Disclaimer: Doctor Who is copyright property of the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC).
Visit the Vincent van Gogh Information Gallery, run by David Brooks.
"Many painters are afraid of the blank canvas, but the blank canvas is afraid of the really passionate painter who is daring -- and who has once and for all broken that spell of 'you cannot.'"
-- Vincent van Gogh, October 1888
Long stems of grass and wheat bowed at his feet as a light breeze blew through the field. Nearby poplars rustled their leaves, momentarily drowning out the faint buzzing of crickets. He took a deep breath, absorbing the calm, delightful atmosphere. How could anyone prefer a drab, confined studio to this! The only rival surrounding that came to mind was the view of Renaissance Italy from Leonardo's workshop.
Dorothée had been a French citizen for nearly six Earth years now. Although only a year or two had passed in the TARDIS since her departure, he felt even older knowing that, in a day or so, she would be a mother for the second time. A far cry from the teenager with a taste for explosives and Dalek-bashing who stumbled into his life on Iceworld. Funny that, despite calling a space/time machine home, he never had time to drop in on old friends for a cup of tea.
A figure emerged from behind the farmhouses in the distance. Spotting him, the stranger abandoned the dirt road to traverse the field. "Ah, right on time," the Doctor muttered to himself. The approaching figure resembled a studio on legs, carrying a wooden case of paints in one hand and supporting an easel and canvas on his back and broad shoulders with a makeshift backpack. A wide-brimmed straw hat overshadowed his sunburnt face and scruffy red beard. The frayed edges of his loose-fitting blue jacket and pants completed his outdoor, on-the-road look.
"Bonjour, monsieur," the stranger said, emerging from the field. His Dutch accent gave his French a rough edge. "Mind if I join you?"
"Not at all. Lovely day, isn't it?"
"Indeed. You're English, yes?"
The Doctor snickered. "You could say that. Would you prefer that I speak in English? En francais? In het Nederlands?"
"Whichever you prefer. I'm Vincent, by the way."
"Enchanté. I'm the Doctor." He set down his brush to shake hands.
Vincent set down his paints and backpack. "In that case, call me the Artist," he said with a grin. "Is painting your hobby, then?"
Not just a brilliant artist, he's sarcastic too. "Yes, it lets me unwind. I really must do it more often." He recovered his brush and added a few dabs of green and yellow to the canvas.
Vincent removed a canteen from his backpack and quenched his thirst. Walking over to inspect the Doctor's work, his eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the Time Lord painting skillfully with two brushes, one in each hand. "Mon Dieu! you paint with both hands?"
"Yes, my paintings tend to look lop-sided using only one hand. With double vision, using both hands would be the logical choice."
"Of course," Vincent said, a look of confusion and wonder vying for control of his face. "May I make a suggestion, Doctor."
"Hmmm," the Doctor murmured in agreement. He dipped his brush into the palette of colours in the base of his easel and continued painting.
"Have you tried painting from your mind's eye?"
The Doctor briefly glanced at his companion. "I'm not sure I follow."
Glancing up at the scene before them and back at the canvas, Vincent said, "You've well captured the wheat fields, trees and clouds. Almost a photograph in its detail. But, to me, it conveys no emotion, no sense of what you were feeling while painting."
"The mind's eye, ah yes." The Time Lord brought up his hand to his chest, rubbing his thumb along the handle of the paintbrush in contemplation. "I was schooled in art by a rather strict, moderate Academy, drawing umpteen studies of hands and faces until we were able to capture them in perfect detail. Needless to say, creativity was frowned upon."
Vincent chuckled. "I've learned far more by drawing from nature; attending an art school only confirmed that. A painting encompasses much more, I feel, when it captures gestures and expressions, rather than precise details of hands and faces."
The Doctor nodded in agreement. He returned his attention to the canvas with a sigh. "I guess this is no better than a postcard, then."
"Not to worry. The art critics will praise it without end, especially when they hear about your ambidextrous approach to painting." The Doctor chuckled. Vincent had painted over seven hundred paintings, only sold one, but still maintained a sense of humour. He couldn't help but admire the man.
Vincent bent down and reached into his backpack. He produced a half loaf of crusty bread and a small block of cheese. "Care for some, Doctor?"
"Non merci." The Doctor set down his paintbrushes and retrieved his unopened umbrella from beside the easel. "Tell me, if you don't mind me asking, are you feeling better these days?" he said, sitting on a nearby wooden stool.
Vincent swallowed a piece of cheese and raised an eyebrow. "I see my reputation as the 'fou roux' precedes me."
"Redheaded madman? Never heard that one. No, I meant are you in better spirits since leaving Saint Remy for here? I understand you had quite a difficult time there." Hopefully, it wasn't too forward a question. He exaggerated his sympathetic glance just in case.
Vincent was silent for a moment, staring into the distance with blue, pallid eyes. "Initially, I thought being in the presence of others with similar conditions would benefit me. Lessen my fear and anxiety of future attacks. But I was wrong." He tore off a piece of bread and ate it hastily. "The doctors soon treated me like any other madman there, leaving us to vegetate in our rooms. It became an oppressive, crushing prison, with the other patients influencing more attacks." He met the Doctor's glance.
