Vincent

• Violet De Graauw, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2013

He stood at the easel, his long slender arms flying wildly across the canvas. The Madman painted desperately, his shoulders tense, as if the world’s very existence rested on this single painting.
Abruptly, he slumped, and his arms fell to his sides as the paintbrush slipped through his weather-beaten fingers.
He sagged into his chair, his entire form crumpled and hopeless. His face was drawn, his high cheekbones prominent under the slightly sickly skin of his long face. A small section of his left ear lobe was missing, entirely insignificant when compared to the hope missing from his china blue eyes. They were so very deep, and blue like the sea, as if this man had seen more of the world than any mortal was ever meant to.
The Madman was a sailor who had been at sea for many long years, and had finally returned home only to find it had long ago washed away.
His faded green shirt was crusted with dried paint, barnacles from his long trip at sea.
His hairline receded well back onto his head, like the tide at the end of a long day, and his beard was short, like the bristles of an old broom.
His hair glowed orange, like the sun, a hearty pumpkin soup, the hundreds of paintings of sunflowers strewn about the room. Even from where I sat, I could smell the alcohol on his breath and the lead paint on his hands.

The Madman bent his head and began to sob, taking refuge in the safety of his rough hands.
I looked away, observing his simple mud brick room.
The furniture was so sparse that the room would appear empty but for the paintings, letters and bottles covering every available surface.
A simple wooden table, with one wooden chair, stood in the very centre, barely visible beneath the layer of vibrant paintings and fevered sketches that lay piled up on and around them.
This brilliant show of colour was peppered with bottles, most sucked dry, but some containing still a single drop of dark brown, foul-smelling liquid.
A cluttered desk sat in one corner of the room, almost as if it had been pushed there by the enormous body of paintings. It was an island of white and grey in the sea of colour.
A straw hat was hanging from a peg on the wall, and a vase of beautiful sunflowers sat on the table, wilting and almost buried by his work.
The paintings were beautiful, and I could only wonder at why the people refused to buy such stunning pieces. I could almost feel the passion radiating off the frantic brushstrokes.
I was suddenly overcome by an immense urge to comfort him, this man who could create such deep beauty from such deep pain, this misunderstood alien who could see the magic in a world which so many took for granted.
I had to bite down on my tongue to keep from calling out my consolation, my praise.