Chapter 14 – 4. Selling the Painting (2)
The man who stepped out of the Zebra Gallery irritably climbed into his car.
“Unbelievable.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“You don’t seem to understand why I came all the way here, so listen carefully. I came to buy Go Na-jang’s work, not to waste my time looking at that junk. Got it?”
“But currently, there are no works by Go Soo-yeol or Jang Mirae available at auction.”
“Then go find them yourself! Why else did we get their contact info?”
“It’s just that…”
“What now?”
“Both of them refused.”
“…What did you say?”
Henri Marceau, heir to a vast fortune from his parents, couldn’t believe what his assistant had just said.
Every artist dreamed of having their work added to Henri Marceau’s collection.
To think someone would turn down a meeting with him?
It was unthinkable.
“Are you sure? Did they know who was calling?”
“Yes. Go Soo-yeol declined, saying he had to attend his grandson’s exhibition. Jang Mirae said the same.”
Henri Marceau furrowed his brow.
“Are you telling me, me, Henri Marceau, was rejected over a child’s exhibition?”
“…”
“Do you believe that? They’re just playing hard to get for a better price! Can’t you read the room?”
“Apologies, sir.”
Henri opened a wooden box and pulled out a cigar.
He rubbed the tip, trying to calm his anger.
“Take me to that grandson’s exhibition. I’ll speak to them directly.”
“Yes, I’ll make arrangements.”
Assistant Arsène attempted to call Go Soo-yeol and Jang Mirae in turn, but neither picked up.
Henri scoffed in irritation.
“Forget it. Let’s go.”
The assistant started the car.
‘They dare ignore me?’
Henri irritably clipped the tip of his cigar.
Only after slowly lighting it and savoring the smoke did he feel his anger subside.
‘No, no. Right. An artist should have that much pride.’
Henri, who held high regard for Go Soo-yeol and Jang Mirae, thought that artists ought to possess at least that level of self-respect.
‘I’ll see for myself if they’re still worth it.’
Henri Marceau smiled with composure.
Moments later, Henri arrived at the Seoul Museum of Art and headed toward Exhibition Hall 1.
“Sir.”
At the assistant’s call, Henri turned back with a frown.
“I mean, artist.”
“Apologies, artist.”
Arsène bowed and corrected himself.
“The exhibition is happening over there.”
Henri followed the assistant’s gaze to a sign directing to a new artist exhibition.
“Exhibition Hall 3?”
“Yes, on the second floor.”
Henri chuckled in disbelief and looked for the elevator.
“Looks like you’ll need to take the stairs.”
“Unbelievable.”
He climbed the stairs to reach the exhibition, then nodded at his assistant.
“Call me if you find them. I’ll look around in the meantime.”
“Understood.”
He planned to soothe his eyes and wounded pride, and wait for Go Soo-yeol.
Henri began to walk slowly, inspecting the works on display.
‘Well, at least it’s not crowded.’
No one got in the way, which was the only benefit.
But the works themselves were below average.
A few pieces hinted at potential, but none met Henri Marceau’s standards.
‘What a waste of time.’
At least the works at Zebra Gallery pretended to be art.
Henri shook his head and was about to wait outside the hall.
That’s when he saw it.
A brilliance that seemed to cleanse his tainted vision.
“…”
A sunflower, rippling with the color of molten gold.
Delicate strokes breathing with life, bold stems reaching upward.
Torn leaves.
The background was painted pure white—as if the single sunflower alone was enough.
A blazing sun-like longing bloomed in Henri Marceau’s chest.
His grandfather and Jang Mirae had stepped out to speak with the museum about selling the painting.
With fewer visitors compared to the morning, I sat down and looked at the other pieces.
That journalist from yesterday came again.
I think her name was Kim Ji-woo.
“Hoon.”
“Hello.”
“Did you see the article yesterday? It got over 3,000 views!”
“I didn’t.”
“Why? Aren’t you curious? The comments are super positive.”
“I don’t have a smartphone.”
“Ah.”
She pulled out her phone and showed me—the article was really up.
“So you really were a reporter.”
“You didn’t believe me? Why? Do I not look like one?”
“How can you trust a stranger who suddenly says they’ll sell your painting?”
“Ah… fair point. Anyway, read it.”
The article just covered things I already knew.
‘I think Grandpa rubbed the screen like this…’
I copied his motion skeptically, and it revealed more.
Such a fascinating device.
Comment highlights:
-
“This is great.”
-
“It’s nice, but I think they’re overhyping it because he’s Go Soo-yeol’s grandson.”
-
“This is something you need to see in person. The photo doesn’t do it justice.”
-
“Is it just me? The vibe is amazing—bittersweet yet powerful.”
-
“The colors are insane. How can someone use colors like this?”
-
“I saw it yesterday. Absolutely mind-blowing. It looked like it was glowing.”
-
“LOL now reporters are doing art ads? How much were you paid?”
-
“I was feeling down today, but this painting cheered me up. When does the exhibition end?”
-
“It’s open for a week!”
-
“I honestly don’t believe a 10-year-old painted this.”