The depth of emotion Vincent's eyes conveyed surprised the Time Lord. Far too much for a species with a seventy year life expectancy. Sadly, Vincent's time would come in only two months. "What were the attacks like, Vincent, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Pain and suffering. They turned me into a coward, never knowing when the next one would occur." He paused to collect his thoughts. "Sometimes I would hear strange sounds coming from nowhere and everywhere. Voices, too. Both angelic and hideous. And things seemed to change before my very eyes. It's difficult to explain--"
"'One morn, a peri at the Gate of Eden stood, disconsolate.' Ever read that?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"Of course you don't. You don't even know what peri is, do you . . . Peri?"
"No."
"I'll tell you. A peri is a good and beautiful fairy in Persian mythology. The interesting things is, before it became good, it was evil. And that's what you are: thoroughly evil."
"Doctor, stop it!"
"No, no, not even a fairy, an alien spy. Sent here to spy on me. And we all know the fate of alien spies. . . ."
"--unless you've experienced something like it yourself."
The Doctor shuddered, his heartbeats quickening their pace. He looked down at his hands, which looked quite feeble all of a sudden. They'd have trouble strangling a cat now, let alone a human.
"Have you ever been to Arles, Doctor?"
The question awakened him from his thoughts. "What? Oh. No, I don't believe so." At least not yet.
"Funny, you remind me of someone I saw there once. No matter. What brings you to Auvers-sur-Oise then?"
"I'm on my way to Paris to visit a good friend. My train leaves tomorrow morning." The Doctor began filling a canvas bag with his paint supplies.
"A great way to see the French countryside, indeed. My brother works out of Paris as an art dealer."
"Yes, I visited his showroom on a previous visit. He showed me some of your work. You've amassed quite a collection of paintings there!"
Vincent's eyes lit up. "And what did you think of them?"
Oh dear. He'll be asking me to buy one in a moment. "You certainly don't hide your feelings. And your use of texture and complimentary colours are intriguing."
"Any favourites? I could wire my brother to keep them aside for you, and he'll likely be favourable with the rates."
Definitely a sales pitch in need of refinement. "Even better, why don't I buy you dinner. My treat. We can discuss matters further then."
"Merci beaucoup, Doctor. There's a tavern in town that makes a wonderful stew."
They arrived in town just as the sun began its gradual descent behind vineyard-dotted hills. Conversations during their walk remained light-hearted, centering on contemporary art and politics. Knowing how spirited and opinionated Vincent could be, the Doctor made little effort to challenge his views.
The artist led the way to the rustic, lantern-lit tavern. The waitress brought wine for Vincent and water for the Doctor. Fortunately, he remembered to bring purifier capsules and dropped two into his mug. She soon returned with a loaf of bread and two bowls of stew. The thick broth and hearty vegetables made for a filling meal.
The Doctor spooned up the morsels of meat and offered them to his companion. "How delightful," he muttered upon discovering a meat chunk with a visible diamond shaped brand. "I guess someone brands their cows with a diamond logo around here?"
Vincent chuckled. "That's not beef; it's horse."
The Doctor pushed his bowl aside, losing his appetite. "Any more surprises? Now, I'd say my right is my good side, don't you agree?"
Vincent raised an eyebrow. "Pardons?"
"For my portrait. Your portraits in your brother's showroom impressed me the most, so I'd like to commission one from you. I'll certainly make it worth your while."
"I'd be delighted." They shook hands, and the waitress cleared the table for dessert.
"By the way, my friend in Paris tends to keep up to date on art events around the country, frequently visiting art galleries and showrooms. Since she has no idea I'm here, could we keep this transaction a secret?" Dorothée's art education likely didn't go beyond what they'd seen in the Louvre, but the lie was necessary to secure the time line. Otherwise, Vincent would surely have mentioned the painting in one of his hundreds of letters.
"My lips are sealed." Vincent set up an easel near the table and began painting the Doctor's portrait during dessert. Fortunately, there was little room for surprise with fresh fruit.
-- Vincent van Gogh, December 1889
Looking back, there were many good days. And disputes happened only occasionally. But the disputes were intense, each venting every little frustration and making wild accusations. Add to this Gauguin's habit of leaving dishes in the sink for days on end and singing incessantly off key in their studio, and Vincent couldn't help but feel infuriated.
Forget Gauguin. The headaches he got from their arguments and resulting tension were affecting his work. Some time apart to let things settle would benefit their friendship, if it still existed. A sudden wave of nausea and light-headedness overcame him, and he leaned on a nearby lamppost for support.
Deliver the package. Stay in control.
He produced a small newspaper-wrapped parcel from his coat pocket and examined it under the glaring light of the lamppost. Who was it for?
Show her you're in control.
He rubbed his head in futility to relieve the headache. Replacing the package in his pocket, he cautiously made his way up the street to the brothel. He greeted the bouncer at the entrance, and a scantily dressed young woman with a face of mascara and blush approached him in the lobby.
