The boy, with a handgun tucked into his waistband, poked Van Gogh's back with his finger, giggling.
"Crazy painter mister. What are you painting today?"
"Ah! Get away, you little brat."
Despite Van Gogh's scornful reaction, the boy continued to circle around, being a nuisance. He seed as mischievous as he looked.
But Van Gogh only warned the boy, not really driving him away. After a while, the boy quietly observed the painting Van Gogh was working on.
"It’s beautiful, mister."
“…….”
"I wish I could paint well too."
“…….”
"But it doesn’t work out for . I tried at ho, but it just didn’t happen. My mom saw my painting and laughed for a long ti. I was so embarrassed, I couldn’t continue."
Van Gogh glanced at René and replied curtly.
"Even if you make mistakes, it's better to try again with enthusiasm than to be timid and fearful."
René pouted and twisted his body around, saying,
"But the paintings I make beco a laughing stock for people."
"When life seems empty and insignificant, a soul with conviction and passion does not give up easily. If you have passion for painting, you won’t be able to give it up. If you do give up, then that’s all the passion you had."
René looked at Van Gogh with dissatisfaction and then turned his gaze back to the painting. Lost in the brilliance of the golden wheat field in the painting, he asked as if srized.
“When did you start painting well, mister?”
“…….”
Was it because he was told he painted well? Van Gogh looked at the boy with a stern face, his deep and serious eyes capturing the boy’s image.
“I dread of painting my paintings, and then I painted my dreams. Talent is born from long endurance, and creativity arises from effort through strong will and diligent observation.”
“How can I paint well?”
“Love is essential.”
“What should I love?”
“Many things. Because that's where the power of truth resides.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A candle burns itself to give light to others. Even if a single candle lights many others, the light of the original candle does not diminish. I burn myself in love for life.”
These were difficult words for a young boy to comprehend.
But to , they carried a profound aning.
René spoke with frustration.
“But I’m scared of painting because people might make fun of . I get scared just looking at a blank sheet of paper.”
Van Gogh stroked René’s head and said,
“Even if one day a voice inside you says, ‘You cannot paint,’ just keep painting. That voice will naturally fade away.”
“Really?”
“I always do things I can’t yet do. That’s how I learn to do them.”
“But I'm just an ordinary country boy. Can soone like paint?”
“Ordinariness is like a well-paved road. It’s comfortable to walk on, but no beautiful flowers can grow on it. Who dares to label a person as ordinary? If you set limits for yourself, those limits beco your reality.”
“Hmm.”
“Start with sothing very small. Small and simple things accumulate into sothing big. Co here.”
Van Gogh lifted the boy onto his lap and set up a new canvas.
Van Gogh prepared the palette with paints, creating a pleasing color sche, then handed a brush to the boy. Guiding the boy's wrist with his own hand, he moved it over the palette.
“Do you see that tree over there?”
“Yes.”
“What’s beside the tree?”
“Beside the tree?”
“Yes, it’s not just the tree.”
“Hmm.”
René's eyes studied the distant tree. As he did, his expression brightened.
“Wow, I’ve seen that tree since I was little. But I’ve never looked at it this closely. There’s a hole in the middle made by a bird, and magpies have built a nest at the top.”
“Right, how many leaves does it have?”
“It's almost winter, so most have fallen. Only a few are left, and even those are changing color, turning red and yellow.”
“That’s right, everything starts with observation. If you observe well, you can paint well.”
“Wow.”
“Want to paint with ?”
“Yes, I’d love to!”
René agreed enthusiastically, but as his brush neared the canvas, his face showed fear.
Van Gogh firmly grasped the boy's wrist, saying,
“Fishern know the sea is dangerous and the storm is frightening. But such reasons don’t stop them from going out to sea. Be brave, René.”
The boy swallowed hard and relaxed his hand, which was trying to move away from the canvas.
Van Gogh, holding the boy’s wrist, began to move the brush.
René’s eyes widened in amazent as the brush, never leaving the canvas, swiftly created branches and a trunk.
“Wow…”
“Shall we make the leaves?”
“Yes!”
“What color should they be?”
“Like the fallen leaves, red.”
“The tips of the leaves, if you look closely, have orange and even purple. Take a closer look later.”
“How about we mix those colors?”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Can I try mixing them?”
“Yes.”
The paint jars below the easel.
The boy, sitting on Van Gogh’s lap, leaned over to reach the jars.
At that mont, a loud noise erupted between them.
Bang!!!
Startled by the sound, René rolled off Van Gogh’s lap onto the ground.
The boy, unknowingly touching the gun he had tucked in his waistband.
Seeing the barrel of the gun, which had just fired a bullet, was hot, René, trembling, looked at Van Gogh, who was still sitting in the chair.
"Ah, mister?"
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