ that I didn’t listen to my grandfather well.

“Who are you meeting?”

“His name is Ralph, a friend from Italy. He said he was coming to Paris, so I wanted to have a cup of tea with him, and he said he wanted to meet you too.”

“Italy?”

From England, France, the Netherlands, the United States, to Italy. There was no place my grandfather couldn’t reach.

“Yes. Italy.”

He must have seen my curiosity on my face. He told me more than he asked.

“He’s a busy person, hard to meet. He said he had some business with Mr. Simon, the president of the SNBA.”

If he was meeting Mr. Simon Chevasson, the president of the SNBA, Ralph must be someone who worked in the art world.

“Is he an artist?”

“A curator. He’s the director of the Venice Biennale next year.”

“Why does he want to meet me?”

“Why? He said he became a fan after seeing your Frosty Field and Summer Stream.”

He was a big shot who would direct the Venice Biennale, and he liked my paintings. I was happy.

“And you’re also a painter to watch out for at the Biennale next year.”

My grandfather praised me again.

“I feel pressured.”

I was preparing for the Münster Sculpture Project, but I was also worried about the work to be exhibited at the Venice Biennale.

It was a large-scale event, comparable to the Whitney Biennale, and there was a prize attached, so the competition was fierce.

It was not an optimistic situation, considering that my grandfather, Marso, and Jang Mi-rae were participating from my surroundings.

“Don’t feel pressured. The prize will come naturally, so just focus on your work.”

“There aren’t many people who get the prize, you know.”

There are three major prizes at the Venice Biennale.

The Golden Lion, the Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Special Award.

Among them, the ones I could aim for were the Golden Lion and the Special Award.

The Golden Lion was divided into three categories: the National Pavilion Award, the Individual Artist Award, and the Young Artist Award. I was hoping for the National Pavilion Award and the Young Artist Award.

The Korean Pavilion, which I was participating in with my grandfather and Jang Mi-rae, had the highest chance of winning the award.

I also wanted to win the Young Artist Award, which had a condition of being under 35 years old, but there seemed to be no special competitors except for Marso.

But that was only if I thought positively. The National Pavilion Award was tightly held by France, Britain, and the United States, and Marso was the strongest competitor no matter what anyone said.

It wouldn’t be easy.

Meeting the director wouldn’t change anything, but I wondered if I could hear what the Venice Biennale site was like.

“Isn’t it time?”

“Yes.”

I stuffed the vegetable side dish that Cha Si-hyun’s parents sent by plane into my mouth and got up.

I was full of thoughts about my work even during the school classes.

I was hooked on the fun of placing unfamiliar objects in unfamiliar places and giving them new meanings, and I kept having strange thoughts.

What if I put beds instead of desks for the children who were tired of studying?

Or what if I moved the students outside the classroom and put them on the Eiffel Tower?

Or what if I built the Eiffel Tower with children?

No.

Such simple ideas couldn’t give any shock.

“…”

I shook my head and shook off my thoughts.

Shocking was not the only goal.

I was too obsessed with the feeling of ‘strangeness’ because I was so impressed by René Magritte.

I was clinging to the form of putting something unexpected in a strange place, which was nothing but a meaningless imitation.

To fully digest ‘making strange’, I had to convey the message of healing the wounds and encouraging the courage.

Only then would it become mine.

The message and I are what matter.

The form and technique are just borrowed.

Just as I have regarded many painters, including Millet, as my teachers, so is René Magritte.

“Well, then, let me introduce you to one of the painters who is currently active.”

I must have been so fascinated by the unfamiliarity that I even saw a hallucination.

As Principal Pusang turned his head, Marso entered the classroom.

“Wow!”

“It’s Henri! It’s really Henri!”

The students suddenly cheered and shouted.

“…?”

What’s going on here?

Marso lifted his chin and scanned the classroom.

“I’m Henri Charpentier Ferdinand Marso, and I’ll be teaching you art history for the next two weeks.”

“Woohoo!”

It seems like it’s not a delusion.

The sound of the children’s cheers was so loud that my ears hurt.

“It’s really Henri!”

“How did he look like that?”

“Henri, please sign for me!”

They seemed to know Marso well, as they dreamed of becoming painters, sculptors, and other art-related professions.

Principal Pusang tried to calm the children down, but there was no sign of them settling down.

By the way, he said he wouldn’t do it.

He said he didn’t have time to teach the kids, but I never dreamed he would stand on the podium.

I wonder if he canceled the weekend appointment because of this.

Bang-

Marso slammed the desk.

“Shut up. I took the time to come here, so don’t waste it with useless talk.”

“Yes!”

The children answered vigorously, and Principal Pusang chuckled. I’ve never heard such a lively answer.

“Gombrich started his book with this sentence.”

Marso wrote on the board, "There is no such thing as art. There are only artists."3)

“This means that although art is defined by the word ‘art’ in each era, it has different forms and meanings, so it cannot be explained by the word ‘art’.”

Just as René Magritte said that the noun ‘pipe’ does not fully express a pipe.

Gombrich also said that the word ‘art’ cannot encompass the whole history of art and the actions of artists.

“Therefore, art history can be said to be a history of fighting with different standards for each era and person. I’ll tell you who struggled how for the next four hours.”

Marso rested his chin on both hands and warned the students who were concentrating.

“If you want to do art, you have to engrave it in your mind.”

“Yes!”

The children answered cheerfully, and Marso snorted and wrote Egypt on the board.

1)The Treachery of Images, René Magritte, 1929, oil on canvas.

He wrote ‘Ceci n’est pas une pipe (This is not a pipe)’ under the picture of a tobacco pipe.

2)A misunderstanding caused by Ko Hun’s lack of knowledge of the history of photography.

The history of photo editing technology is as old as the history of photography.

The first camera was invented in 1826, and the world’s first composite photo appeared in 1861.

It was a photo of Abraham Lincoln, the 16th president of the United States, with Lincoln’s face attached to the body of John Calhoun, who was tall and dignified.

The first case of ‘Photoshop’ applied.

*The fact that Van Gogh didn’t know much about photo editing technology is just a setting of , not confirmed by facts.

3)Ernst Gombrich, The Story of Art, translated by Baek Seung-gil and Lee Jong-soo, (Yekyong, 1997), p. 15.