points and I refused to present anything for the International Baccalaureate in Arts because I didn't like the examiner. I went for Chemistry and Physics before going for Arts, just to avoid the stress of an exhibition, doing what they considered to be Art. Do you really think I'm an artist? Are they not supposed to die to show their things? This is only a hobby for me.”
“You still have a long way before you turn into a temperamental artist. Take Xavier Teixeira, one of the many I've sponsored over the years. He studied in Paris with several others. When their scholarship was finished, the foundation organised a collective exhibition for the students. The vernissage night, an American representative from a large oil company, who by the way had many businesses with me, wanted to buy a painting from him. He was not a bad artist but average. Nothing out of the ordinary. The minute he heard that this Texan was there, he shouted that his art would never be sold to a filthy capitalist killing children in Iraq.”
“That must have been bad for you,” Guntram said sympathetically.
“It even gets better. With a cutter he destroyed all his paints before the security guards could have done something!”
“That's a lot of temper.”
“Yes, it was a big scandal. It was in every French newspaper and not Le Figaro or Le Monde kind. It was a horrible blow for our foundation's credibility and for all the other artists in that exhibition. None of them got good critics or anything because the press was focused on “Xavier, le Rouge”. Three months later, he organized a new exhibition in a big gallery and had no problems to sell everything to filthy capitalists doing worse things. He used us to get publicity, without caring about his companions. I think none of them has done anything worth mentioning in the past years.”
“That was bad. Where's he now?”
'Floating in the Seine.' “He retired, I think. We are almost there.”
“I really can't stay. I have to work tomorrow and start tonight the painting.”
“Come upstairs with me. I have something for you.”
“What is it?” Guntram asked with true curiosity, his previous anger forgotten with the story.
“Surprise,” Constantin retorted making the boy smile like a very young child.
Guntram was speechless when he saw the huge pencil box. At the beginning he thought it was a pencil box but after a closer examination he realised that those were pastels in the form of pencils. “I've never seen something like this before,” he said in awe, reverently caressing the polished wooden surface.
“They're made in England. I'm told that the quality is very similar to those looking like chalk, but less dirty,”
Constantin explained to him gently.
“They're very beautiful. Where did you get them?”
“London. I ordered one of my secretaries to look for them when I saw you working last night. She sent them along with some papers for me this afternoon.”
“Are they really for me?”
“Try them and finish Oblomov's wife's portrait. He was very impressed with what he saw this morning and it's not easy to impress him.”
“She has very nice features. Her bone structure is very harmonious. She will be still beautiful when she grows older.”
“Perhaps. Let's have dinner, shall we? You must be starving.”
“I don't want to impose myself any further. I should go home.”
“Nonsense, this is your home now and I want that you explain to me later what were you thinking when you threw away that box.”
For the second night, Guntram slept by Constantin's flat, only wondering why the maid had not removed the pyjamas from the previous night. Too tired to think and with his wrist still throbbing, he did his best to ignore the pain and sleep.
Very early in the morning—as he didn't want to miss his work again—Guntram woke up and redressed with yesterday’s clothes, thinking that he should pass briefly by his flat to shower and change before going to work. Today, he
“You still have a long way before you turn into a temperamental artist. Take Xavier Teixeira, one of the many I've sponsored over the years. He studied in Paris with several others. When their scholarship was finished, the foundation organised a collective exhibition for the students. The vernissage night, an American representative from a large oil company, who by the way had many businesses with me, wanted to buy a painting from him. He was not a bad artist but average. Nothing out of the ordinary. The minute he heard that this Texan was there, he shouted that his art would never be sold to a filthy capitalist killing children in Iraq.”
“That must have been bad for you,” Guntram said sympathetically.
“It even gets better. With a cutter he destroyed all his paints before the security guards could have done something!”
“That's a lot of temper.”
“Yes, it was a big scandal. It was in every French newspaper and not Le Figaro or Le Monde kind. It was a horrible blow for our foundation's credibility and for all the other artists in that exhibition. None of them got good critics or anything because the press was focused on “Xavier, le Rouge”. Three months later, he organized a new exhibition in a big gallery and had no problems to sell everything to filthy capitalists doing worse things. He used us to get publicity, without caring about his companions. I think none of them has done anything worth mentioning in the past years.”
“That was bad. Where's he now?”
'Floating in the Seine.' “He retired, I think. We are almost there.”
“I really can't stay. I have to work tomorrow and start tonight the painting.”
“Come upstairs with me. I have something for you.”
“What is it?” Guntram asked with true curiosity, his previous anger forgotten with the story.
“Surprise,” Constantin retorted making the boy smile like a very young child.
Guntram was speechless when he saw the huge pencil box. At the beginning he thought it was a pencil box but after a closer examination he realised that those were pastels in the form of pencils. “I've never seen something like this before,” he said in awe, reverently caressing the polished wooden surface.
“They're made in England. I'm told that the quality is very similar to those looking like chalk, but less dirty,”
Constantin explained to him gently.
“They're very beautiful. Where did you get them?”
“London. I ordered one of my secretaries to look for them when I saw you working last night. She sent them along with some papers for me this afternoon.”
“Are they really for me?”
“Try them and finish Oblomov's wife's portrait. He was very impressed with what he saw this morning and it's not easy to impress him.”
“She has very nice features. Her bone structure is very harmonious. She will be still beautiful when she grows older.”
“Perhaps. Let's have dinner, shall we? You must be starving.”
“I don't want to impose myself any further. I should go home.”
“Nonsense, this is your home now and I want that you explain to me later what were you thinking when you threw away that box.”
For the second night, Guntram slept by Constantin's flat, only wondering why the maid had not removed the pyjamas from the previous night. Too tired to think and with his wrist still throbbing, he did his best to ignore the pain and sleep.
Very early in the morning—as he didn't want to miss his work again—Guntram woke up and redressed with yesterday’s clothes, thinking that he should pass briefly by his flat to shower and change before going to work. Today, he
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