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Caterpillar and Pork Rice Bowl (4)
“Let’s see. They should have arrived by now.”
Go Soo-yeol checked his watch.
It had been about an hour since his grandson left. He wondered if he had reached Münster, Germany.
He waited for a call from Ko Hun, who had promised to contact him when he arrived.
“You must be worried.”
“Of course. How can I be at ease? But Hoon needs to learn how to travel alone, so I have no choice but to let him go.”
Bang Tae-ho nodded.
He understood both the parental desire to keep their child close and the concern to teach them how to stand on their own.
“There won’t be any trouble. Aren’t Hoon and Marso getting along well these days?”
“Yeah. They might forget to call if they’re having fun. I’ll just wait.”
Go Soo-yeol put his smartphone in his pocket.
Henry Marso felt that the eyes around him had changed recently.
At first, he thought it was a mistake and doubted it, but he beca convinced when he heard words he had never heard before.
‘Lately, you only bring Mr. Ko Hun’s works. Is this cute Pinocchio also Mr. Ko Hun’s work?’
Pierre Malodo.
‘What are you talking about? Don’t mind the nationality and work in France. We’ll apply the Antermittang system for you. Don’t tell it’s because of that kid?’
Chevasson Simon.
‘You seem to eat too much chocolate lately.’
Arsene.
‘Can you get aggravated punishnt for slapping soone with kimchi? … Did you just say it was a drama?’
Shultz.
‘Did you just smile? Did you smile?’
Michel Platini.
‘You look like you could get married with Hoon. Don’t you have anyone to date? You never talked about it before.’
Even Sherry Gado, whom he loved, casually brought up things he had never ntioned before.
Henry Marso, who had ignored the words around him, couldn’t help but care when Sherry Gado and Michel Platini said he had changed.
He had fallen for chocolate and trashy dramas, which were nothing but symbols of desire for the noble Marso family’s jewel.
He would have avoided smiling lightly in front of Michel Platini, but he did it anyway.
‘It’s because of him.’
Henry Marso glared at Ko Hun.
“Hmm.”
Ko Hun was eating a sandwich instead of pizza.
He was in a bad mood because he couldn’t eat potato pizza, but he barely suppressed his anger with the duck sandwich he bought from Blangery Utopia.
He felt a little better when he sprinkled a lot of mustard sauce on the smoked duck.
“…Is it good?”
“Don’t talk to .”
Ko Hun was still not willing to forgive Marso, who had ruined his happy Sunday lunch.
He decided not to say a word to him until he brought him potato pizza, while they were traveling in Münster.
“Is it good?”
Henry Marso asked again, but Ko Hun didn’t answer.
It was a very strange experience for him.
No one dared to treat him rudely, who had a huge fortune, a noble bloodline, and a reputation as an artist.
He had inherited the title of Duke of Angou from his uncle Louis de Bourbon, and the French Ministry of Justice recognized it, so the French upper class favored him as the successor of the Bourbon royal family.
He was the largest shareholder (31.9%) of BNP Paribas, the largest financial group and the highest average balance in the eurozone.
He was also a major shareholder of Inditex, the world’s largest fashion group, and L’Oreal, a costics company (7.1% and 5.3%, respectively).
He was revered as a hero of the art world in France, and loved as a rare global star as a painter.
There was no one who could ignore his words.
“Ah.”
Henry Marso snatched the duck sandwich from Ko Hun.
Ko Hun, who had barely endured the loss of his potato pizza, opened his eyes wide and glared at Henry Marso.
Henry Marso bit the duck sandwich as if to show off.
It was not bad for a commoner’s food.
“It’s not that good.”
Henry Marso put down the sandwich and Ko Hun, who was so angry and speechless, shouted.
“What are you doing!”
A mont later.
Peter Neuer, the head of the publicity team for the Munster Sculpture Project, was puzzled when he went to the hangar to welco Henri Marso.
Henri Marso and Ko Hun, who had just got off the private jet, were covered in yellow paint.
‘What’s going on?’
Peter Neuer didn’t know how to greet them. He had hoped to guide them well in Munster and see their good works.
‘Did they paint sothing on the way?’
He had never heard of anyone painting on a plane, but he thought it was not impossible for Henri Marso, who was famous for being unique among artists.
He just couldn’t understand the faint sll of mustard sauce.
“Nice to et you, Mr. Marso. Mr. Ko Hun. I’m Peter Neuer from the Munster Sculpture Project publicity team.”
“Hello.”
Henri Marso ignored Peter Neuer and only Ko Hun replied.
“Arsene.”
“Yes.”
Henri Marso gave Arsene a hint.
His loyal secretary stepped forward and asked Peter Neuer for his understanding.
“Good day. I’m Arsene Leblanc. Thank you for welcoming us, but the artist seems a bit tired from the trip. Can we see you again in an hour?”
“Excuse ?”
Peter Neuer was confused.
It wouldn’t be too hard to et again in an hour, but he couldn’t easily accept that they were tired from a flight that took less than an hour from Paris to Munster.
“What are you going to do? My clothes.”
