Chapter 12
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: The Way to Express Love
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Morgenstern Gallery was no longer a quiet little art space.
If I had to compare it to something, this place was a liberated zone. Students who'd stormed out of the academy, nameless painters with nowhere else to go, and enthusiasts addicted to the raw shock of my paintings—they all tangled together, turning the gallery into a daily madhouse.
Cigarette butts rolled across the floor, and the air reeked of cheap beer and sweat. At first, Morgenstern pulled a long face, moaning, "My refined gallery has turned into a pigsty!" But every time he checked the sales ledger, his expression shifted to one of delight, like he was pulling golden eggs from that very pigsty.
I leaned against the railing of the attic room on the second floor, gazing down at the chaos.
Noisy as hell.
Some shouted "The death of art!" while others babbled about "The dawn of a new era." The crash of breaking glasses, bursts of laughter, fierce debates.
This was Vienna's true sound. The raw noise hidden behind elegant waltzes.
"Teacher, doesn't it hurt your ears?"
Franz had come back from school and tossed his bag aside as he asked. His school shirt was stained with ink.
"It does. That's why I'm painting it."
I turned back to the easel.
<Vienna Rhapsody>.
This canvas was wide and horizontal. I was visualizing sound.
Turning music into images. That was the realm of abstraction Kandinsky would explore later, but I planned to blend figuration with abstraction.
The city's noise was color.
The scrape of carriage wheels on cobblestones: a dull gray. Merchants' hawking cries: a piercing yellow. Distant church bells: a heavy purple. And the uproar of youth boiling downstairs... a chaotic swirl of red and black.
I picked up a broad flat brush instead of a palette knife. I loaded it with paint and slashed roughly across the canvas. The lines collided, overlapped, smeared into each other.
No order whatsoever. Vienna itself was one massive dissonance.
"What is this? Looks like worms fighting."
Franz tilted his head.
"Not worms—notes. If you tore up a sheet of music and scattered it on the floor, it'd look like this."
"These notes look really angry, though."
"They are. Vienna's an angry city. Everyone's repressed. Trapped in the corset of etiquette, the shabby overcoat of empire, dying to scream but unable to."
I slammed the brush onto the canvas like a drumstick. Thud, thud. Paint splattered everywhere.
This wasn't painting—it felt like playing percussion.
Then, like a lie, the noise from downstairs cut off abruptly. Silence fell in an instant, as if someone had yanked the power cord.
What the hell? Cops?
I set down the brush and approached the railing. Franz, curious, stuck right beside me.
The crowd near the entrance on the first floor parted like the Red Sea. The rowdy students had gone quiet, all staring at one spot. Awe and tension filled their eyes.
And at the end of those gazes stood a man.
A middle-aged fellow in a long caftan embroidered with ornate gold leaf, sporting a bushy beard.
The moment he stepped in, the gallery's air changed. The stench of sweat and beer vanished, replaced by a strange perfume and the scent of aged metal.
An overwhelming presence.
No need to ask who. In 1908 Vienna, only one painter could exude that aura.
Gustav Klimt.
Leader of the Vienna Secession, the painter of gold. The true emperor ruling this city's art world.
He looked up, his gaze meeting mine on the second-floor railing.
Our eyes locked.
His eyes were deep and serene. A piercing stare that saw right through me. No hostility, but no warmth either—just the indifference of a vast mountain gazing down at a pebble.
"Come down here, young friend."
His voice was soft, yet carried an irresistible force.
I swallowed hard. This was leagues beyond Egon Schiele or the academy professors. This was the real deal. A giant from the history books had walked right into my world.
"Franz, stay here."
I descended the stairs. With every step, my heart pounded. Stay calm, Adolf Hitler. You're a madman. Madmen don't get scared.
Down on the first floor, Klimt waited. Egon Schiele stood rigidly tense beside him—Schiele idolized Klimt like a father.
"You're that 'Hitler,' then?"
Klimt asked.
"Yes. And you're that 'Klimt.'"
Gasps rippled around us. How dare anyone talk back to Klimt like that? But Klimt just chuckled heartily.
"What an amusing fellow. Now I see why Schiele's been raving about you nonstop."
He pointed his cane at my paintings in the display window. <Empire's Stomach>, <Slaughterhouse of Souls>.
"I've seen them. Your works."
"What did you think? I didn't use much gold."
"Color doesn't matter. Energy does."
Klimt stepped up to <Slaughterhouse of Souls>, peering intently at the headless mannequins.
"Cold. And sharp. Like a freshly sharpened razor blade. I get why Professor Berger freaked out. It cuts if you touch it."
Was that praise? Or mockery?
"But..."
Klimt turned to look at me.
"There's no love."
"Love?"
"Yes. Your paintings are full of hatred, rage, mockery. I feel the desire to smash the world... but not what you want to fill the ruins with."
He hit the nail on the head.
