vincent in love (the severed ear series)

I’ve decided to expand this piece into a series, so here is one of the sections on his ear. It is based on Vincent’s many unrequited loves and his life as a mentally ill, and struggling artist.


Arles, December 23rd, 1888

He barely felt it: as the blade shredded the skin between his skull and ear. Like slicing an orange. The cream coloured rag he pressed to his wound bled – a crimson flower blossoming in an empty, wheat meadow. Air pressed around Vincent’s body, as his brain panicked to comprehend the pain, the shock, the suffering the numbness. The shades of agony.  Within his palm, his ear squirmed like a bird escaping the jaws of a fox. Blood sprouted from the fibres of the cloth, it trickled down his arm in thin streams like stems of a red amaranth. Vincent lifted his head from the floor, unfolded his legs and listened to his mind crash against his skull like a sea against rock. Drowned in whimpers and sobs, his bones trembled – not because of the acute anguish heating the entire left side of his head, but because of the lingering vibrations shuddering through his bedroom from the door Gauguin slammed –

Gauguin had yelled his ear off.Image result for the bedroom vincent van gogh

A mouse caught in a trap: Vincent was alone, minuscule, forgotten, bleeding –

Gauguin had broken his heart.

His finger circled around the lobe of his cold severed ear. Gingerly, he wrapped it in a clean square of white cloth. The ear was so pale it practically disappeared in the fabric – a heavy weighted memory, a result of hearing terrible news.

His brother will be married soon.

Beside him, the blade painted stains on his floor with vermilion strokes. He reached for it with his free hand, the other marinated in the heavy flow of blood cascading from his wound. With immense care, Vincent lifted the razor and held it tight in his fist.  He realized the edge of the blade pressed into his palm, making new lines – new destinies. Hoping to sever the life line, he pressed harder.

It didn’t hurt him.

   ~~~

Paris, 1887

Nobody posed like Rachel Belair. Toes pointed, chin up, arms raised, and folded beneath her head – exposed. Her pear-shaped body fed Vincent’s page, his gaze, as she extended lavishly on his bed. Vincent chose her because she knows she will pose naked – she was a pierreuse, a  woman who sold herself on the streets.Image result for reclining female nude vincent van gogh

Vincent approached her earlier in the evening, thick sketchbook under his arm, a stick of graphite protruding from his right hand like a sixth finger. Back pressed into a brick wall within a darkened alley, Rachel stood thoughtlessly. Her dress hadn’t been washed in a month, her hair knotted in a bun held together by grease and spit, the blush on her face was a product of dry air and rosacea.

“Hello, mademoiselle. Are you…busy?”  Silhouettes spotted her face, casting indistinct shadows on her features. Vincent wasn’t fond of gorgeous women: they made him nervous.

Gathering herself, Rachel shook her head.

“Can I have you now, then? For about an hour?”A western breeze caused the pages from his sketchbook to flutter. Vincent leaned into the alley to avoid the gust,  with the intent to pressure her to agree. Rachel was used to men not even asking, yet she was not so easily persuaded. He looked poor in his wrinkled peat carrier’s suit, his matching hat shaded the top half of his face.

Eyes, she needed to see if he had kind eyes.

She shook her head.

“I have 20 francs, and some bread.” Determination fluttered in Vincent’s chest, as desperation built in Rachel’s – he needed to paint, and she needed to eat. Hesitation escaped her as she exhaled; her heels echoed through the street as she stepped out of the shadows.

“Vivez-vous juste?” She bit down on her lower lip, nervous to walk more than a couple of blocks with this strange man. Vincent paced his eyes across her face, noting the creases around her mouth and eyes. She smiled frequently, he thought, or cried often.

“No. I live just down the block. Apartment number 54.” He indicated the direction with the stick of graphite in his hand. Rachel followed his aim, and then studied his face. Ginger strands of hair stuck out from under his cap, and tender blue eyes encountered her darker, sturdier ones. Rachel recognized their kindness combined with a subtle misery. Gently, she placed her palm on Vincent’s bicep.

~~~

Arles, December 23rd, 1888 – Midnight

Winter winds soothed the searing ache spreading through Vincent’s head. He managed to stop the bleeding by wrapping a large gauge he found in a steel box under Gauguin’s bed, yet the bandage seemed to make the pain worse. Steadily, with an immense amount of effort, Vincent stumbled to reach Cafe de la Gate; it did not take long since his house was nearly adjacent to the restaurant. However, he wanted to go next door – he wanted to go to the brothel.

He wanted to see Rachel.Image result for brothel vincent van gogh

Mumbling to himself, fingers clutching his dismembered ear wrapped in a new cloth, Vincent pushed  his shoulder into the heavy wooden door. Women, whiskey, and warmth greeted him as courtesans crowded around  flimsy cocktail table weighed down by half empty drinks. Vincent scanned every party of people, hoping to find the distinct curl of Rachel’s hair among the hats and scarves –

Instead, he recognized the prominent scar of Gabrielle Berlatier, which travelled down her face and into her neck like a thin stream of milk. Every night, she dreamed of the rabid dog who inflicted such a hideous contribution to her image. As a maid, Gabrielle is able to assist her family through the costs of repairing her, and paying for medicine.

Vincent thought she was beautiful in the way she always displayed her left check – the right one marred by the mark of ravenous teeth. Sensing her suffering, he silently approached her as she fanned herself on a cushioned chair.

“I…have something…for you.” Pressing the cloth into her palm, Vincent began to turn away- with the hope that his gift of flesh would repair hers. The space between his fingers felt empty without the soft fabric resting in between them, so, when Gabrielle shrieked and stools skidded, he would have something to squeeze.

Blood dribbled along his jaw as Vincent left the brothel. The gauze had broken, and his head throbbed. Laughter from behind him shook him from his daze. Cautiously, he glanced over his shoulder and identified a young couple interlocked. Despair drilled nails in his ribs –

His brother will be married soon.

Tears trickled from his eyes, cooling his red-speckled cheeks. Callus against callus, Vincent clasped his palms together, and brushed a tear away with the heel of his hand.He stretched his arm out in front of him as memories of the razor plagued his mind. Burdened, Vincent gazed at his palm: each wrinkle matched the curve of his skin, indents revealed his future. Upon further inspection, Vincent noticed that he had not sliced his life line at all, rather – he pierced his love-line. Impulsively, his palm grazed his cheeks, the inflamed cut skin stinging as it reacted with the salt flowing down his face.

It didn’t hurt him.

 


credits:

all the pieces above were painted and created by Vincet Van Gogh. The gif is from Loving Vincent.

1: The Bedroom, 1888

2:  Study of a Reclining Female Nude, 1887

3: The Brothel, 1887

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