Episode 6
2. The Art Museum (2)
“Vincent van Gogh, you said?”
“Yes.”
“From the Netherlands?”
“You know your stuff.”
It seems someone from our Van Gogh family line became a very successful painter.
Could it be Theo’s son?
“Vincent” is a common name, so I’m not sure exactly who it is, but if it’s my nephew Vincent, that would be wonderful.¹
To think he became famous enough to have a museum—he must’ve fulfilled the dreams that Theo and I couldn’t achieve.
I’m so proud.
“What kind of paintings did he do?”
“Hmm… things like Sunflowers, Wheatfields. He painted a lot of portraits too. Oh right—Self-Portraits. Van Gogh is known for those.”
That confirms it—it must be Theo’s son.
Sunflowers, wheatfields, self-portraits… those were my main subjects.
Theo must have talked a lot about me. My nephew likely painted those to remember me by.
I’m thankful.
I wonder what kind of pictures he painted for his poor uncle.
“Want to see them?”
I nodded and got up. When he told me to wash my hands first, I did so quickly.
We went up to the second floor—somewhere I’d never been before. Paintings adorned the walls, to the point it made my eyes widen.
Some works looked like they could’ve been painted by Pablo Picasso. Others seemed to be by great masters I held in high regard.
There was The Angelus by Jean-François Millet.
“……”
Something’s off.
“What’s wrong?”
“This is a replica.”
It’s hard to tell at first glance, but it lacks Millet’s delicate touch.
“Hahaha, you’ve got sharp eyes. You’re right—most of the paintings here are replicas. They’re printed and painted over. The originals are just too expensive.”
Indeed, for artists like Picasso and Millet, their paintings would be traded for a high price.
It’s a joy to see Millet’s works, once dismissed during his lifetime, now loved and highly valued.
What a wonderful, gratifying turn of events.
“Here it is.”
Grandpa pointed at Café Terrace at Night framed beautifully.²
“……”
The composition and coloring were the same as my own painting. The brushstrokes and hues differed slightly—it seemed like someone had copied it.
Since Grandpa said this was a painting by Vincent van Gogh, it means my nephew must’ve painted it.
But I never imagined he would’ve copied my painting exactly.
“Have you seen it before? You don’t look impressed.”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Isn’t it beautiful? That dazzling yellow, the deep blue night, and the green in between. Van Gogh had a knack for such color arrangements.”
Something isn’t right.
It’s heartwarming to be remembered and honored, but for an artist to find success by copying another artist’s works?
That shouldn’t happen.
“Life was a struggle for him. He lived fiercely in an unappreciative world, and in the end, he became ill. But to leave behind such beautiful art—that’s something, right?”
Did my nephew Vincent also live a hard life?
“Some people call him crazy or insane for cutting off his ear, but no one ever criticized his paintings.”
Something’s definitely wrong.
“He cut off his ear?”
“Yeah, that happened. There’s some debate over whether it’s true, but does it really matter?”
It was with Paul Gauguin.
Could it be that my nephew Vincent went through the exact same thing as I did?
“Was the person who painted this born in 1853?”
“Hmm… probably around then.”
“And died in 1890?”
“Let’s see.”
Grandpa pulled out a device he called a smartphone and looked something up.
“Oh yes—born March 30, 1853, died July 29, 1890. How do you even know this?”
Because it’s my life.
“There’s a Van Gogh Museum?”
“Why? Do you want to go?”
“There’s a museum honoring Vincent van Gogh, who died in 1890?”
“I told you—yes.”
“Why?”
I couldn’t understand it.
Why on earth would there be a museum dedicated to me?
I only sold The Red Vineyard and a few small pieces. There’s no way I’d have a museum.
Unless Theo made a fortune after my death and built it for me—which seems unlikely.
“Why else? A great painter like Van Gogh should at least have a museum, right?”
“A great painter like…?”
“Of course. Isn’t Vincent van Gogh the most beloved artist in the world?”
I couldn’t understand what Grandpa was saying.
I thought this was reality, but the suspicion crept in again—could this be the afterlife?
Could there truly be a world this perfect unless it was heaven?
Luxurious meals, new art supplies, a warm home, a healthy body… and now, I—Vincent van Gogh—am the most beloved artist in the world?
This is too much.
“You look like you don’t believe it.”
“No… Vincent couldn’t even sell his paintings properly.”
“Hahaha! You’re right. He wasn’t recognized in his lifetime.”
It stings, but it’s the truth.
“Hmm, how should I explain this… Ah, there’s a painting called Portrait of Dr. Gachet.”
I painted Dr. Gachet, my physician, as a gesture of gratitude—his intellect and his sadness captured together.
“That painting was sold for 44 million dollars in 1999. Starting to get the picture?”
“What’s a dollar?”
“Should I explain it in euros?”
I didn’t know what he meant.
It must be some currency, but I’d never heard of dollars or euros.
“How about in francs?”
“Francs? Why francs?”
I stayed silent, unsure how to answer, and Grandpa chuckled.
