Vincent and Aart

For seven years, exactly one hour before the start of his shift, Aart de Boer quietly walked into the Van Gogh Museum's self-portrait room. His bloodshot eyes, the aftermath of another restless night's sleep, inspected the walls punctuated with Van Gogh's most celebrated works.

Aart's favorite piece changed at least once a month and at times with his mood. For the last few weeks, he stopped by Self-Portrait and tried to find something new about it every morning. A few days ago, he came across small fern-colored brushstrokes peppering Vincent's pale-red hair. Yesterday he discovered a slight shading of powder blue hugging the lower left of Vincent's forest green iris.

Aart stared at Vincent's copper-colored beard when the familiar shooting pain began to inch up his back. The pain came to a brief halt before snaking its way to his shoulder-blades, where it came to a complete stop. He hadn't experienced this in years. Suddenly, the shooting pain started again, but this time, it became stabbing pain that snaked its way to the front of his chest, causing him to grab it with both hands. Soon, Aart collapsed to the floor. His eyes bulged open before everything went black.

#

The familiar sound of a paintbrush against a canvas and a soothing warm breeze eased Aart awake. In the distance, the crash of waves onto the shore.

Still drowsy, Aart sat up a little from the trundle bed to take in the bedroom he abruptly woke up in. A goldenrod yellow chair with a woven seat sat empty to his right. Four miniature paintings hung on the wall to his left. Still bleary-eyed, Aart blinked until he could see clearly what was in front of him: a lean figure with a palette in one hand and a brush in the other. The man perched on a stool in front of a large easel.

This can't be, Aart thought as he gazed upon the back of the man. 

Before Aart said a word, the artist picked up his paintbrushes and palette, untied and hung up his smock, turned, and the two men looked at one another for the first time.

Aart observed the painting that was cloaked behind the artist the entire time. His suspicions confirmed—Sunflowers.

"Care for a walk?" Vincent asked.

#

The two men walked side by side on the Langlois bridge. Chestnut trees lined bucolic winding paths, and couples sat on benches as their children played in a nearby water fountain. "How did I get here, and how is this happening?" Aart asked, fixing his eyes on Vincent.

"You aren't the first person this has happened to. It's seldom-seen, but it happens."

"Why?"

"People come to me when something is going wrong," he explained. "It started a few years ago, out of nowhere."

"Why you?" Aart asked.

"I'm no stranger to suffering, I suppose," he said as he turned his head and pointed to the dressing wrapped where his left ear would be.

"And from what I've been told by my visitors," Vincent said before he paused and smiled at Aart, "millions of people know my work—at last."

"People now identify with my agony, my happiness, and my sorrow," he said. "We artists, Aart, paint to escape. From something, anything. Realizing that my art is affecting people the way I imagined is overwhelming, though," Vincent said, incredulous.

Aart examined Vincent’s face as he cast his stare on the tyke's playing in the fountains. Aart could sense Vincent longed to experience his success firsthand.

"Your art means a lot to many people," Aart said. "I'm sure you know about your museum," Aart said.

Vincent nodded and beamed. "I do."

"But I still don't know why I'm here," Aart said.

"Yes, you do."

"I do?"

"Of course. Artists always know when it's almost too late."

"Too late?"

"You had a heart attack, Aart."

Aart hardly remembered the ordeal. It wasn't until Vincent had told him the story that pieces gradually came back to him. 

"What does that have to do with anything?" Aart asked, perplexed.

"Everything," he said casually.

Aart squinted as he stared down at his shoes. A lump grew in his throat as he thought about the years he squandered, feeling sorry for himself because his life didn't turn out the way he thought it would.

"My life isn't what I pictured," Aart admitted aloud to Vincent. "I didn't anticipate success early on, and I didn't foresee it to be over so fast," he said. "I thought I'd have it forever."

The two men stopped walking. Vincent turned to him and placed a hand on Aart's shoulder.

"You have the opposite problem I had," Vincent let out a slight snicker. "The difference between us, though," Vincent said before focusing on Aart, "are you get to choose what is next."

"Believe me when I say don't fritter away your time thinking about what you should have done and focus on what you can accomplish now," Vincent turned to him and said.

"And when things get challenging," he said, "continue to be good-hearted. Always."

"Are you all set to go back?" Vincent inquired after a pause.

"No," Aart said, hanging his head to study the ground, a wistful look rested upon his aging face. Vincent turned on his heel, leading the way back to his apartment.

#

"So, how does this work? What do I do?" Aart asked as he reclined on the bed he woke up from not long ago. "Go back to bed, and I'll be back in the museum collapsed on the floor?"

"Yes, you'll pick up from where you left off," Vincent said as he put on his smock and set out his paintbrushes. He's done this before.

Aart studied the room, Vincent, and Sunflowers for the last time.

"Will we meet again?" Aart asked as Vincent grabbed a coverlet stored under the bed. No response.

"It's like I've known you my whole life," Aart said. After a pause, "I guess I have."

He drifted off in a daze, draping the blanket over himself as he prepared to drift back to Amsterdam. "I'm not sure I want to leave."

#

Aart jolted conscious as sunshine poured in from the skylight overhead. In the distance, the sound of his co-workers starting their day brought him back to reality. A small smile danced across his face. He knew what was next.

"I quit."