“…”
Some of the comments didn’t make sense, but I wondered if these reactions meant people really liked it.
“What does ‘LOL now reporters are doing art ads’ mean?”
“Don’t mind that one. Look—others are saying the atmosphere is great and that they loved it in person.”
How kind of them.
“Just wait. I’ll make you famous. Then people will be lining up to buy your paintings. Which means I’m basically your art dealer, right?”
As always, fame determines the price of art.
If only fame came from the art alone—but it rarely does.
“I don’t have any money, though.”
“Money?”
“You must want something in return, right?”
“What? You think I’m getting paid to write this stuff? I may use clickbait titles, but I’ve never sold out. Hey.”
I didn’t understand why she would help for nothing.
I had nothing to give, but Jang Mirae had given me candy to snack on, so I offered that.
“Give me your hand.”
“Candy?”
“It’s good.”
Kim Ji-woo hesitated, then popped it in her mouth.
“Wow, haven’t had candy in forever.”
“If you bite it, it’s gone too fast.”
With no visitors, and no Grandpa or Mirae, we idly chatted to kill time.
Then a haughty-looking man stopped in front of Sunflower.
Dark curly brown hair.
Deep-set eyes and a large nose.
‘A Frenchman?’
His face was familiar, so I watched him. But he didn’t even glance at the other artworks.
How rude.
But he seemed to like Sunflower.
“Where have I seen that face before…”
Kim Ji-woo tilted her head.
I kept silent so he could enjoy the painting, when another man approached and spoke to him.
“Sir, I spoke to the organizers while you were away.”
It was in French.
The man didn’t even react—too focused on the painting.
“Sir.”
“Shut up.”
I didn’t know their relationship, but that rude tone annoyed me.
I lost the will to explain the painting and just sat down.
“Find out who painted this.”
“Yes, sir.”
To spare that poor man the effort, I looked up.
“I did.”
The arrogant man looked down at me with his chin raised, scanning me from head to toe unpleasantly.
My neck hurt.
After staring for a while, he finally spoke.
“You’re Go Soo-yeol’s grandson?”
“Yes.”
Just go away already.
But instead, he looked back at Sunflower and chuckled.
“Ah. So that’s what it was.”
He pulled out a stack of checks from his inner pocket.
“Kid, do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“Henri Marceau!”
I flinched.
Kim Ji-woo gasped and pulled out her camera.
“Looks like she knows me. You’ll remember me after today too.”
That annoying man pointed his chin at me.
The man beside him handed me a business card.
“Your first exhibition, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me buy your first painting. Consider it an honor.”
What a jerk.
As I stared blankly at the card, Kim Ji-woo freaked out.
“Hoon! What? Why’s he giving you a card?”
“He wants to buy the painting.”
“Heek!”
Same as last time—her voice was too loud.
“Really? Henri Marceau wants to buy your painting? Why? What did he like so much? How much does he want to pay? Did he come because of my article?”
“Who is this loud woman?”
“A reporter.”
“Ah.”
Henri gave a look to the man beside him.
“Madam, could you excuse us so we can speak privately? I’ll explain the situation later.”
The man said in broken, awkward Korean.
“No thanks. I’ll stay.”
After a whisper from his assistant, Henri had no choice but to ignore her.
“Your composition and technique are outdated, but your use of color is tolerable. Seems like you’re used to handling a brush.”
Henri commented on Sunflower with a smug air, then turned.
“How much do you want?”
His suit and shoes reeked of luxury.
A man with money, clearly.
He had staff. Arrogant. And confident enough to ask what I wanted—because he could afford anything.
“I won’t sell it to you.”
Henri’s eyebrows twitched.
“What?”
“I want to sell it to someone who understands its value.”
He glared at me.
“What? What are you even saying?”
Ignore Kim Ji-woo for now.
Henri closed his eyes, then raised an eyebrow.
“Are you saying I don’t know art?”
“Yes.”
“You arrogant brat.”
Henri stepped closer.
My neck hurt, but I didn’t avert my eyes.
“Heh.”
Even his laugh was irritating.
“I’ll give you 100,000 euros. Sell it.”
This was a job for Kim Ji-woo.
“Ma’am, how much is 100,000 euros?”
“Ma’am? Never mind that—100,000 euros?”
“Quickly.”
“Uh… around 140 million won? That’s crazy. Your first painting sold for over a hundred million?”
Half of that goes to the exhibition hall—so 70 million won.
“See? You don’t know.”
He stayed calm, just as a rich, smug man would.
“Then tell me what value this painting holds.”
“It’s the first painting by someone who’ll be the next Picasso.”
“Hahahahaha!”
Henri Marceau burst out laughing.
I felt the eyes of everyone in the hall turn toward us.
He glanced at Sunflower again, then spoke.
“A child’s dream, huh? Sure. If you’re going to dream, dream big.”
“I’ll make it happen.”
Henri’s smirk vanished.
He stepped back and stared again at Sunflower.
After a long moment, he spoke.
“I like it.”
His eyes bore down on me.
“I’ll buy it for that absurd confidence. Name your price.”
He raised his palm. His assistant placed a pen in it.
“Two million euros.”
