Starry Night

“Unrealistic.”

“Lacking creativity.”

“Horrible painting style.”

Vincent Van Gogh had heard these insults and many more than he would have liked to admit. He walked into his house after another failed painting sale and put down his painting. He sat on his bed, wondering what he would do, when he heard a knock on the door. He was bewildered. Nobody ever visited him.

He opened the door to find a girl, no older than twelve, standing in his doorway.

“Is this Vincent Van Gogh’s house?” she asked him.

“Yes . . . ,” Vincent managed to get out.

She smiled. “May I come in?”

A normal person wouldn’t let a stranger come into his house, but Vincent was so shocked he just said, “Yes.”

She walked into the small house and stared at the picture he just failed to sell. “Wow,” she gasped. “Did you paint that?”

“Yes,” he replied, getting ready for an insult. “It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

“No, I think it’s beautiful. The way you made all the colors swirl together . . . It looks like I’m in a dream. What’s its name?” she marveled.

Vincent felt like he was the one in a dream. “Starry Night,” Vincent told her. “And . . . nobody ever compliments my work.”

The girl grinned. “Well, I think great art is often misunderstood, like Leonardo da Vinci or Andy Warhol.”

Vincent was confused at that last name. “Excuse me, but who is Andy Warhol?”

He swore he saw the color drain from her face. “He’s, uh . . . an artist from where I’m from. Sorry, I didn’t know you haven’t heard of him,” she stuttered. All her confidence was suddenly gone. “I, I have to go. Thank you for showing me that beautiful painting.” The girl rushed out the door.

Vincent Van Gogh looked out the door and saw the peculiar girl run off. A smile came to his face. A real one. He hadn’t smiled in a long time.