The Ghost of Vincent Van Gogh

The sunflowers looked almost real. The paint had been applied so thickly that it looked as though real petals had been stuck to the canvas. It was not that the sunflowers were realistic in the way that a photograph is realistic, but that they somehow expressed the essence of the real thing. Although the picture was just paint and canvas, it felt as though a real vase of sunflowers had been brought into the room.

“I can only give you £100 pounds for it,” said the dealer, matter-of-factly.

“But it’s the best painting I’ve ever done,” sighed Max, who had been hoping for more.

“Yes, I can see that,” said the dealer, “but it’s just a copy. Now, if this were a real Van Gogh, you could add another four noughts to the figure I just mentioned.”

Max could hardly imagine such a sum.

“On the other hand,” continued the dealer, “if you developed your own style, your work would be worth more...”

Max was on his way out, but the dealer couldn’t help adding, with the hint of a sneer, “...though I can’t see a Max Wilson ever being worth as much as a Van Gogh!”

When Max got back to the studio, he threw the sunflower painting onto the floor and placed a blank canvas on his easel. Next, he looked around for a subject. It must be something that Van Gogh had never painted, something new and modern, something that would inspire him to develop his own original style. Then he spotted the ideal thing. His computer.
He painted quickly and confidently for about an hour, and then stood back to get an overall impression. However, he saw at once that it was a failure. If you can imagine how Van Gogh would have painted a computer - slightly wobbly, thick with boldly-applied paint, blazing with Mediterranean light - well, that was how Max’s computer looked. He realised that he was wasting his time. Whatever he tried, he would never develop an original style. He was doomed to scratching a meagre living by painting copies of Van Goghs. Finally, he left the studio and went to his little flat upstairs where he threw himself onto his bed in deep despair.

He was woken up at about midnight by a noise that sounded like someone vigorously brushing a coat. Thinking that it might be a burglar, he went cautiously downstairs to investigate. In the dim light he could see a shadowy figure working at his easel. Before he could say anything, the figure said, “You should apply the paint like this - with a palette knife - and use the yellow straight from the tube - don’t mix it.”

“Er, who are you?” said Max nervously.

“I am the ghost of Vincent Van Gogh,” replied the figure. “By the way, would you mind coming round the other side so that I can hear you better?”

“What do you want?”

“To help you, of course.”

Laughing bitterly, Max said, “I already know how to paint like you - and it has done me little good!”

The ghost of Vincent Van Gogh just laughed and carried on painting. So Max sat down and watched, wondering whether this was really happening or just a dream.

When Max opened his eyes, he was back in bed. “So it was just a dream after all,” he thought, “but what a strange dream!” He went down stairs, and sure enough, everything was just as he had left it - or was it? The sunflower painting had been put back on the easel. It was somehow brighter, fresher, livelier - but best of all, in the bottom right hand corner was something much more valuable - the authentic signature of Vincent Van Gogh.

© Kit, 2008. All rights reserved by the author.