Vincent

Vincent

by Joseph Citta

My brother died a month ago. The word devastation does not even hint at the way I felt - and still do. It’s like a claustrophobic cloud has surrounded me, preventing me from taking full breaths. A mind altering headache has been raging since his funeral. My head feels like it’s in a vise getting tighter and tighter. Crushed. Before this, God was never something or someone I had ever trusted in, but now I needed him. My brother was younger than me. He had grown to be my guru - ever since he came into this world when I was 4 years old, he was a positive influence on me and everything I did. My fondness of him as a small child grew into a unique bond as we grew up together. He was always interested in music and watching him bloom into a wonderful and disciplined musician was a great inspiration to me. He always encouraged me to paint. I didn’t think I was very good, but because of him I kept on painting. When not talking to me in person, I would hear him in my head, daydreaming I guess, that’s very good, he would say, or I love your use of color here or the detail there is incredible. His voice drove me. I tried to inspire and support him, but he didn’t need me. It was I who needed him. The daydreams of him have stopped, replaced with those severe migraine headaches. I have not wanted to paint or even think about painting since he died.

I wandered listlessly around our little village and one day I found myself in front of our village museum. He always loved to visit this place and was constantly egging me on to accompany him - I always turned him down. It’s just not for me I would say, or I’m not interested in that place. I never did tell him the real reason I would not set foot in that museum. Years ago, I learned of my mother's death at this museum, leading to a relationship ending fight with my girlfriend that same day, immediately after. The memory has kept me away ever since. In hindsight that felt a ridiculous thing to hang onto. So I went into the museum in his honor. As I walk up the steps to those artfully crafted double doors I think of the many times he had wanted to take me to these same steps.

Once inside I see that the current show is on Van Gogh. Sure I knew who he was and was marginally aware of some of his work. Most everyone knew about the ear thing.

A woman in what seemed to be some kind of business attire approached me and said hello and welcome to Van Gogh’s studio. Are you familiar with the work of Van Gogh? she asked. I’m not much of a talker, but I felt the need to respond. Why yes, of course, I said. She replied well why don’t you take a brochure and wander around and see if you find anything interesting - it’s quite a collection we have here, we are very lucky! I said thanks and moved on. 

It’s not a huge museum, but it is quite trendy and popular. Walking into the first room I see the well known Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear directly in front of me. I’ve seen this painting before, but just now something about it gives me a feeling of emptiness in the pit of my stomach as I stare at it. I wonder why he painted so many self portraits, perhaps he simply wanted the practice. There is something surreal about this whole place. It was very dark and the paintings seemed oddly lit. Unlike most museums, I could barely see the walls the paintings were hung on. Yet each painting was extremely well lit and seemed to float on it’s own. The air is different. I immediately dismiss the feeling. On the left I recognize the well known The Bedroom painting and to the right hangs the The Starry Night. I reflected that my brother used to say it reminded him of death, and he liked it. I say to my self, ok, I’ve seen enough, that’s the Van Gogh I know, interestingly presented, but I’m not really inspired. 

As I turn to leave, there she is again, the docent I ran into at the entrance. Have you seen his controversial painting? We are blessed to have it all the way from Amsterdam in our little collection here for a short time she says with a smile which I’m sure she thinks coy and flirtatious. Ah, no, I really have to leave. Oh just check it out a second, you really can’t miss it if you like Van Gogh. Ok.

So I follow her into the next room and on the far wall is The Potato Eaters. The plaque floating next to it says that it was controversial at the time. What was the controversy I asked her. Well… it’s not that it was controversial in the true sense of the word, it’s just that he really felt that this work would make him… solidify him as a master. That was not the way it went of course, his critics disagreed vehemently, but here it is. Isn’t it wonderful? It’s interestingly creepy I say. Luckily just then a young couple came by and stole her attention away from me. Thank god, I say to my self. I’m turning to leave when I hear someone behind me whisper are you leaving already? I spin around and see that the docent is in deep conversation with the young couple and there is no one else around. I begin walking toward the exit and I hear what’s the rush? I say who is that? It’s me brother, glad you finally made it to the museum. I am stunned, nailed to the floor. This is not possible. I’ve been way out of sorts all month… but this is just insane. What’s the matter? Don’t like me anymore? I can’t move. Impossible. Theo, (long pause) where are you I say. I’m right here! Don’t be ridiculous, I buried you a month ago! Yes you did and I thank you for it.

I immediately thought of the way he died. I don’t know why, but it popped right into my head. We never thought of him as suicidal. I still see him lying there, with the gun a few feet away. What did you do with the gun he demanded. What are you doing… here… what are you doing, period? Don’t worry about it man. I feel the docent and her people looking in my direction. She turns away and ushers them toward the exit. 

I just froze. An indescribable sensation like no other I’ve ever felt or heard of consumed me. Dizzy, spinning, completely discombobulated - I can’t feel my fingers. I don’t understand how this could be my brother - he sounds the same, I recognize his voice, but his temperament seems very different, very irritable. Is this some kind of cruel joke? Through squinting eyes and a pounding headache I see a blur of the docent leaving the building, locking those double doors after her. 

This is impossible I say to myself. Why haven’t you been painting since I’ve been away? he demanded impatiently. This is nuts, how am I talking to you? And how are you talking to me? Just relax, go with it. Answer my question. I don’t know… I. I think to myself, I really don’t know. He has never talked to me like this. 

Time passes very quickly, or slowly, I’m not sure, but before I know it it’s dark outside. I’m getting out of here I say to whoever. I walk to ‘the door and it is locked. Great. I’m stuck in here with a voice that claims to be my brother, I guess that’s my karma for never coming here with him. 

So you don’t think this is strange Theo? Meeting here like this? Talking? Like I said just relax, I know what I’m doing. Something he always used to say, and he did always know what he was doing.

Listen, come with me, I want to show you something. His voice is coming from somewhere else now, and I follow. I begin to think maybe I’m not so screwed up, I don’t know why, because on the face of it, this seems a dream I used to have, but I don’t think I am dreaming, either this is real or I’m crazy. Maybe this is something…unearthly? We reach a small art studio in the rear of the building. This is used by high schoolers, I often stop by here and play with their heads. Oh how profoundly considerate of you.

But seriously, I want you to do me a favor. I miss you here sometimes, no one to play with their gullibility. Just miss the old times. I do too brother, sounding a little too weepy. I want you to paint a self portrait for me. And just like that, I began choosing a canvas, some brushes and paints. I felt more clear headed than I had in a long, long time. My headache was completely gone.

I painted for hours - actually I’m not sure how long I painted, time was not something I was aware of, but as the sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon, I was well into this work. I finally realized I hadn’t heard from Theo all night! In the morning light I stepped back to admire my work so far. Not bad. I felt my life starting over.