Van Gogh and the Lego Man
Self-Portrait
Vincent sits in his studio, scratching his beard while looking at the canvas. The Lego Man watches Vincent while resting on his palette, poking at a dried clump of paint.
“You have the same expression in every portrait,” says the Lego Man, hopping up onto the easel.
“It’s tiring to hold a smile for so long,” says Vincent, looking in the mirror. “Or any other face for that matter.” Vincent sticks out his tongue. He puckers his lips. He grins and shows his teeth. But his face always returns to the same expression of vacant exhaustion.
“Nothing I’d know about. I’ve had the same face all my life.”
Vincent sets down his brush and rubs his brows. “I can’t look at myself anymore today. Let’s go for a walk.”
“But your painting is unfinished.”
“Yes, like me.”
The Beauty of Bread
Vincent holds the warm loaf to his ears. He smiles at the crisp sounds of the crust. “There’s great beauty in bread, don’t you think? Is there much bread where you come from?”
“You can hardly call it bread,” replies the Lego Man. “It’s essentially a plastic rectangle. All food from my world is hard and inedible.”
“Not much beauty in that.”
“Perhaps a different kind of beauty. A beauty of representation.” The Lego Man mashes a small bit of bread onto his face. Two black dots and a semicircle painted on yellow plastic.
Vincent smiles. “A beauty of permanence.”
The Potato Eaters
“Their lives are so dark,” Vincent says. “I wish they’d smile like you. A pure, constant smile.”
“My smile is like a painting, fixed in place by a creator,” the Lego Man says, peeking out of Vincent’s pocket. “There’s no joy in such a smile.”
Vincent enters the dim shack. A soot-covered hand passes him a steaming potato.
“Monsieur Gogh, please have some dinner before sketching.”
The heat sears Vincent’s hand, but he forces himself to hold on. The peasants hold their potatoes steady, unflinching at the heat. They smile as they eat, the steam from the plate of potatoes filling the shack and soothing away the day’s labor. Vincent catches brief moments of joy. Glimpses of soft eye contact. Quick chuckles. He smiles along and eats.
The Postman
Roulin sits on the wooden chair. He has a distinct smell of old tweed that, when mixed with the smell of turpentine, Vincent finds comforting.
“Monsieur Gogh, my beard is itchy. May I scratch it for just a second?” asks Roulin, trying to stifle his twitching smile.
“That’ll rearrange your beard, and the portrait will be ruined,” says Vincent, smiling along.
“Don’t you have enough portraits of me?”
“Your expression is different each time. There can never be enough portraits of such a face. You remind me of Dostoevsky. Broad nose and forehead.”
The postman laughs. A truer laugh has never been laughed before, Vincent thinks. After Roulin leaves, the Lego Man appears from underneath Vincent’s bed.
“Will you paint me?” the Lego Man says.
“You’ve never let me paint you before.”
“I was afraid of seeing how you saw me, but maybe you can paint me with a different face.”
“A different face?”
“I’ve always wondered what I’d look like with a frown.”
Vincent picks up the Lego Man and places him on the wooden chair. He paints the Lego Man larger than life, but there is still too much space in the background, a great emptiness. Vincent paints the frown, and there on the canvas, the Lego Man looks truly alone for the first time.
Once finished, the Lego Man climbs onto Vincent’s shoulder. He looks at the painting and briefly touches his own face.
“Perhaps your best work yet,” the Lego Man says.
Moulin Rouge
Lautrec and Gauguin are sketching the can-can dancers on stage. Vincent and Theo watch them from four tables away.
“Look at the way their hands move, outlining the stockings and petticoats,” Vincent says. “It’s a dance in itself.”
“Should I introduce you?” Theo asks. “I’ve sold their paintings, and I always tell them about you. I’m sure they’d love to hear about your work.”
“No. I’m not nearly as talented. I’d only embarrass myself.”
“Don’t say that.” Theo gets up and tries to pull Vincent from his seat. “Come! An artist needs artist friends.”
