When she faced one of the original Sunflowers paintings, back in that distant summer, at that same museum, she had felt a surge of inexplicable tender joy, mixed with sadness. It had a pale yellow background and it was a copy of one of the first four versions that Van Gogh had painted in the summer of 1888 in Arles. Annabel knew the originals and the “copies”, all nine of them, all too well. Back then she lived and felt intensively, passionately, expressively, and there was something different to the state that the painting put her into now, something as sweet as a blissful nostalgia, a whiff of her childhood, something of her first sketchbook, out of which the same vangoghly sunflowers were laughing at her. She looked at the sunflowers and associated them with loafs of bread again, baked with gratitude like they were the artist ‘s gift to nature, the artist’s gift to her. Back in those days it had seemed to her that everything existed for her pleasure, like the Creator had made the world with one single purpose in mind – to grant Annabel delight. She had returned to them three times that day, she had gone around the museum, she had stood in front of the other paintings too, but something had been pulling her back to the sunflowers all the time. Then she had entered a phone booth and dialed her home number. That was her second and last call home. „Daddy, please, pick up, please, please, please!”, she repeated in her head, while listening to the dial tone, and when she had heard her father’s deep warm voice, she had almost cried out with relief. 

“I saw the sunflowers!” her first words were.

“Anna, is that you?” She felt his joy.

“Yes, Dad. I saw the sunflowers. I was at the Van Gogh Museum, they’re even prettier, even more intense, brighter, I am dazzled!”

“I am very happy for you. Are you okay, my girl?”

“Yes, Dad, very much, I paint a lot, I’ve never been happier.”

“This makes me feel a little bit better, we worry about you, your mom is very concerned…”

“Mom just doesn’t get it, Dad. I’m good, better than ever, I feel like a sunflower, and you’re my sun, Dad, I love yoooouuu.”

Annabel heard her father’s subdued laughter on the other end of the line. 

“I love you too, Anna. Look after yourself.”

“Gotta go, Dad, I’m running out of coins, see you soon…”

The line went dead. That was the last time she heard his voice, the last one; ever, that cruel ever, that really means never. Never. What a gruesome, incomprehensible word…

“All of life’s stages in a few sunflowers”

Annabel turned around abruptly and saw her father. The paintings blurred and the last image her mind managed to grasp was that of sunflowers burning like torches. The next image was of Vincent, leaning above her. Annabel realized she was lying on one of the museum benches, she flinched and tried to sit up. Five or six people had gathered, she saw among them their lady companion’s made up face. 

“It’s okay, calm down, no sudden moves,” the man said.

She felt her breathing ease down so she slowly rose. People made sure she was fine and went on with their walks around the museum. 

“What happened?” Annabel asked uncomprehending.

“I saw you study the Sunflowers and your complete concentration was so magnetic, that I felt like seeing them too. I started talking to you and apparently you were taken aback, because you turned abruptly and then you slumped down. Has this happened to you before?’

“Not for a while, it hadn’t. It’s probably due to low blood pressure. I am sorry.”

“Would you like to go down to the Museum Cafe?” Vincent offered.

“I wouldn’t want to bother you. I am fine,” Annabel said in a voice still weak. 

“No, please,” Vincent insisted. 

Their companion followed them.

The cafe was buzzing like a beehive, but they managed to find a table. Annabel asked for coffee. Vincent brought it along with a croissant and the words:

“You need a bite.” 

“Do you feel better now?” their companion asked her with concern.

“Much better, thank you. What did you say when you approached me? What were your exact words?” Annabel turned to Vincent.

“I said that all of life’s stages are represented in a picture of a few sunflowers.” 

“What did you mean by that?”

“The Sunflowers. Birth, maturity and death, it’s all in that sunflower vase.”

“Right, of course…,” she hesitantly replied and thought about it. She had never looked at the painting that way. 

I have to see it again,” she thought. Apparently, it’ll never be enough, there will always be more to discover, and that “more” will reflect the stage we are at, our current state of mind.

“Do you know the myth of the sunflower origin? A water-nymph named Clytie was in love with Apollo, but someone else had won over his affection. For nine days she sat without flinching, and gazed at Apollo traveling in his golden chariot across the sky. Finally, she turned into a flower, but kept looking at him by turning her face on her stem, always gazing in the sun’s direction. That’s why a sunflower is a symbol of devotion in love, of faithfulness that never questions, and of gratitude for that feeling, even if it is unrequited.” the elderly lady recited dramatically, looking at Vincent more than she was looking at Annabel. 

“I didn’t know that,” Annabel uttered. “But I do know that for Van Gogh a sunflower was a symbol of gratitude and friendship.”

“Apparently, you love the arts?” Vincent asked.

“Yes, Van Gogh is my favorite artist.”

“Do you paint yourself?”

“I did. Once. In fact, so long ago, that it seems like it was in another lifetime. What about you?”

“Too bad you’ve stopped. I am just an appreciator.”

By Irina Papancheva