“You wouldn’t have snatched my sandwich if you had endured it.”
“You ate a bite of a sandwich.”
“A bite of a sandwich? It was my lunch. The lunch I traded for a potato pizza. You must not know how precious food is because you have a lot of money. You’ll get punished for that.”
“Why do you always talk so short?”
“If you want to respect you, don’t steal my food.”
“I’m your teacher and you’re my student. Call teacher from now on.”
“Who’s a teacher when you’re taking my painting.”
The two renowned artists were fighting over a sandwich and a potato pizza.
“Hmm.”
Arsene coughed to get Peter Neuer’s attention.
“Let’s et in front of the Munster Cathedral in an hour.”
“Oh, yes. Okay.”
After taking off his clothes stained with mustard sauce and sending them to the laundry, he took a shower and put on the new clothes that Arsene had bought for him.
“My sleeves are short.”
“They were the closest size I could find.”
“Damn it.”
Marso complained about wearing ready-made clothes.
He had been grumpy for a few days, but now he was even picking a fight.
I thought we had gotten closer lately, but I don’t know how to please him.
When they arrived at the Munster Cathedral, Peter Neuer, whom they had t earlier, greeted them warmly.
“Did you get so rest?”
“Thanks to you.”
He started walking side by side with Peter Neuer.
“Do you know about the Munster Sculpture Project?”
“I know it’s an event where you can freely exhibit your works around the city.”
“That’s right. It started with the hope of making the citizens and art closer.”
Henri Marso was walking a few steps behind with a sullen expression.
He didn’t know who was to bla for this.
“It was in the 1960s. Henry Moore wanted to donate his work to Munster, but the citizens of Munster at the ti didn’t accept his work as art.”
Peter Neuer told him that there was a lot of conflict between Henry Moore and the citizens.
In the anti, the city of Munster commissioned the Munster City Museum of Art to buy a work as part of the city environnt project.
The Munster City Museum of Art recomnded George Rickey’s work, which was more modern than Henry Moore’s.
“But when they heard that they were buying a strange sculpture for 130,000 marks, the citizens couldn’t stay still. They thought it was a waste of the city budget.”
It was a similar case to the story I had with my grandfather and Jang Mi-rae.
It was a problem caused by the isolation of modern art.
“What happened then?”
“The city hall had no choice but to give up.”
It was inevitable.
The citizens wanted their precious taxes not to be wasted, and they had no reason not to oppose the trade of a aningless sculpture for a large amount of money.
“Then, Busmann, the curator of the city museum of art, felt the gap between modern art and the citizens. He thought this couldn’t go on.”
As artists and the public drift apart, nothing remains.
I don’t like artists who say they don’t want to be understood, because they are arrogant enough to think they can exist on their own.
To make a work, you need money.
And money doesn’t co out of thin air.
“Busmann appeared on several broadcasts and tried to make the public more familiar with contemporary art. Fortunately, the citizens of Münster appreciated his sincerity.”
“Is that how it started?”
“Yes. The Münster Sculpture Project is both an event where contemporary art reaches out to the public and where the public seeks out art.”
“What a wonderful event.”
I smiled at Peter Neuer.
He guided around the city of Münster and introduced to the sculptures located here and there.
There were works that looked like soone had dumped construction materials, and I also got to see statues and plaster figures resting around a small artificial pond.
“What do you think?”
After a while of sightseeing, Peter Neuer asked .
“I don’t know.”
It was hard to feel Münster in half a day.
I had no idea what to do, so I told him honestly and he nodded as if he understood.
“Take your ti to think about it. If possible, it would be nice to stay a few more days and think about it.”
But I had too many things to do, like going to school, personal broadcasting, Venice Biennale, Kassel Docunta, Art Basel, and so on.
“That’s it for the tour.”
Henri Marso, who had been following silently, opened his mouth.
Arsène stepped forward and greeted Peter Neuer.
“Thank you for your hard work today. We will arrange our schedule separately from now on. Thank you for your consideration from the committee.”
“Don’t ntion it. I feel heavy-hearted that I couldn’t be of much help.”
“No, it’s enough.”
Thanks to Peter Neuer, I was able to understand what kind of event the Münster Sculpture Project was.
It was just that I didn’t have enough ti.
“Well then.”
Peter Neuer left.
It was evening, and soon it would be dark around.
It would be hard to look around anywhere.
“Let’s go.”
Henri Marso turned his feet.
He said he would go back before dinner, so I had to look for another opportunity.
“Ahh!”
I was about to move on with regret, but a man suddenly popped out of the alley next to and I was startled.
The man fell down and didn’t move at all.
I was so shocked that I froze, and Arsène quickly blocked in front of .
“What is it?”
“…I don’t know.”
Arsène protected while keeping an eye on the fallen man. He didn’t look like a holess person by his clothes, but I had no idea what kind of bolt from the blue this was.
I wondered if he was dead, but then the man reached out his hand.
“Are you okay?”
He seed to be conscious.
The man slowly lifted his head and blinked his eyes.
“Ko Hun?”
“Yes?”
“Is it really Ko Hun?”
He was a Korean.
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