"Salut, Vincent. Another lonely night?" she said in a husky voice. "Mon Dieu! your ear's bleeding." She dipped a handkerchief into her drink and wiped away the trickles of blood from his neck. "Were you in a fight? Someone's cut off your earlobe!" She handed him the handkerchief.
"A fight? Perhaps. I don't remember," he mumbled, applying pressure to his ear with the rag.
She draped an arm over his shoulder and gently stroked his beard with nails thickly coated in red nail polish. "Where's Paul?"
"It's just me tonight, ma chere." He produced the package from his pocket and placed it in her hand. "This is for you, Rachel."
Show her you're in control.
"How sweet." She unfolded the paper and promptly dropped the package with a shriek. The earlobe lay exposed on the floor. "You sick fool!" she yelled, backing away from the artist.
The bouncer grabbed Vincent by the shoulders and ushered him out the door. "Time's up, monsieur."
Take control of your pain.
How could he have been so foolish? Thinking he could regain control over his suffering by inflicting pain. Self-mutilation. No more. He needed help.
You're a crazy fool.
Vincent again leaned against a lamppost to collect his thoughts. The glare of the lamppost was intensified by the pulsing, swirling twilight above. Home. He had to get home. People rushed by in a blur of malevolent glares and with deafening hisses. He cupped his ears as the hisses grew into a roar.
His heart beat wildly, and sweat streamed down his forehead as he dipped into a side alley. He took long, deep breaths but to no avail. A strong breeze rustled his coat flaps, and rays of blue light lit up the opposite end of the alleyway. A complex mesh of horizontal and vertical light beams took shape, with the outline of a large rectangular box forming at its core.
Rushing from the alleyway, he made his way to the cobblestone street. His balance was soon upset as the street contorted and swayed beneath his feet. Only the horse trotting quickly towards him seemed able to ride the stone-strewn waves with confidence. As the horse reared up on its hind legs, he was pushed violently out of harm's way.
With a groan, Vincent picked himself up from the sidewalk. He caught sight of a large, burly horse resuming his four-legged stance in the middle of the road before the outstretched hand of a shadowy figure. The horse calmly approached the man and was greeted with a handful of carrots.
Still stunned, the horse owner stepped down from his cart to thank the man. "Merci, monsieur. Merci beaucoup. Jade is easily frightened in his old age. Doubt he'll make it another harvest or two. I hope your friend isn't hurt." He glanced over at Vincent, then turned to collect up the produce thrown from the cart.
Once the horse had finished his treat, the man approached Vincent. He was fairly short, wearing a brown jacket, plaid pants and pullover adorned with question marks. He doffed his panama hat, and the artist was immediately captivated by his grey eyes. The stare penetrated into his mind, and the artist suddenly grew faint.
"A very nasty cut, indeed. Let's take you home."
-- Vincent van Gogh, circa 1887
This would be his second attempt at visiting Dorothee since her departure from the TARDIS. On his way to Paris during the first attempt, he realized that a visit could prove problematic. His companion had left him to start a normal life, to start a family. How would she explain him and their travels together through space and time to her husband, Count Sorin, and their children without having her sanity questioned?
It would be like Vincent abandoning years of toil and the vivid, expressionist style applied to "Starry Night" for his early somber, rustic style as in "The Potato Eaters". A step backwards, indeed. Instead, he had a visual record of his progress which he could revisit anytime he wished in the form of his hundreds of paintings. Similarly, Dorothée had her memories.
However, at this point in time, she was still single and finding her footing in her new life. He would just give her boost and be on his way.
A horse-drawn cart came round the bend in the road up ahead. What a coincidence; it was Jade and his owner. Of course, they would have no idea who he was yet, but he would say hello anyway. As the horse drew near, he produced a handful of carrots. The owner tugged on the reins and drew the cart to a stop, and the Doctor walked over to feed the animal. Jade snorted appreciatively.
"Merci, monsieur. You're too kind. Nice day, yes?"
"Very." He wiped off his hands with his handkerchief and tipped his hat. "Adieu." He stepped to the side of the road as the owner motioned the horse forward.
"Adieu, monsieur," the man replied.
As the cart passed him, the Doctor caught sight of the diamond logo branded into the horse's hind leg and felt rather queasy. He sometimes forgot that time travel could be hazardous to your health. He took a few deep breaths and continued his walk. He still had an hour or so before the train left.
The Time Lord pictured the beautiful smile Dorothee would give him upon seeing him at the doorstep of her apartment. She had made him promise to visit her once she got settled in, and he wasn't about to break it. However, this would likely be their last visit together.
But at least they would always have Paris.
- Hulsker, Jan, ed. Van Gogh's "Diary": The Artist's Life in His Own Words and Art. New York: William Morrow and Company, Inc., 1971.
- Walther, Ingo F., and Rainer Metzger. Vincent van Gogh: The Complete Paintings. 2 vols. Benedikt Taschen, 1993.