Chapter 6
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: The Aesthetics of Indigestion
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The attic on the gallery's second floor was wider than I'd expected, but at the same time far dirtier. It carried that musty smell unique to a space untouched by human hands for ages. Every step across the dust-caked floorboards kicked up puffs of pale gray clouds.
"Cough! Cough! Teacher, you sure this is a place for people? Feels like rats are gonna come crawling out."
Franz waved his hand in front of his face, complaining.
"If rats show up, that's great. No modeling fee needed."
I flung the windows wide open. Ventilation was essential. Outside stretched the panorama of Vienna. Sure, it was a rooftop view mostly of chimneys and roofs, but compared to cohabiting with mold in a basement flat, this was practically a penthouse.
We got to work on a thorough cleaning. Franz grumbled but mopped with surprising vigor. I unpacked my gear and set up my workspace.
First, I assembled the easel. A hefty oak one. Running my hand over it, I felt the grain of the wood. In my past life, I'd mostly used aluminum or plastic easels, but there was something different about the antique charm. I placed a No. 100 canvas on top.
A blank white canvas.
Staring into that pristine void stirred two emotions at once: the urge to conquer it and fill it with my world, and a vague terror of what if I ruined it.
Right now, though, I had no time for fear. My head was bursting with images already.
"Franz, half-ass the cleaning and head downstairs for some water. Grab food too. Plenty of sausages and bread."
"Gimme money."
He held out his hand like it was the most natural thing. I pulled a few bills from the envelope Morgenstern had given me and handed them over. The kid bounded down the stairs, full of energy.
Alone in the studio now. It was quiet.
I lined up the paint tubes on the table. Winsor & Newton. Popping a cap revealed a sharp oil scent assaulting my nose. Linseed oil and turpentine. To most folks, it'd smell like harsh chemicals, but to us painters, this was aromatherapy. It calmed the heart while heating the blood.
I squeezed paint onto the palette. White, yellow ochre, burnt sienna, crimson lake, ultramarine...
The neat rows of unmixed colors gleamed like jewels.
I picked up a brush. With money to spare, I'd splurged on top-grade sable hair. The spring in the tip transmitted right to my fingers.
"Alright, let's get started."
No sketch. I touched the brush straight to the canvas. The original Hitler would've meticulously drawn underdrawings, measured with rulers, composed precisely. Not me. I had the perfect blueprint in my head already.
The theme: Empire's Stomach.
I didn't split the canvas evenly top to bottom but in a 7:3 ratio. The top seven parts: a lavish table.
I mixed yellow ochre and white on a broad brush and laid it down. The tablecloth's base color. My strokes were bold. The swishing sounds filled the empty attic.
This wasn't just any scrap of cloth. It had to symbolize the empire's authority—silk. I softened my brushwork to capture silk's sheen, boldly dabbing white for the light reflections.
Atop it, the food.
Greasy roast goose, red wine, plump fruits.
The key here was 'texture.' Crispy skin, juicy meat that made viewers salivate. That way, the disgust later would hit twice as hard.
I focused on mixing colors. Added a hint of green to the red to tone it down. Garish brights were tacky. I needed deep, heavy wine—close to blood.
How much time passed? Around when my shoulders started aching, Franz returned.
"Teacher, what's for dinner in the painting this time?"
He approached, munching a sausage from the bag.
"Yeah. A very expensive dinner."
"But why no people's heads?"
He was right. I hadn't painted faces at the table. Their necks were cropped off-canvas.
I planned to show only their hands and mouths. Hands greedily grabbing food, mouths chewing and swallowing.
"Faces don't matter. No need to know who they are. Just that they're stuffing their faces—that's the point."
"Talk nicer. You're an artist."
"Artists curse better, kid. Comes naturally every time you gotta clean brushes."
I kept painting, sandwich in one hand. Hunger made the food depictions feel even more real.
Now the highlight. Under the table.
The canvas's bottom three parts. Dark, dingy space. I laid in shadow with burnt umber and black.
A humid, sticky darkness contrasting the brilliant light above.
Something had to writhe in that dark.
I switched to a thin brush. Sable liner. Not a rat horde. Things that looked rat-like but resolved into grotesque human forms up close.
Skeletal limbs climbing table legs. Scrambling over each other for dropped crumbs and meat scraps.
