My life began the day I was stolen away. When I was made, the craftsman put great care into my features. He used silky smooth horsehair for my bristles, a strong lightwood for my body, and a tightly silver secured ferrule to hold me together. The artisan was a proud parent, and expected that I was going to be used by the best. My creator left me on a dazzling display near the brightest window in his shop to catch the attention of a master.
“Bouchard, how many francs for this one?”
He was a pale man with sagging wrinkles and dark bags under his eyes. His clothes looked worn, as if he hadn’t changed in years. His hair and beard were a striking orange color, and his wild eyes were a piercing blue. He pointed to me with his thin, bony fingers.
The craftsman laughed devilishly, “What makes you think you can afford that? Vous n’avez rien.”
The ginger man furrowed his thick brows, “How can you deny any business that comes your way?”
“When that business is as drunk as you. Besides, you aren’t even a real painter. Only a master can handle that brush, you see. Now get out, I have work to do and I don’t want you to stink up the place.”
The ginger man glared at Bouchard as he disappeared into his study.
“Quel salaud!” he hissed as the craftsman was out of earshot.
He paced angrily paced around my display, and then he stopped. The raggedy man looked back at me, then to the back door, and then back at me. He shuffled to the other side of the room, and picked up another brush that was about my size. He came back, quickly slipped me into his pocket, placed the imitator on my pedestal, and left without a word.
When he was a great distance away from Bouchard’s, the raggedy man took me out of his pocket, and inspected my features. He tenderly stroked my hair, and ran his fingers against my curves.
We arrived at a little yellow house at the corner of the street. Inside, there were scattered canvases along blue wall, unfinished cups of coffee sat patiently on a wooden desk, and empty absinthe bottles dotted the corners of the room. He set me on a desk which housed jars of other brushes, rolls of canvas, and a straw hat. The raggedy man crossed the room, and heaved a wooden easel in front of the desk. Then, he left the room, and quickly came back with a vase of sunflowers. He set it on the table, and picked me up again, along with a few more brushes. The ginger man squeezed bright hues of yellow, green and blue onto a wooden board, and mixed the paints with a knife. Then, he took me by my waist and gently dipped my hair into a cadmium yellow. He added a single stroke to the canvas. And then another. And another.
And another until it became so rhythmic it was almost like a song. He glided my body across the canvas in small strokes, dancing to the melody of his whimsical mind. I moved with every curve, and the battered painter guided me the whole way. He added more and more colors, dipping my bristles in thinner and switching to a new hue. Each brushstroke moved in a million different ways and the canvas was alive with rich, bleeding colors. He never looked like one, but the ginger man was the master I was destined to meet. He breathed beauty. He was art and I fell in love.
And before I knew it, he stopped. The afternoon had drifted away into a starry night. The ginger man was almost finished with his piece. As a final act of defiance, he dipped me in black and signed it:
“Vincent”