“You’re not taking anything? I’m not asking much.”
“No. Sorry,” replied the gallerist in a tone that brooked no bargaining.
The artist lingered, hesitating to do what was left for him to do.
“Then look at this,” he said, tearing off the wrapping paper from the last canvass.
The gallerist put the painting on an easel, turned it towards the window, and began examining it in silence.
The girl in the portrait seemed even younger – maybe because the two men who were looking at it had grown noticeably older.
The pause dragged on.
“I’ve already shown it to you once,” said the artist, unable to bear the silence. “You wanted to buy it.”
“Yes, I remember,” responded the gallerist. “I wanted to buy it, but you wouldn’t sell… Today, I’m not buying it.”
“Why? You don’t like it any longer?”
“I do. I like it very much, but… You see, it is too personal and obviously dear to you. Your bringing it to me means that you are desperate, and I would be a vulture to take advantage. That wouldn’t stop me when I was younger but with years, I’ve come to see certain things differently.”
He returned the painting to the artist who started packing his canvases, preparing to go.
“What’s that in the folder?” asked the gallerist.
“It’s nothing, just a sketch…”
“Let’s see it.”
The painter extracted a cardboard. It was a drawing of the flower which he meant to throw in to speed up the sale of his paintings.
The gallerist put the cardboard on the easel.
“Strange,” he said. “It seems familiar.”
“It looks like Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, but it’s not an imitation.”
“My dear fellow, I’m familiar with Van Gogh, believe me,” the gallerist said with reproach. “And I see that it’s not an imitation. Are you selling?”
Without bargaining, the gallerist bought the drawing for a price that struck the painter as enormous.
“Tell me, have you painted something for yourself? I mean, besides that portrait,” asked the gallerist while he was helping the artist pack up his works.
“I tried my hand in urban landscape but I gave it up.”
“I’d like to see that stuff of yours.”
“But there is no demand for that!”
“Demand is my concern. Bring me your landscapes.”
The artist brought his old cityscapes, and the gallerist exhibited them for sale. Apparently, he really knew his job and had a good clientele, as in a couple of weeks all the paintings had been sold.
The painter got back to work and started receiving orders. After a while, he already gained some reputation as the author of “a fresh perspective on urban landscape.”
A successful, fashionable artist cannot be without a woman, and a woman materialized.
She assaulted him at some exhibition, pushing aside a couple of less active contenders.
“You are so talented! I’ve been so looking forward to making your acquaintance!”
Unaccustomed to attention, the painter could not withstand the onrush.
Having settled in the studio, the woman began putting it to rights in her own way, and of course, she could not overlook the flower.
“What’s that?”
“It is Van Gogh.”
“What Van Gogh?”
“Well… It’s a long story,” the artist dodged explanations.
“I don’t like it. It has neither a good look or a smell.”
With the woman about, the artist stopped drinking, started having regular meals, getting up in the morning and working every day.
One day Van Gogh blossomed – shot up a thin pedicle with three petals on it.
The woman plucked the pedicle and, standing before the mirror, tried to fix it into her hair. She did not like the result, and the petals went into the garbage bin.
“By the way, when are you going to paint my portrait?”
“Not now, darling. You know what a load of work I have.”
Then a little fruit looking like a quince appeared where the petals used to be.
The painter was not fast enough to stop her – she plucked the fruit, saying:
“There’s got to be some use for this plant!”
She took a bit and grimaced:
“Sour!”
Soon she announced that she was pregnant.
As many women that are in the family way, she became irritable. The flower was the first to fall victim to her bad mood.
“Take away that disgusting weed!”