Vincent has never painted sunflowers before, but for Amy Pond, he'll give it a go.
The tragedy of Van Gogh was that he was a failure in life, but a genius in death.
When he was four, his mother took him to visit his own grave. Your brothers, his mother had whispered. But to the young boy, the name Vincent Van Gogh etched on the grave did not belong to his brother, it belonged to him.
He watched them place down flowers – sun flowers picked from the fields freshly that morning – and stood quietly. The sunflowers contrasted perfectly with the cold slab of concrete he thought. Too bright, too yellow, too happy. Yet, at the same time, they were wilting despite their freshness, the perfect accompaniment to death. When left in the ground, they were dull, limp and lifeless. When placed on the earth, they were genius, their fluorescent yellow leaves reflecting the sun in such an angle that one couldn't help but stop and stare. They brought beauty to the sadness which shadowed the sombre canvas of the grave yard.
His mother nudged him forward with a slight touch of hand, beckoning at the gravestone. Stepping forward, he placed his own sunflower down onto the small pile and breathed in. He smelt the colours of the sunflowers, watched them slink around the corners of his family, offering them comfort in their grieving. He saw the beauty in the death that his mother, nor his father, could seem to see.
For years, he became obsessed with sunflowers. In the morning glow, he would venture to the fields next to his small home, marvelling in the colours and images that his mind projected. They were better in the daylight, he decided. The night had its own magic, a magic that did not include the painfully bright yellow of the sunflowers. But that was ok, he concluded, he could not see all that well in the dark anyway. Sunlight was needed in order to paint.
He stole what little paint he could find, the darkest greens, the lightest reds, his Uncle 'Cent (another Vincent of the family) was an art dealer and had access to some of the finest colours in all of the Netherlands. Using scraps of parchment from his father's desk, he began to paint, using his fingers to smudge and bind the piece together.
His first attempt, even he admitted, was not the best. His brother Theo had sighed, why waste time painting something that nobody would ever buy? Sunflowers were not far or few between – you could go to any field and see them in the flesh; people would just laugh at his attempts.
'Painting is a faith,' he had informed his brother, 'and it imposes the duty to disregard public opinion.'
Theo had sighed once more and left him to his painting, muttering as he left. Vincent did not mind; let him think what he wanted to think. He could see the colours in his head, smell them as the paint dried on the stubborn parchment. He could make people finally see the richness of the world, the beauty of the minor things it seemed only he could see. He could make people finally understand the joy of art and the magic of the street. So he persevered.
People would understand one day.
xx
In 1881, Vincent moved to countryside of Etten and it was there, he met the love of his life.
Kee Vos-Stricker was his cousin, his gorgeous cousin. Her beauty was only surpassed by her intelligence and compassion. Her father was his uncle, a great man who had inspired him to keep painting. Through the passing months he became more and more compelled by her, often dreaming of her throughout the night. Her beauty, much like the frustrating sunflowers of his childhood, could not be painted on mere canvas. She was radiant. Her pale white skin enthralled his senses, the crisp colour of a snowy morning, her bright blue eyes the pastels of a summer moon. She delighted him; the colours of her body brought him comfortable warmth even in the boiling summer nights.
He spent his days walking with her, talking nonsense and other things she had laughed about and considered mad. She had made him smile for the first time in years. It came as no surprise to him when he proposed, but her answer had come as somewhat as a shock.
Never.
The beauty of the moment was shattered, the winds blowing away the snow of her skin and the blue of the moon. All that was left was cracked soil and the burning embarrassment he saw in her now cold eyes.
He left Etten the next day, but continued to write to her father, pressing the engagement. She was a woman, what choice did she have in the proposal.
His uncle was not sympathetic. His interest in his cousin was something to be frowned upon. Despite his frantic letter writing, his cousin refused to see him or indulge in his fantasies. In the late November of 81, he rode to his uncle's house, bringing with him a candle and a matchstick.
Once let into the house where he had shared so many fond memories with his beloved Kee, he placed the candle onto his uncles table and lit it.
'Your persistence is disgusting', his uncle had commented, frown pressed to his plump face.
Vincent lowered his left hand into the warmth of the flickering flame.
'Let me see her for as long as I can keep my hand in the flame.'
It was less than a second before his uncle blew the flame of the candle out.