“I can’t.” Vincent shrugs off his brother’s hands. “Maybe another time.”
“Well, I should say hello. We have to talk about that gallery opening next month.” Theo leaves Vincent to join Lautrec and Gauguin at their table. He orders another bottle of wine.
“You’re always so anxious around other painters,” the Lego Man says, coming out from underneath a napkin. “How come?”
“If I had just one-tenth of their talents, I could die tomorrow in peace,” Vincent says.
“That’s silly.”
“You’re not an artist. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I don’t have to be an artist to understand.” The Lego Man grabs a sugar cube and begins breaking off little chunks. “Sometimes it’s easier to reject yourself before anyone else can.”
Joy
The Lego Man fumbles as he lifts a paintbrush that is quadruple his size. He manages to paint one stroke of orange on the canvas before dropping it. Vincent collapses with laughter.
“How embarrassing,” the Lego Man says. “This was a mistake.”
“Wait,” Vincent says, still laughing. He opens his drawer and takes out a toothpick with trimmed hair tied at one end. “I made it for you.” The toothpick-brush snaps perfectly into the Lego Man’s hand.
“What should I paint?”
“Whatever you find beautiful.”
The Lego Man admires the brush for a moment. “I’ll paint this paintbrush then.”
Café Terrace at Night
Vincent paints a few steps away from the terrace.
“Those people at the table, I think they’re laughing at us,” says the Lego Man, peeking from behind the easel.
“They look so beautiful under the streetlights. Let them drink and find joy at my expense,” says Vincent.
“I see you’ve painted yourself into the scene.”
Vincent looks at his canvas. There is an orange-haired man sitting at the table. “Is that me?”
“Well, there’s no orange-haired man at the table.”
Vincent looks back at the table and makes eye contact with a woman with a long cigarette holder. She winks and blows him a kiss. The man next to her gets up from his seat.
“Crazy pervert, painting us without permission!” He knocks Vincent’s easel to the ground.
“Apologies, Monsieur Michelangelo,” one of his friends says, laughing and restraining the man. “Our friend here has had too much to drink.”
The man spits at Vincent’s feet as he gathers his materials from the ground. Vincent picks up the Lego Man and puts him in his pocket. He sighs and sulks away from the café.
“It shouldn’t be a crime to find things beautiful,” he says.
“If that man could see what you see,” says the Lego Man, “he would have kissed your feet instead.”
Sunflowers
Vincent finishes one painting of sunflowers after another. There is yellow and brown all over his studio.
“How many is enough?” the Lego Man asks.
“As many as there are in the fields,” Vincent says, not taking his eyes off the canvas. “They’re for Gauguin. Theo says he’ll visit for a few weeks. He’ll be so happy here. When the flowers die, we can eat the seeds. I haven’t had sunflower seeds in so long. They always bring me back to my childhood.”
“You’re drifting, Vincent.”
“Hmm?” Vincent stops and looks around for the Lego Man. He finds him by his shoes.
“You can’t eat seeds from paintings of sunflowers.”
Vincent looks back at his painting. The sunflowers have stopped dancing on the canvas. The brilliant light has ceased. “Of course. Silly of me to think that.”
Stillborn
Vincent sees the Lego Man hopping around on the dining table, trying to catch a moth fluttering in the moonlight.
“Did I wake you?” the Lego Man asks.
“No, I had a dream. Couldn’t fall back asleep.”
“Tell me.”
Vincent opens the window and lets the moth out. “It was about my stillborn brother. I’ve always thought it was unfair that Theo, born after me, was spared with a new name, while I was given the same. Vincent Willem van Gogh. I think Mother still believes he was the real Vincent, taken at birth, and I but a shadow of him.” Vincent sits down at the dining table and lights a candle. “In the dream I was standing in a wheat field with him, except he was grown up and old. He looked exactly like me; it was peculiar. I cut him down with a sickle, and I started splashing the blood onto all that golden wheat. I kept doing that for what felt like an eternity. And then I woke up.”
