It was unmistakably Gauguin’s unique style.
A writer leaves his own handwriting in his work; an artist’s style stays behind like a fingerprint.
The sea, palm trees and an exotic girl filled the canvas.
It had everything Gauguin produced in Tahiti in 1890: the distinctive design sense, the bold flatness, the simple yet meaningful forms, the intense color.
The pure beauty of a Tahitian woman came through like a fantasy.
It carried the spiritual, erotic longing only Gauguin could create.
The shock Son Yu-ri had felt at a Gauguin special exhibition came crashing over her all over again.
The master’s style that every student of Western painting dreams of capturing.
Gauguin had said he looked at nature but always found his inspiration within, and that spirit showed through the whole work.
She lost track of time, completely absorbed in the painting.
Anyone could see it was a Gauguin.
Not even a genius copyist could paint like this.
An artist’s unique style, paint, brushwork and inner world can’t be imitated.
That’s why the great painters’ works are famous.
They’re masterpieces precisely because no one can copy them.
It had to be an unpublished work.
Any professional painter would know at a glance.
“Do you like the painting?”
Jang Tae-san had come up beside her.
“What? Yes!”
Son Yu-ri answered with a start.
“If you like it, take it.”
“What! Th-this?”
She was a step away from losing her mind.
He was telling her to just take a Gauguin masterpiece!
Sold, it would bring in money beyond imagining.
“There are a few more on the canvases.”
He pointed to the canvases.
As if under a spell, she pulled out the canvases and looked them over.
The canvases, tossed there so carelessly they’d looked like discards.
Every one of them had a painting on it.
“Whoa!”
A cry burst out of her.
Her eyes went so wide they looked ready to pop.
She saw another van Gogh, not the one she’d seen at school.
This was definitely a van Gogh too.
There were several more Gauguins too.
Each in a style only its master could have painted.
And then…
“Paul… Cézanne!”
A still life with a basket!
And one she’d never seen before.
Not only that, there were other versions of the apples and oranges that showed Cézanne’s signature traits perfectly.
What on earth is this!
Endless awe, then astonishment, and finally fear rushed over her.
It was clear these weren’t works by Gauguin, van Gogh and Cézanne.
And yet, at the same time, these paintings were works by Gauguin, van Gogh and Cézanne.
Did Tae-san paint all of these?
She looked at Jang Tae-san. He didn’t seem to care much.
She had the illusion that an aura was flowing around his body.
Jang Tae-san looked different.
No—calling these works copies would be an insult to the great painters’ styles they held.
A genius… Tae-san is a genius sent from heaven!
Son Yu-ri conceded it.
There was no other way to explain this.
A boundless respect welled up in her.
Not even the professors could paint pictures like these.
Only Jang Tae-san, of anyone in the world, could.
A painter who couldn’t exist in the human world, who could reproduce the styles of the leading Post-Impressionists exactly.
Jang Tae-san had stolen her heart completely.
For someone walking the path of a painter, there was no one more wonderful than someone who painted well.
“By the way, how was the piano you just heard?”
Out of nowhere, he asked about the piano.
“It was perfect. Even if Rachmaninoff came back to life, I don’t think he could play that precisely and clearly. And that clear, refreshing tone especially… I’ve never heard anything like it.”
She’d grown up in Korea’s upper class, and her verdict was accurate.
She’d often gone with her mother to hear world-class performers on their Korean tours.
His playing didn’t just hold its own against theirs—it was better.
“That’s a relief.”
“Are you preparing for a competition?”
It was the obvious question.
Letting talent like this go to waste would be a huge loss for the classical world.
“No.”
Jang Tae-san shook his head.
“Then what?”
“It’s for signing up for a piano class at the music school this afternoon.”
“P-piano? Don’t tell me… you mean the junior-year major?”
Son Yu-ri’s voice shook.
The arts colleges were right next to each other, so she roughly knew how the junior-year music classes worked.
She had a few friends there, too.
Junior-year classes that were all about performance.
The music professors, too, routinely banished students to hell without mercy once junior-year studio instruction began.
“Why is it so complicated to get into electives at Hanguk University? I was a little late, so I couldn’t sign up for anything. So I signed up for some easy classes.”
That man, laughing as he said it like it was nothing.
“Ah…”
She couldn’t bring herself to say you’re crazy.
A man who’d signed up for other departments’ major courses as electives—not theory classes, but art and music, where it was all about performance.
That man… was out of his mind.
Completely!
“Is it about time I left here too?”
Yaul Reichert, associate professor at Hanguk University’s music school, smacked his lips as he looked out at the campus welcoming spring.
He was a skilled pianist who’d won several international competitions.
He was known as a deep, intellectual interpreter, but lately he’d fallen into a rut.
He was losing interest in teaching.
He’d made his name with countless solo recitals and appearances with orchestras.
