Image: Vincent Van Gogh – The Yorck Project (2002) 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei (DVD-ROM), distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH. ISBN: 3936122202. Public domain; https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=151972
A hangover-looking man in crumpled clothes was wandering around a huge flea market. Without much zeal, he was browsing, on the lookout for paints and brushes which sometimes were sold on the cheap here by failed artists same as himself.
Also, a part of his mind was wondering whether he should better spend what money he had left on some poison pills or a gun, to put an end to it all. He would never hang himself or jump from a height onto pavement – the body looking unaesthetic in such cases, – but a poison or a bullet could do the job just nicely.
His eye was caught by an odd composition – aside from the other vendors, a respectable-looking individual was sitting gravely on a folding chair. A suit of expensive fabric, hand-made shoes, a Swiss watch and a tie whose price would make the artist’s monthly living… Towering behind his back, was a broad-shouldered guard.
What could this alpha male be doing in a flea market where rows of pensioners were displaying time-darkened silver cutlery and chipped faience figurines while drunkard astronauts were trying to palm off their moonstones which were no more exciting than rocks from the nearby quarry?
The artist approached.
In front of the suited individual stood a wooden box used as a table, with a potted flower on it. Not really beautiful, the flower had a catching quality to it. On taking a closer look, the artist realized what it was: the flower was the spitting image of the Sunflowers by his beloved Van Gogh.
“What’s it called?”
“There’s no name. If you take it, you can give it a name to your liking.”
“I would call it Van Gogh.”
“It’s your business.”
“How much does it cost?”
“Nothing. There’s no price. But, mind you, the bastard is not easy to keep. What are you, anyway?”
“An artist.”
“You look more like a bum.”
“I’ve hit a bad patch,” admitted the artist.
“I see,” the man responded indifferently.
“I’ve never seen anything like this. Where did you get it?”
“Why, in this very market, a year ago. At that time I was… No matter, forget it. So, you take it or what?” The man glanced at his Rolex. “Make up your mind, man, I don’t have all day.”
“I take it,” the artist found himself saying.
“Then this is for you.”
The man thrusted into the artist’s hand a shabby brochure titled, ‘Flower Care Guide’.
“And here’s another thing,” the man said, rising. “If you decide to get rid of it, don’t just throw it away but come here and give it to someone.”
The care of Van Gogh was indeed a demanding job. Firstly, the flower did not tolerate dust. The artist’s studio, where he slept, ate, drank, and occasionally did some painting, was in a dire state of neglect. Now he had to throw out trash and do a thorough wet cleaning.
The room had to be constantly aired, but without overcooling.
And – the light. Van Gogh required a lot of light, so all the windows had to be washed.
In the bright light, the painter saw anew his creations of the recent years. He felt dismay, struck by his own professional and artistic degradation.