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On Self-Portrait, by Vincent Van Gogh:
Vincent looks the reporter earnestly in the eyes and begins to tell his story:
"I always knew my parents were gypsies. When I was growing up my
friends even called me Heathcliff. My governess would chastise me and
turn my buttocks pink whenever I mentioned the subject, but that was
only the "foreplay," if you will. Later they would take me to the
drawing room. My father, a very important merchant, in those days,
kept his katana swords in there. She would stand before them and
unsheathe the longest one, named Lady Anna
for a woman of my father's acquaintence. (It was rumored that I was
half-japanese, but I knew this was an untruth.) The name didn't suit
her–she looked like Lady Colombia to me–with the sword stretched out
before my neck and screaming "YOU ARE YOUR MOTHER'S CHILD."
My only refuge was my secret cave. One afternoon, I fell to the
floor, beating down the clay in a fit of rage. I lay there imagining
that a very large beast had stepped there and shit me out from under
it. I swore to find my real parents. Meanwhile, I began to paint my
real family. The first painting I completed was of a woman full of
mirth, helping her actress daughter, a prima donna, dress for her show.
I imagined that I was this daughter, secretly dressed as a
woman, ready to receive roses. I would sleep with any man who
approached me afterwards, so warm with the glow of success. I named it
"Cornelia." Every Sunday after that, I would scrutinize the photos of
lost children on telephone poles and milk cartons, always seeing some
similarity in the child's afro or his manner of dress.
One fateful afternoon, I met a very similar actress in a bar. I felt
immediately that she was my sister and that I had had visions of her, a
sort of sanguine bond. When the thought struck me, I began to kiss her
cheeks. She was confused for a moment and told me to slow down. I
insisted that she did not understand, so I set out to show the
obviousness of our connection. I asked her where her father was. Her
eyes lost the familial sparkle. Does he not collect knives, smell so
sweetly of poppy fields, and have many intimidating tattoos? She
assented. I then called the newspapers, elated.
I heard from her a few weeks later, and she asked to meet me. I
agreed and I was shocked to see her tear-stained face and she walked
into the restaurant. She picked up the nearest glass and shattered it
against my right ear, which is why I have this bandage."
The reporter asked, "So, you aren't the mystery kid after all?" Vincent looked away abashedly and clucked his tongue.
-Originally published at: http://todaysnewsart.wordpress.com
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