I see his straw hat first. Camouflaged though he should be, sitting in the centre of a field that ripples with ripening sheaves of wheat, there can be no mistaking the man before me. Yellow hat, red hair. Green eyes rooted in his canvas. My sudden arrival was cushioned, after a fashion, by the harvest that surrounds us, and I rise cautiously from my bed of broken stalks: wriggling each limb in turn to check for fractured bones. To my surprise, I seem to be intact, although rogue straws are sticking through the amateurish weave of my dress. Handstitched at home, it was made for this trip. Nothing I already owned would suffice. I dust myself down, brushing a firm hand over the coarse seams of my bodice, and watch as a haze of grain particles swirls before my eyes. The closest fragments glint amber and gold when caught in the unsparing Arles sunlight, but if he notices the disturbance, he gives no sign. His gaze stays grounded in his work.
The sweeping skirt of my homemade outfit provokes a whisper from the wheat as I pass, the plant heads bending as if to gossip about the fact that I clearly do not belong. Defiant, I let my hands roam on either side, my palms tickled by the sandy flowers that protrude from the tallest stalks. He must see me now or hear me at the least. Yet all that exists for him is his painting.
‘Vincent,’ I say. Vincent says nothing.
I am near enough to take in every detail of his features, like the intricacies of brushwork that must be fully explored close-up. His eyes are sharp, swooping over the spread of his canvas in a manner more avian than human. His beard is fox red, a feral shade that seems at home here in the countryside. There are speckles of mud covering his hands, creeping under his fingernails as he works his palette feverishly. It should render him filthy, a man dragged down by dirt, but somehow purity of purpose elevates him above social norms. I have seen the effect before: a scene that should be mundane made compelling and almost exquisite. His Potato Eaters painting. The first of many masterpieces.
This was – still is – my favourite part of art appreciation, waiting for a quiet moment in which I can come within inches of the surface that the artist touched, crusted with thick swirls of paint or a delicate sweep of crystallised pastel. It is the way I was looking at his Sunflowers when the idea came to me. The painting’s title is a misnomer, I think. Sunflowers is not about flora, but balance. The background and foreground colours work as mirror images, table intersecting vase with elegant precision. But the flowers themselves? Alive. Beyond animation, beyond anthropomorphism: they bloom with vitality that most humans could only dream of. They may be trapped in porcelain, but they call out for freedom. That day, I heard their call.
I returned one week later at closing time, when the swarm of tourists had left for the artificial buzz of city nightlife and the sole remaining guard had wandered off to a far corner, preoccupied with notifications that glowed pale green on his phone screen. I stood still. Felt myself swaying with the flowers. The gallery walls slipped, and I let myself fall.
‘Vincent,’ I repeat. ‘I’ve travelled far to meet you.’ My tone is soft, calm yet cautious, as if coaxing a wildcat to drink from a saucer of milk. I must not spook him. It would be easily done. I’ve come from the future to stop your suicide next week? ‘I want to tell you that you’ll be great. One day the whole world will admire you. There will be a museum in Amsterdam dedicated exclusively to your work. You are a genius, Vincent. Ahead of your time. One day, they’ll all see it.’
He spots a flaw on his canvas, discernible only to him. He starts making a new mark and it is as if the painting spoke first. I must wait my turn for him to answer me.
‘Why.’ When it comes, his single word falls too flat to be a question. ‘Why come to tell me this.’ Why?
‘Because I know what you’re planning and I want to save you. I understand your work, I … understand you.’ As soon as I speak, it sounds meaningless. A poorly painted pastiche of wisdom. Fakes of his artwork abound in my day, dashed off by frauds with the audacity to pretend that they can capture his essence. Now I feel just like them.
‘If you think that’s what matters, you don’t understand at all.’ In the silence that follows, the wheat sheaths seem to snigger at my shame. The field rustles. Crows cry out as they soar. From the village I cannot see, peals of children’s laughter are ringing with the wind.
‘Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing,’ says Vincent. The phrase is familiar. I have read it in his letters. I watch him reassess his artwork, deepening its shadows of indigo and slate to contrast the brilliant French sun. Caught by the mesmeric movement of his paintbrush, I realise that neither would be complete without the other. We endure the darkness to be graced by the light. He accepts that. He is willing to pay the price.
He puts down his brush.
‘Stay,’ he says.
Portrait of a Young Woman, July 1890. The last portrait he will ever complete. I am no longer really young in my own time, but I like to think of the painting’s title as a nod to the 150 years he has ahead of me. He shows my black hair slicked back, crinkling in the heat. My dark brows arched in thought above eyes that are heavy-lidded and pensive. The green-gold wheat stems casting shade over my complexion. And my dress flecked with fine blue threads that I never noticed until he did.