“You sure know how to ask tricky questions. Hmm, let’s see if someone has done this kind of calculation.”
He looked it up on his smartphone.
This tiny device seemed to contain all the world’s knowledge.
“Here we go. At current rates, 44 million dollars is 37.31 million euros. My French is rusty, but you can understand Korean numbers, right?”
“Yes. And in francs?”
“Look here. When France changed its official currency, 6.5 francs became 1 euro. So that’s about 242.41 million francs.”
“……”
“Careful—your jaw’s about to fall off.”
That amount is unreal.
“Wait, no…”
As I suspected.
Grandpa corrected himself right away.
“They also revalued the franc. In 1960, old francs were replaced with new francs at a 100:1 ratio. So in 1960 terms, that would be about 24.241 billion francs.”
I once recorded every cent I received so I could repay Theo someday.
Theo sent me 17,000 francs over 10 years.
Though I lived modestly in a tiny room, I never lacked for canvas or paint.
I could even afford models from time to time.
But Portrait of Dr. Gachet sold for 24.241 billion francs?
After the 1871 Franco-Prussian War, France paid only 5 billion francs in war reparations.³
Unbelievable.
“But you know, that calculation has some flaws.”
“Right?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t take inflation into account.”
I didn’t understand.
“When prices rise, the value of money drops.”
Still confused, I frowned, and Grandpa burst out laughing.
“Yeah, this is all a bit much for you right now. Just remember this, Hoon—information on the internet isn’t always accurate. You have to check multiple sources when studying. For now, that’s enough.”
I was still dazed.
“What?”
“I just… don’t really get how much money that is.”
“Haha, of course not. That’s why you asked for the value in francs.”
At least francs are a unit I understand, but the problem is the sheer number.
“To make it simple, your favorite potato pizza is 28,000 won, so you could buy about 1,869,200 of them with the value of Dr. Gachet’s Portrait. Although to be accurate, we should’ve used pizza prices from 1999 when the painting was sold.”
He’s a professor, so he’s meticulous about small details.
But still—my painting.
To think you could buy nearly 1.9 million potato pizzas with it—the very symbol of modern luxury and abundance.
It’s hard to believe, but Grandpa’s expression says he isn’t lying.
“…Why?”
I just couldn’t understand.
“Haha, you’re so curious. That’s good. Curiosity is normal at your age. Let’s keep learning together. For now, let’s head down and finish our meal.”
I had wanted this.
I felt sorry for the boy who died, and guilty toward Grandpa.
But since the boy is already gone—
If there’s no way to give it back to him, then I decided I had no choice but to accept this new life, and use this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to draw again.
But this world is full of incomprehensible things.
* * *
Aside from my native tongue—
I had mastered French, German, Latin, and English. Yet Korean remains stubbornly uncooperative.
Aside from Latin, it’s perhaps the hardest language in the world to learn.
The cute letters and simple vowel-consonant combinations were deceptive.
Still, if I want to go to the museum, I have to get over 80 on this dictation test—so I have no choice but to succeed.
“Our Hoon, studying hard?”
Grandpa’s voice startled me—I looked up and it was already time.
“All right, I’ll give you ten dictation problems. Write them down carefully.”
“Just a moment. A little more time…”
“Nope.”
So strict. Well, he is a university professor.
Since it was a promise, I had no choice but to get into position.
“First question. Go Hoon.”
The child’s name. Now also my name.
“Second. Go Soo-yeol.”
That’s Grandpa’s name.
“Third. Go Hae-seong, Lee Soo-jin.”
“Why two?”
“Don’t be silly. How can you list mother and father separately?”
I couldn’t argue—it was true, but it felt unfair.
Still… where are this child’s parents?
Grandpa avoids the topic, so I haven’t asked. But I can’t help wondering.
Maybe there’s a reason he can’t tell the boy.
“Fourth. Our address is 45 Itaewon-ro, Yongsan-gu, Seoul.”
That’s too long.
“Fifth. I’m ten years old.”
I thought he was younger. First time I realized he was ten.
“Sixth. I love Grandpa the most in the world.”
When I looked up, Grandpa averted his eyes and cleared his throat.
“What? Not writing?”
“……”
All for the museum.
“Seventh. I love you, Grandpa.”
“What are you doing?!”
“What do you mean? I’m giving you dictation questions! Write it down!”
Who knew it would be so hard to please a doting Grandpa?
But it’s my fault—I wanted to know what kinds of art modern artists create.
Fine.
If that’s the goal, then this hardship is nothing.
“Good job, good job,” Grandpa said, stamping the paper.
The humiliation.
“Now, let’s get ready to go.”
He smiled, looking over my answers, and I sighed without realizing.
¹ The name “Vincent” was commonly used. Van Gogh’s stillborn older brother and grandfather also shared the name. Theo named his own son after his brother. The name “Vincent” comes from the Latin Vincentius, meaning “conqueror.”
² Café Terrace at Night, Vincent van Gogh, oil on canvas, 1888.
³ In 1871, France under Napoleon III paid Germany 5 billion francs in war reparations—about 25% of the nation’s GDP.