This was me, Franz, all the lives in Vienna's back alleys.
Painting it made my stomach churn. Even I found it repulsive. Golden utopia above, sewer dystopia below. Linked by a single tablecloth.
The top drops scraps to sustain the bottom; the bottom props the table to keep the top from collapsing.
This shitty symbiotic bond.
"Ugh... Teacher, this is creepy."
Franz grimaced and backed away.
"Those crawling things... they're people?"
"You think so?"
"Yeah. But no eyes. Just mouths."
"Good eye. Top or bottom, they see only what they want and crave only food."
I didn't give the monsters eyes. Instead, mouths huge, ripped wide open.
As the painting progressed, a strange pleasure built. Catharsis, really. Pouring my rage, grievances, twisted desires onto the canvas.
In my past life, I was always forced to paint 'pretty pictures.' Admissions exams demanded pretty plaster busts; college, professors' tastes in tame styles.
Not anymore. My rules now.
Colors grew bolder. I depicted wine stains at the tablecloth's edge. Dipped the brush heavy in red, flicked droplets across the canvas.
Like splattered blood.
"Teacher, that's wine, right? Not blood?"
"Who knows. Wine to those drinking, maybe blood to those spilling."
That's when creaking footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs.
"Hitler? How's the work coming?"
It was Morgenstern. He ascended in a crisp suit, handkerchief over his nose. Dust smell didn't suit him.
I didn't stop brushing.
"Welcome. Just hitting the highlight."
Morgenstern approached the easel, face alight with expectation. Probably craving intensity like yesterday's Eye of Blood.
His expression froze solid the instant he saw it.
"What... is this?"
His voice trembled.
The top was beautiful. Ornate as Klimt. But as eyes dropped below, hell unfolded.
Human-rat hybrids gnawing table legs. Emaciated hands throttling for fallen meat. Red stains spreading across the cloth.
Beauty and ugliness clashed violently in one frame.
"Dinner time. For the empire."
I replied calmly, rinsing my brush.
"Isn't it... too extreme? Would collectors hang this at home? Kills the appetite."
He looked flustered. A commercial dealer wanting sellable art. This seemed too far.
"Morgenstern. People hate appetite-killers but love peeking at others' misery. Voyeurism."
I grabbed the palette knife. Scraped the boundary where tablecloth met dark. Paint smeared, blurring the line.
"This wasn't meant for home walls anyway. Put it in the gallery window. Make passersby stop, curse, gag."
"Noise marketing?"
"Hated art survives; ignored art dies. Why'd Egon Schiele blow up? Disgust."
I met his gaze head-on.
"This'll disgust more. It's their true faces."
Morgenstern fell silent. He glanced between painting and me. Mental abacus clicking: profit or image ruin?
Moments later, his lips curved up.
"You really have a merchant's instinct."
"Painters are merchants too. Selling emotions."
"Fine. Keep going. But make the top food even more appetizing. Heightens the bottom's misery."
Sharp guy, as expected.
After he left, I gripped the brush again. Sun was setting. Crimson dusk poured through the attic window.
It blended with the painting's wine stains.
My body felt heavy as a waterlogged sponge. This frame's stamina was abysmal. Hands trembled. Needed sugar.
"Franz, any chocolate left?"
"Ate it all earlier."
"You pig."
I sprawled starfish on the floor. Ceiling beams spun lazily.
The painting was maybe 30% done. Skeleton in place, though. I imagined it finished in the gallery window.
What faces would Vienna's hypocritical nobles make? Horror? Rage? Secret thrill?
Didn't matter.
I'd twist their facades. Give them indigestion, sleepless nights.
"Teacher, what's the title?"
Franz squatted beside me.
"Empire's Stomach."
"Stomach? Like in the belly?"
"Yeah. The eating stomach... and the camouflaging one."
"Complicated. Why not The Rats' Dinner?"
"Not bad."
I closed my eyes. Paint smell lulled like a lullaby.
The original Hitler sought world conquest with guns and tanks.
I'd conquer the world. With brush, paint, and a dash of malice.
Tomorrow, eyes for the rats? Nah, better without. Eyes bring guilt. Guiltless devouring makes true monsters.
Sleep crashed over me. Sweet fatigue, like dreaming of brushstrokes.