On the strength of that name, he’d taken a professorship at Korea’s top university.
The pay and perks weren’t bad.
He’d also taught students in America, Japan, South Africa and Israel.
In America in particular, he’d been an associate professor at a state university.
But when the time came, his wanderlust always kicked in.
His blood wouldn’t allow him to settle in one place.
Once he lost interest, he left without a second thought.
He’d married music, so he had no wife or children.
Attractive women always circled a world-class pianist.
Being tall and handsome didn’t hurt, either.
His love life in Korea had been busy too.
But after four years here, he wanted to move on.
As it happened, the University of Munich had gotten in touch.
They were inviting him to be an associate professor.
After all his wandering, he missed home.
Before he knew it, he was well past his mid-forties.
“Still, I should finish out this semester’s classes.”
The romance of spring on campus was some small comfort.
He didn’t have many regrets about his students.
Most of them came from Hanguk Arts High School, supposedly the best in Korea.
They’d played the piano like machines, for no reason but to get into college.
They didn’t even dream of competitions.
They were students after a good diploma and prestige.
Teaching them had grown less and less satisfying.
An instrument is a vessel for the soul.
They’d lost that root; their playing was accurate but monotonous.
It wasn’t sweet spring water from deep in the mountains; it was perfectly filtered water from the latest purifier.
They didn’t understand that even with a wrong note, the emotion has to breathe and live.
He’d taught for several years, but they hadn’t grown.
Their standardized hearts had already hardened like fossils.
♪ Di-ding ting-ting ti-ding~ Ti-di ti-di-ding~ ♪
Just then, as Reichert headed to the studio, a familiar melody pierced his ears.
He knew it instantly.
It was the piano sonata he’d played with the Tacoma Symphony not long ago.
The great pianist and composer Reichert loved most.
“Rachmaninoff?”
Surprise spread across Reichert’s face.
Rachmaninoff’s piano calls for a style of playing with an especially refined emotional line.
The winter-like coldness of Chopin couldn’t express it.
Mozart’s romantic, lavish scales didn’t suit it either.
Nor did the intense emotion Beethoven wove from madness and power.
Only someone who could express something beautiful but sad, cold but warm, gentle yet full of fierce life could draw out Rachmaninoff’s piano melodies.
And right now, Reichert was in shock.
He hurried to the studio assigned for his class and stopped in front of it.
The four students Reichert would teach this semester, out of twenty piano majors, stood there in a daze.
Through the open studio door he could see a man with broad shoulders.
Every time he struck the keys, the man’s body and muscles danced.
A technique as smooth as flowing water.
Anyone without a tin ear could tell something extraordinary was being played.
Reichert held his breath.
The piano sonata was already racing into its third movement.
The power and technique were tremendous.
Listening with his eyes closed, Reichert felt a thrill at the melody piercing his heart.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything like it.
A precise touch and a beautiful melody in perfect harmony.
A smile bloomed on Reichert’s lips.
The students watching opened their ears and focused on the sound, too.
The feast of a sonata unfolding on the old, worn studio piano was music in itself.
♪ Tiiing~ ♪
And the long journey came to an end.
Clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap!
Professor Reichert and the undergraduates all applauded as hard as they could.
The emotional interpretation surpassed even the recordings Rachmaninoff himself had left behind.
Beyond interpretation, every single note resonated in their hearts.
It wouldn’t be erased from memory.
Even Reichert, professor and pianist, couldn’t have pulled it off.
A great performance that surpassed the composer himself.
Reichert and the undergraduates went into the studio to see the virtuoso.
It had to be an outside performer the school had invited, or at the very least a grad student back from studying abroad.
At the change of semester, people like that sometimes came back to their alma mater to reminisce.
They walked in, their eyes full of anticipation.
The man who’d been playing slowly rose from his seat.
He was tall and lean enough to put a model to shame.
About the same height as the tall Professor Reichert.
“Bravo! A truly magnificent performance!”
In his excitement, Professor Reichert praised him in German.
A pianist proves himself with the piano.
Reichert never held back his respect for someone more skilled than himself.
At this level, he could play with a world-class philharmonic tomorrow.
The man turned around.
“Huh!”
The undergraduates were thrown by the young face.
“!!!”
Reichert was startled too.
At a glance, he was far too young.
An undergraduate—a male student who looked like a freshman, at that.
“My skill is nothing to be proud of. Thank you for the compliment.”
The young man looked up, smiled and answered in fluent German.
He gave a short, crisp bow.
“Who…”
Reichert asked.
He’d never seen that face before, no matter how he looked at it.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Jang Tae-san, a first-year law student. I signed up for your class today.”
The freshman gave his department and his name.
“…”
And the studio fell into a deep silence.
A fear beyond astonishment swept over them.
A stranger who’d suddenly shown up at the music school.
He’d swept through the junior-year classroom like a hurricane.
(End of Chapter 116)