The Mysterious Art Museum

Chapter 61 (2) - The Mysterious Art Museum

Walking slowly towards my old home, I lingered in front of a familiar building entrance.

Probably someone new has moved in.

A small window flush with the ground.

I took a quick glance through the window.

When I lived here, I hated it when someone peered inside like this. Not wanting to give the new tenant the same experience, I suppressed my desire to look in and turned towards the art museum.

Shuffling along with a bitter smile, I wondered.

What am I doing right now?

Was it a mistake to start this journey, trying to fulfill past envies?

Or was it a wise choice, realizing through this that such actions are futile?

I'm still not sure.

At the art museum, I smiled faintly as I looked at the still ongoing Klimt exhibition. The entry fee was much more expensive than a sandwich, but with this money, I could dream. To me, this is far more meaningful than a gourmet experience that disappears after a few bites.

I bought a ticket at the unmanned kiosk and entered, immediately greeted by the sound of music.

Descending the familiar underground stairs with closed eyes, I opened the door to the museum, and the surging waves of music enveloped me.

Lost in the illusion of a wind, deeply inhaling the scent of art, I headed to the empty center of the museum. The art museum, dazzling in golden light. This place, drenched in Klimt's gold, is where I should have been from the start.

While some find happiness in delicious food or beautiful cafes, my happiness lies right here.

Sitting on the central rock sofa, I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply.

The musty smell of a basement mixed with mildew, oddly familiar and comforting.

Is it because it's similar to the smell I'm used to at home?

Slowly opening my eyes, I saw the wall in front of me turning black.

Thick trunks created by golden waves.

Klimt's Tree of Life, growing right before my eyes through digital media art technology.

Starting from the left, a thick branch splits into two thinner ones, curling and coiling as they grow.

As the branches form, the trunk rises higher, stretching out new branches. And above them, another thick branch forms.

I relaxed, comfortably letting go in this dizzyingly familiar sensation.

A journey to a familiar dream.

This place has become the most comfortable spot in the world for me.

---

Argh!

As always, it takes time to adapt to my surroundings after falling into a dream, but this time it's particularly intense. Like that winter day with biting cold winds when I first met Teacher Muha.

When I fell into such weather before, it was winter in modern times too, so I had thick clothes on. But having fallen here from a summer day in Seoul, I'm dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and shorts.

Can the weather in dreams be this realistically cold? It's freezing.

Huddling and shivering, the biting cold was unbearable.

The wide roads and ornate buildings in the distance told me I was back in Austria, but it was so cold, it felt like my eyes were freezing.

Looking around for a place to escape the cold, I noticed a peculiar building. It was pretty with a blend of beige and golden hues, but I couldn't determine the era of its architecture. It was a small building topped with a golden globe decorated with flowers.

Above a little more than ten red steps, an elaborate door was visible, and above it, an inscription read:

Der Zeit ihre Kunst, Der Kunst ihre Freiheit.

How do I know this phrase that's not in English? Isnt it a basic for anyone studying art, no matter where they are?

To every age its art, to every art its freedom.

The Secession, created by Klimt and others in opposition to the conservative Austrian art world. This phrase is engraved at the entrance of their exhibition hall. And this museum was built when Klimt was 35 years old.

Meaning, Ive landed in a time at least 5 years later than my last dream.

Just then, another bone-chilling wind pierced through me. I shivered and hunched my neck.

Ugh. This is insane. Let's save myself first.

I ran up the red steps and tried to open the door.

Damn it! I'm freezing to death here!

Frustratingly, the door wouldn't budge.

My hand, waving through the air as if touching water, danced a futile dance.

With no other buildings around, I had no other option but to stick to the wall beside the door to at least avoid the wind. But the low temperature was inescapable. I stamped my feet for about ten minutes, shivering.

Then, my savior appeared.

A short man with glasses too small for his face and a Hitler-like mustache.

A man with a broad forehead and short, dark hair, styled like modern haircuts, approached, cutting through the wind.

He lowered his head against the wind and upon reaching the door, lifted his face.

I didn't recognize him.

It definitely wasn't Klimt, and his brother had already died of pericarditis by this time, so it must be someone else entirely. It doesn't matter, just open the door and let me in, sir. I might die out here.

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