Chapter 7
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 7
Chapter Title: Visual Violence
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The attic room reeked of paint, like some kind of gas chamber. A bit dramatic, maybe. But after days of breathing in turpentine and linseed oil in this stuffy, unventilated space, my brain felt like it was floating away.
My fingertips were stained black. The paint under my nails wouldn't come off no matter how hard I scrubbed. Badge of honor or mark of shame, I couldn't tell, but in the mirror, I looked like a total wreck. Hollow-eyed, beard unkempt.
The world inside the canvas was coming into sharper focus.
The final touch.
I debated whether to dot some white into the monster's eye hidden beneath the tablecloth in the shadows. I picked up the brush and set it down dozens of times. In the end, I decided against it. No eyes made it more terrifying. It had to force the viewer to project their own fear into that empty socket.
"It's done..."
I dropped the brush like it was trash. It clattered loudly on the floor.
Franz, who had been dozing off behind me, jolted awake.
"Whoa! Fire?!"
"No. You'd have to light it yourself. I'm freezing to death."
I collapsed into the chair. Every muscle in my body screamed. Filling a massive 100-ho canvas with Hitler's pathetic stamina was pure torture. I wanted to crash and sleep right then, but I couldn't tear my eyes away.
Empire's Stomach.
The finished painting unsettled even me. The food up top was obscenely luscious and greasy, cloyingly rich. The brawl below was so visceral it turned the stomach. Especially that borderline. The wine stain trickling down the tablecloth, dripping right into the monster's mouth below.
That was the heart of the painting.
"Teacher, you done?"
Franz rubbed his eyes and shuffled over to stand before it. He was silent for a long time. Normally, he'd be whining about how gross it was or how hungry he was.
"What do you think?"
He shivered at my question.
"Scary. Like it'll haunt my dreams."
"Then it's a success."
"But... that meat up top. Looks so damn tasty. Makes me even madder."
The kid always nailed the essence. To a starving man, that succulent meat wasn't hope—it was torment. That's exactly what I wanted them to feel: deprivation.
Just then, murmurs rose from downstairs. The sharp click of heels climbed the stairs.
"Hitler? You up there?"
It was Morgenstern. But he wasn't alone. An unfamiliar voice mingled with his.
"What great masterpiece could be hiding in this dingy attic to drag us all the way up here?"
Arrogance dripped from every word. I instinctively straightened up. First audience member had arrived.
The door opened, and Morgenstern entered. Behind him came an elderly gentleman in a bowler hat and pince-nez. Tailored suit, silver cane, stern lips. His face screamed "staunch conservative."
"Allow me to introduce Alfred von Berger, chief editor of Vienna Art Review and professor."
Berger? The name rang a vague bell. Must be a big shot in Vienna's critics' circle.
Professor Berger covered his nose with a handkerchief and scanned the room.
"Stale air. No wonder no real art comes out of a place like this..."
His gaze drifted to the easel. And froze.
That must be what speechlessness looks like. His eyes raced up and down the canvas. Brows furrowed, eyes widened, then a twitch at his lips.
The silence stretched. Morgenstern swallowed dryly, tense.
I crossed my arms and savored the reaction. Would he curse? Or puke?
"...... Vulgar."
Finally, the first words.
"Crude. Repulsive. Is this a painting? It's a slaughterhouse scene."
Berger jabbed his cane at the bottom, trembling.
"If this is art, then sewer rats are artists too. Did you even learn basics at the academy? Don't you know art's essence is the pursuit of beauty?"
Classic boomer rant. Right on script, not a millimeter off.
I rose slowly. My knees creaked, but I held a haughty posture.
"Professor. What is 'beauty'?"
He snorted.
"Harmony, balance, the sublime that elevates the soul. Not this fecal trash."
"Elevates the soul... Let's rephrase. Is the table up top beautiful?"
He flinched, glancing up. He couldn't deny it. I'd poured sweat into that meat's gloss and the fruits' hues.
"Technically... not bad. But that's what makes it worse! Wasting such skill on this ugliness."
"Not a waste. It's real."
I stepped to the canvas.
"Professor, what did you eat tonight? Probably something like what's in the painting. Where do the scraps go? Down the sewer. Know who eats them?"
I pointed at Franz.
"Kids like him. Your bread crumbs, meat bones. Tens of thousands scrape by on that in Vienna's gutters. That's reality. That's truth."
"You insolent...!"
Berger's face flushed red.
"Art doesn't show reality's filth! It makes you forget the pain!"
"Like anesthesia? Sorry, I'm no doctor. I prescribe stimulants instead."
I took a brush and signed the corner.
[A. Hitler, 1908]
The red paint bled like a bloodstain.
"This painting should unsettle you. Twist your gut. If it goes down easy, your stomach's steel or your conscience is gone."
"You... want blacklisting? One line from me, and a newbie like you never picks up a brush again!"
Threats. Scary. But what could I lose? Nothing.