The Green Fairy
Vincent sits at his dining table. A mug full of turpentine and absinthe. Oil paint on his palette.
“Don’t,” says the Lego Man.
“Eat.” The Green Fairy smiles. Vincent’s sunflowers wilt under her dim glow. “You are hungry and thirsty, Vincent.”
“The baker is probably still awake. I’m sure he’ll sell you a few loaves.” The Lego Man swats at the Green Fairy with his paintbrush, but it passes right through her.
“The baker hates you. The people of this town hate you. They call you the Red-Headed Madman of Arles. They will put you away. Now, be good and eat.”
Vincent eats a spoonful of paint, followed by a sip from the mug. The paint spreads from Vincent’s stomach to his liver and kidneys, to his lungs and brain. Vincent’s skin crusts and cracks as he crumbles into colors.
At Knife Point
Vincent drops the pocketknife onto his palette, the blood dripping and mixing with the oil paints. The Lego Man sheathes the blade and puts it away in a drawer. Where Vincent’s left ear should be is dark red seeping through a bandage.
“A good woman is caring for it,” Vincent says. “It’ll be returned when I deserve it.” He collapses in bed and weeps. “I’ve threatened my friend Gauguin, all over twenty francs! I cannot paint without him. The house feels too empty.”
The Lego Man hops onto Vincent’s palm. “You must paint. Start with this bedroom,” he says, staring at Vincent with his unchanging smile.
“But it’s so dull. The colors have left.”
“You will make it beautiful.”
Whisperings
“Madman, that one.”
“Threatened that artist from Paris with a knife.”
“Should be put away, gave that bordello girl such a scare.”
“Worst of all, his paintings are dreadful.”
“Uninspired impostor. Doesn’t deserve to hold a paintbrush.”
“His brother only supports him out of pity, how shameful.”
Insomnia
Vincent drinks while staring at the candlelight. Great swirls of orange and yellow. He leans closer and sees a reflection of himself. A gentle, comforting heat rises into his irises, a feeling of going home.
“You’ll go blind,” says the Lego Man.
“Quiet. I’m trying to focus,” Vincent says.
“You keep drifting away. One day you won’t be able to come back.”
“Quiet!” Vincent slams down his fist on the Lego Man. Everything is still for a moment. When Vincent lifts his hand, the Lego Man is unresponsive. He twists the little plastic arms around. “Just a silly toy.” He walks over to the closed window, and when it does not budge, Vincent punches through the glass and throws the Lego Man out to the cobblestone street.
A breeze whistles in through the shattered window. The dense air of paint and turpentine slowly escapes the studio. Vincent’s bleeding hand trembles. The candle goes out, and he begins to weep. He rushes outside, frightening the late-night strollers in the neighborhood.
“Lego Man!”
The night winds pull at Vincent’s skin. He kneels on the road, feeling for his friend with his hands in the darkness. Gravel, weeds, bits of hay fallen off a wagon. Finally, small plastic bits.
“I’m sorry. I’ll stop,” Vincent says, putting the Lego Man back together with trembling hands. “I’ll stop.”
At Eternity’s Gate
Vincent watches the old man as he trembles in his seat and hides his face in his hands. One orderly comforts the man while another holds a spoonful of soup.
“Monsieur, you must eat. It’s pea soup, your favorite.”
The other patients in the asylum cafeteria take no notice. Only Vincent stares while drawing in his sketchbook.
“People are most beautiful close to death,” Vincent says, chewing the end of his charcoal stick. An orderly comes by and lowers Vincent’s hand from his mouth, wagging her finger at him.
“When you grow old, you too will be beautiful,” says the Lego Man, placing his little plastic hand on Vincent’s.
The old man collapses, and more orderlies rush to help. His limbs shake as he tries to stand, vibrating with a droning requiem that only Vincent hears.
