Work Text:
Charlie approaches the imposing exterior steps to the gallery, hope tickling inside his chest. Hope that he will love it the way he thinks he will. That the art will move him, maybe even inspire him a little. That'd be nice.
He ascends the stairs and enters the building through imposing doors, security paying him no mind as he steps into a grand hall, spins twice to take in the architecture around him and once more to observe the signage, and then takes himself to yet more stairs following arrows that point him to his target.
He hits the right floor and weaves through the rooms, each rich in art and history, colour and texture, with passion and creativity dripping from every wall. He wanders through the movements: baroque, rococo, neoclassicism, romanticism, realism. Each with its own sense of charm and intrigue, and he takes time to absorb one piece in each room, whichever draws him in the most. As he snakes his way around, he tracks palettes and mediums rising and falling in popularity over time. He peers closely at a Turner and stands back from a Monet, looking and learning until he sees it. The name he came for.
Van Gogh.
Charlie had liked Van Gogh’s paintings just fine when he first learned about them in Mr Ajayi’s art classes at school, but he truly fell in love with Van Gogh’s work after hearing Vincent by Don McLean. A song that isn't to his usual taste but one he heard by chance that stopped him clean in his tracks and lodged itself in his soul. Ever since that first listen, he’d held Van Gogh close to his heart and hoped to one day see his work, to lay eyes on the brush strokes and marks left by his hands all those years ago.
And now here he is. In the same room as canvases once graced by Vincent's paintbrush, compositions of the world around him as seen through the artist’s own eyes. Tears gather at Charlie's lashline before he gets close enough to properly see softly swirling clouds and vibrant blades of long grass. He could have come here years ago if he'd wanted to. Could have walked these halls a thousand times before. It's only a train ride away after all. He never did though, not until today. Today had just felt right somehow.
He approaches the first painting, a lump in his throat as he steps towards it. It hangs on heavy chains descending from the ceiling, a thick green rope preventing him from getting within a metre of the work. He can get close enough though. Close enough to see the depth of the paint and the direction of each stroke. To absorb the shades and shadows, the swirls and dashes. To see the texture of the canvas around the edges where it disappears into the ornate frame that surrounds it.
A fresh wave of tears prickle behind his eyes as he imagines Vincent tending to this very canvas over a hundred years ago. Did he sit or stand? Did he map the composition out before starting or act on instinct? Did he paint this to win the smile of a specific person or to chase a glimmer of joy and beauty for himself? Was he present in the moment or lost in his inner world as he worked? How did it make him feel to create it? To view it? How does it make the people around him now feel to view it?
Charlie tears his eyes away to observe the faces of those around him. There's an older woman sitting tucked away in the corner, quietly sketching another painting in pencil. He sees people snapping selfies with the art and moving along much quicker than he is. He watches faces as they carousel through; some smiles, some neutral expressions, some impressed nods. One person catches his eye and holds his attention - a tall man about his age standing before the next painting along, reddy-blond hair sweeping across a freckled forehead.
He's beautiful for sure, but it's the awe on his face that sparks Charlie's interest. He stands still, mouth gently curled at the sides, clear, unbridled admiration painted across his face as he stands lost in the painting. Charlie moves to stand beside him, raking his eyes over the work. He wonders what it is about this specific painting that inspired the man's focus. Compared to the full, rich landscape he just stepped away from, this painting seems… less. There are fewer brush strokes, thinner coverage, more muted hues, even a notable gap between the sky and the field below.
“What are your thoughts about this painting?” Charlie asks the man softly, testing the waters. He may not want to talk and that's okay. There's just something about him that makes Charlie feel like he'd kick himself later if he didn't at least ask what was going on behind those big, thoughtful eyes.
“Oh,” the man startles. “It's just – this is one he was working on right before he died. I was wondering how he would have finished it. If he would have filled it out with richer tones, or if he would have kept his pallet soft.”
“So that's why there’s a gap in the painting,” Charlie hums quietly.
“Yeah,” the tall man nods, looking over at Charlie and gracing him with a warm little lopsided smile.
“What do you think he might have put there if he'd continued?” Charlie muses, asking the stranger, himself, the universe at large.
“I don't know,” the man answers. “Maybe he would have brought the grass up to meet the sky?”
“Maybe. What would you add? If you were the painter?” Charlie asks more purposefully, turning toward the man, the toes of his converse pointing towards him.
The man turns too, mirroring Charlie's stance and blushing adorably when their eyes meet. “Well, the landscape is pretty beautiful. It could be nice to add a spot for people within the painting to sit and take in the view?”
“It would. Maybe a nice porch. Like they have in American houses?” Charlie suggests, earning an enthusiastic nod in return.
“Yes! With two wooden chairs and a little table to rest mugs on?”
“I’d sit there all day,” Charlie admits wistfully, turning back to the painting to imagine how it might feel to be in Vincent's world.
“Me too,” the man agrees.
“I’d sit here all day.”
“Same… I'm Nick, by the way.”
“Charlie.”
The two men trade shy smiles and return their gaze to the painting, enjoying the art in comfortable silence.
He feels his torso filling with something just slightly beyond hope as he drinks in the moment. Something that sparkles and flutters. It’s less peaceful than how he felt when he entered the gallery but still welcome. He wonders at the power of art to connect people… across time in the ethereal way he feels connected to the painter… and across space like the fresh, bracing way he now feels connected to Nick.
“We can't sit here but there's a cafe on the next floor if maybe you would like to sit somewhere with me?” Charlie's new friend tentatively asks after a little while, just as Charlie was plucking up the courage to suggest something similar. He nods happily and takes one last look at the Van Gogh before brushing the back of his fingers gently against Nick's hand where it hangs between them and gesturing in an ‘after you’ motion.
Don was right. This world wasn't meant for one as beautiful as Vincent. But maybe it's made for something as beautiful as this.