"Do your worst. Bad reviews are still reviews. Long as it's not an obituary, seeing my name in print is always welcome."
Berger huffed and turned.
"Morgenstern! You're mad. Hanging a lunatic's work? The gallery association will expel you!"
Bam!
The door slammed. Heels faded.
Silence fell.
Morgenstern wiped sweat from his brow and sighed.
"Whew... Hitler. You're a natural at making enemies. Berger's the emperor of this scene."
"Emperor my ass. Just a scared old man."
I said flatly.
"You saw it. Couldn't look away. Cursed while staring. That's what matters."
"True... It grabs the eye. But expulsion from the association? Headache."
"Don't worry. The more he rags, the more curious people get. 'How horrific to make a proper professor foam at the mouth?'"
Noise marketing 101. Give 'em controversy, and the masses flock to chew it over.
"So... we hang it?"
"Yeah. Prime showroom spot. No price tag."
"No price? As in not for sale?"
"No. Just 'inquire for price.' Let them name it."
That night, we hauled it downstairs. The 100-ho beast was heavy. Dizziness hit midway—malnutrition plus overwork.
We hung it in the window, shone lights on it.
In the street's night gloom, it gleamed. That grotesque table would snag every passerby's gaze through the glass.
"Beautiful."
Franz pressed his nose to the window from outside, mumbling.
"Thought it was gross."
"It is... but I can't stop looking. Those rats seem to grin at me."
He was right. The rats were grinning. Waiting for scraps from above, dreaming of climbing onto the table someday.
We hit a nearby tavern for late supper. Meat soup, dark beer. Cheap fare Berger wouldn't touch, but better than any Michelin star to me.
Beer loosened me up.
"Teacher, you famous now?"
"Maybe. Infamy counts as fame."
"Rich then? Buy a house?"
"House? More paint."
I fiddled with my mug.
Paper tomorrow? Or buried? Berger wouldn't let it slide. He'd savor every bite.
Good.
I'm Hitler. Agitation, fabrication, crowd control—my specialty. Stirring the masses with paint? Fun experiment.
Next morning.
Noise outside the gallery woke me.
"What... war?"
Scratching my tousled head, I peered out.
"Heh."
I chuckled.
Crowd swarmed the gallery. Passersby, newspaper-toting gents, basket ladies. All halted at the window, pointing.
"That's a painting? God, horrific!"
"But look at the detail. Like a photo."
"No, it's an insult to society!"
"That 'trash' from the review?"
Berger worked fast. Wrote it overnight, huh.
I shook Franz awake.
"Up, kid. Audience is here."
Threw on clothes, headed down. Morgenstern was there, beaming. Worried yesterday, pivoted at the crowd.
"Hitler! Hit! Inquiries pouring in since dawn."
"Complaints?"
"Split. 'Take it down' protests, 'how much?' asks."
Door opened. Group of youths entered. Messy hair, worn coats, fierce eyes. Art students or starving artists, obvious.
A gaunt leader stared me down. Twitchy vibe, prominent cheekbones.
Wait.
That face. Self-portrait from a book.
Egon Schiele.
Austria's expressionist genius. Doomed to die at 28.
He strode up.
"You Adolf Hitler?"
"Yeah?"
He gripped my hand. Iron vise.
"Insane painting. Old Berger's foaming. Sexy as hell."
Sexy. Unique phrasing.
"Those rat pups especially. Torn mouths nailed it. Like me. You get the aesthetic of decay."
Schiele introduced his crew. Kokoschka, Gerstl... Vienna's bad boys, all there.
"Join our group. 'New Artists.' Klimt's Secession's gone stale. Too ornate. We want raw. Need a madman like you."
Historic. Hitler scouted by Schiele.
In real history, Hitler would've envied them. Academy reject vs. geniuses. But now?
I'm the madder one.
"Intriguing. But groups aren't my thing. Dictator type."
They laughed.
"Fun guy. Fine. Booze? Plenty to chew over with your painting as snack."
Gallery buzzed with young artists' heat. Morgenstern popped champagne, thrilled.
I raised a flute, eyed the window. Crowd still murmured at the painting. Loathing and curiosity mixed in their stares.
This.
The reaction I wanted.
No need for "well-painted" pats. Burn into their brains, haunt meals and dreams. That's the goal.
"Cheers!"
Schiele raised his glass.
"To Vienna's rotten guts!"
"To its guts!"
Clink. Crystal chimed through the gallery.
Booze fired my blood. Next painting ideas exploded like fireworks.
Bigger punch.
Make Berger clutch his neck.
I pulled a pencil, sketched on a napkin. Schiele peeked, whistled.
"Blasphemy?"
"Art has no sacred cows."
Cross. But not Jesus—clown in pierrot makeup. Below, masked priests prayed.
Title: Show of the Unsaved.
Still 1908. Blasphemy risky. But risk makes it sweet.
"Franz, paint left?"
"Not much. Red's gone."
"Shop time. Need lots of black."
Vienna's winter still bit, but my attic? Only heat ahead.