400 Francs
Dear Brother,
In response to your last letter, I’ll say again what I’ve said a thousand times. You are not a burden. You bless me and Johanna with your talents (don’t worry about missing the wedding, your health is your top priority). I know you haven’t talked much with Johanna yet, but she is well connected with the London art scene and has nothing but praise for your works.
Normally I’d have nothing more to send than my faithful words and the usual 50 francs, but not this time. Your painting, The Red Vineyard, was sold to Miss Anna Boch for 400 francs. She admires your work and looks forward to your rise to prominence. Congratulations on selling the first of many paintings.
Don’t worry about repaying anything just yet. Please use this money to buy some good, hot food (not that goop they serve in the asylum) and new clothes for the winter.
Ever yours,
Theo
Vincent Willem van Gogh
Vincent looks into the babe’s eyes and sees almond blossoms. Brilliant white and resonant blue.
“We named him Vincent,” Theo says. “Vincent Willem van Gogh.”
“You should have named him after Father,” Vincent says, tears falling down his cheeks.
“In one hundred years, no one will remember the name Theodorus,” Johanna says, handing the babe to Vincent. “But Vincent will be a name known forever.”
The babe reaches out and grabs a clump of Vincent’s beard. He feels fragile and ethereal in Vincent’s hands, as if merely holding him too long will ruin the babe’s beauty, a beauty not meant for this world. He sees the colors, the wildness of the world, Vincent thinks. Yes, he is like me.
Dr. Gachet
The doctor rests his elbow on the table, leaning his wrinkled cheek against his hand. His eyes are like those of a blind man, Vincent thinks while painting his portrait. A sensitive face of melancholy.
“Is your friend a large part of your identity?” Dr. Gachet asks.
“He's been with me since my childhood. Sometimes he disappears for a few days, and I feel a deep emptiness whenever he’s gone. But he has been gone for weeks now. He has never been gone this long.”
“Emptiness often precedes peace, Monsieur Gogh. Have you ever considered that you may be better off without your friend?”
“I don’t know, Doctor.” Vincent sets down his paintbrush. “I remember a fight we had, years ago. I was in love with a girl. I went to her house, but her parents forbade me from seeing her. Enraged, I held my hand over the stove, demanding to see her for at least as long as I could keep my hand over the flames. They tossed a bucket of water over me and threw me out onto the street. Afterward, I told my friend that this world was not meant for people like me, that I planned to lay down on the train tracks. He called me a coward. I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore, and he left. That night, as I lay blindfolded on the tracks, he returned, saying he was haunted by the image of me dying alone, and even if he could not convince me otherwise, he’d at least provide company. I could hear the train in the distance. He told me to lift my blindfold and stare up at the sky. I was scared, but my friend encouraged me. I had never seen the stars and moon so beautiful. The night winds were twirling the glistening lights, and all the elements of life seemed to be playing with one another in ecstatic joy. Even in my darkest hour the world was still so uncaringly beautiful. I felt I could inhale that joy and make it a part of my being forever. I wanted to live.”
“You seem more articulate these days.”
“Maybe so, Doctor. But like I mentioned, I feel a great emptiness within me.”
Starry Night
Vincent sits on a hill overlooking the town’s lights, holding the revolver to his chest. The night winds pull at his skin, begging him to come along.
As Vincent’s finger trembles on the trigger, the Lego Man appears from his coat pocket and jumps towards the revolver.
“Lego Man!”
Vincent barely glimpses the Lego Man’s unchanging smile as he disappears down the barrel. The trigger fires. The bullet explodes in the barrel, knocking Vincent back. For a moment he is weightless in the night sky. The Lego Man is in a million glistening pieces, accompanying the stars in luminescent swirls. Beyond the lights, the Milky Way flows down into Vincent with a roar.
Jihoon Park’s (@jihoon_park94) fiction is forthcoming or published in Storm Cellar, The Forge Literary Magazine, JMWW, and elsewhere. He is currently an MFA student at George Mason University. He is from San Jose, California.