I'd focused only on destruction. Smashing the system, hypocrisy, authority. But what lay beyond? Even I didn't know.
"Destruction is an art form too. You've got to cut out the rot."
I countered, and Klimt smiled.
"And after you cut? Leave it bleeding? Stitching wounds and growing new flesh—that's the artist's job too."
He placed a hand on my shoulder. Warm, yet weighty.
"Let me make you a proposal."
"A proposal?"
"Next month, the Kunstschau opens. Our Secession's massive exhibition. I'd like to invite you."
Kunstschau 1908.
A monumental event in art history. The exhibition where Klimt's masterpiece <The Kiss> debuted for the first time. And he was inviting me to that historic stage?
The students around us buzzed. This was glory beyond any academy acceptance— a ticket to the heart of Vienna's art scene.
"Any conditions?"
I asked suspiciously. No such thing as a free lunch.
"One condition. Paint 'love.'"
"Love?"
"Romantic love, humanity's love, self-pity—doesn't matter. Not those slashed-up pieces with your sharp blade. Paint something that embraces someone. If you can, I'll acknowledge you."
Klimt's eyes were dead serious.
"Hatred's easy, Hitler. Anyone can get angry. But love... that takes courage. I want to see if you have it."
He turned without waiting for a reply, his entourage closing in.
"I'll be expecting great things."
With those words, Klimt vanished like the wind, leaving only a golden afterimage.
The gallery erupted back into chaos. Schiele rushed over, grabbing and shaking my shoulders.
"Hey! Kunstschau! This is insane! I barely snagged one spot, and he personally invites you!"
"Love... What, he wants me to paint a romance novel cover?"
I laughed hollowly.
Love.
The most commonplace theme, yet the hardest. Especially for a soul wearing this Adolf Hitler shell.
Had I ever loved in my past life? Crushes, flings—sure. But nothing worth throwing everything away for. And the original owner of this body... no need to even mention.
"Teacher, what's love?"
Franz, who'd come down from upstairs, asked.
"Beats me. Something you eat, I guess."
"Liar. You must like someone."
Someone I like.
Faces flashed in my mind: Morgenstern who believed in me, the immature Franz who followed me, the students who raved over my art.
Was that love? No, more like solidarity or responsibility.
Klimt's love was something more primal, hotter. Like his <The Kiss>—an immersion where even if the world crumbled, they wouldn't let go.
I climbed back to the second floor.
<Vienna Rhapsody> awaited.
The canvas brimmed with chaos and noise. Angry notes.
Klimt's words echoed: "Stitching wounds and growing new flesh."
I gripped the brush and glared at the canvas.
Was there love amid this noise?
Vienna's streets were loud. But listen closely, and amid the din, voices called out to someone. A mother calling her child, lovers whispering, a drunk laborer singing for his family.
Even in dissonance, harmony existed. Just buried under the noise.
I squeezed rose onto the palette. Not blood-red this time—warm, soft pink.
Then, in the canvas's center, amid the noisiest, most chaotic swirl of colors, I touched the brush down.
I shaped forms.
Two people.
Two entwined figures. But not Klimt's elegant, beautiful embrace.
A desperate clutch in the mud, thrashing to not let go.
Love so urgent that with the noise drowning out voices, they had to wrap their whole bodies tight just to feel each other's warmth.
It could be lovers, siblings, even enemies.
"Yes. This is my kind of love."
It didn't have to be beautiful. Desperate—that made it love.
I painted like a maniac. Amid the noisy colors, the two figures gradually emerged. Sharp lines around them stabbed like spears, but they endured, shielding each other.
"Franz."
"Yeah?"
"When you grow up and date, remember this: Love isn't in a flower garden. It's on the battlefield."
"What're you saying? I'm doing it in a flower garden."
"Wake up. Life is the battlefield."
I added a layer to the corner of the canvas.
The subtitle for <Vienna Rhapsody>.
Lovers Amid the Noise.
As the painting neared completion, a sharp pang hit my chest. This was a warmth I'd never had, but desperately craved.
Old man Klimt, is this what you wanted?
Probably not your golden love. Mine's caked in mud and scars. But that's why it'll stick harder.
I pulled all-nighters for days. One month until the exhibition. I'd pour every ounce of energy into this one piece.
It wasn't just a painting. It was my reply to Klimt, my confession hurled at this cold city.
"Morgenstern! Get a frame ready! Not gold this time—I need one made of rusted iron!"
I shouted downstairs.
"Another weird request! Fine, I'll scour the junkyards if I have to!"
Morgenstern grumbled back.
Through the window, Vienna's nightscape glowed. Gas lamps flickered. Beneath those lights, tens of thousands of loves and farewells played out.
I set down the brush and stood by the window.
Kunstschau.
There, I'd prove it. Not as a destroyer, but as Adolf Hitler the creator.
And maybe... just maybe... this painting could save me too. A vague hope flickered.
The monster inside me seemed, for a fleeting moment, tamed.