A year later, he began living with an alcoholic prostitute by the name of Sien. He adored her, but not in the same way he had adored Kee. Nobody could take her place in his heart.
xx
In 1890, he moved to Auvers-sur-Oise. The vibrant light cast over Auvers excited him, the patchworks of fields and avenues appeared flat and lacked the perspective he had once admired, but they excelled in their intensity in colour. The passion that had once left him burned brightly once more. After one tense morning, he located himself to the coarse cornfields in front of his house to paint. He saw the beast again, the beast that had plagued him since he the Doctors. It was merciless, yet still had colour swirling around it. He could not paint it. All he wanted to see in the monster was darkness, yet it still held light. One of the most difficult things to do is to paint darkness which nonetheless has light in it.
So he ignored the beast and instead focused on the birds and the swaying of the breeze. He painted the fear and unease in the flight of the crows, the panic and the loss of the cornfield. With each stroke, he let out the tenseness in his shoulders, let himself become involved in the beasts chaos.
He might not have been able to paint the beast, but he could attempt to convey its message. One day, someone would understand.
xx
When the Doctor had gone off, Vincent and Amy had talked. She had followed him round the house, marvelling at the many paintings around his house.
"These are...They're just amazing." She had said, awestruck.
She turned to the lacklustre painting he had done of his bedroom, a moment of boredom. Fingering the edge of the canvas, she stroked the dried paint softly, her eyes sparkling as she did so.
"My paintings excite you?" he said good-heartedly, coming up behind her.
Her eyes said it all, she was enthralled by him. Smiling, she turned around.
"Why don't you like painting sunflowers again?" her smirk was different to the grins he had painted all his life, there was something knowing about it.
"They're too close to life, too close to death," he put simply, "they are a challenge to capture."
"Do you ever think about death?" she questioned sadly.
"Sometimes, when I am painting, it comes to me in flashes, in dreams, darkness and a lack of sight – like when I see the beast."
"Must be hard," she lamented, placing her hand over his.
"Death is not the hardest thing in a painter's life," he admitted, folding his finger tips in her own, "Looking at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots representing towns and villages on a map. Why, I ask myself, shouldn't the shining dots of the sky be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France? Just as we take the train to get to Tarascon or Rouen, we take death to reach a star. There is more out there than death Amy."
"Yeah," she held his hand tighter, "I guess there is."
xx
He sat on his bed, canvas in hand, staring out of the window at the dying sunflowers encased in the shallow graves that his lovely Amy Pond had planted them in. He was in the process of painting over one of his earlier pieces of work, a less than life like drawing he had etched of the sunflowers back in 1888. He hadn't really been trying back then, his brothers words had gotten to him once more. But that was in the past – all of it was in the past. He had seen his future and it was so very bright. Even brighter than the petals of the sunflowers that were flowing in the wind. He felt he could accomplish anything now – any painting he wanted. Even sunflowers were a small feat to his mind now. He let the paintbrush guide him, sliding over the canvas with ease. He remembered Amy's smiling face in his mind, her golden shimmer and fierce orange hair that spiralled and shone in the brilliant glow on the morning sun. Amy Pond had colours that burned inside him more deeply than the chalky pastels that had once attracted him to Kee Vos-Stricker. She was all that he could think about, his future was all he could think about. As he put the finishing touches to the dark green on the stem, he twisted the paintbrush round to its thick wooden handle, dipping the end into black paint; he `savoured her beautiful name as he engraved it around the orange paint of the pot. He smiled as he held the painting up the sunlight. Even the once troublesome sunflowers were not a problem for him now. He was going to paint and excite the world, he was going to inspire millions and prove his worth.
He was Vincent Van Gogh, the greatest artist of all time.
xx
Ok so, still crying at this episode.
For my graphics final project at school a couple of months ago, we had to pick eight designers or artists we felt were inspiring or worth writing about. For one of these eight, I picked Vincent Van Gogh. I knew nothing about him other than the fact that he killed himself and chopped his own ear off. After researching him, wow. He was just...amazing. Up until tonight, I didn't even realise they were doing a Doctor Who episode on Van Gogh. When I found out, I wasn't optimistic – how were they going to convey the tortured soul that was Van Gogh in a 45 minute program aimed at children (and adults). Well, I needn't have worried. It was perfect. Best episode of Doctor Who for me in a long time.
Everything in italics are actual quotes from Vincent Van Gogh himself (: