#back in june I was at a van gogh exhibit and saw the paint ‘first steps’ in person for the first time

[guccigarantine]

if you have lmk what was being shown

#I frequently cry in art museums #back in june I was at a van gogh exhibit and saw the paint ‘first steps’ in person for the first time #and had myself a cry #i saw a bunch of keith haring’s work and cried at the untitled paintings #it’s good to cry in public sometimes #I was going to have this be exclusively about art museums but I’ve also cried in a natural history museum before

[saiilorstars]

Stars Dance

Ch. 12: Hopeful Painting

Fandom: Doctor Who Pairing: 11th Doctor x Original Female Character

(Previous chapters)

Fairy Tale Memoirs (Companion story)

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Chapter summary: On a trip to a museum, the gang realize there's something just not right with Vincent Van Gogh's artwork so they must go back and meet him. It brings about some new details that Avalon hadn't been intending on sharing with anyone...ever.

The Doctor, Avalon, and Amy walked through an museum exhibition room displaying Vincent Van Gogh's artwork. While Avalon seemed a bit bored - it was why she was lingering behind - Amy moved around with her guidebook in hand. She was so excited and she had already warned the Doctor and Avalon that she would be seeing every last artwork in the room. Van Gogh was just one of her most favorite artists!

"Thanks for bringing us," Amy looked back at the Doctor who gave her a smiling nod in return. "Well, me," Amy glanced at Avalon who was making a crinkled-nose face at something. She suspected Avalon had found yet another annoying visitor. She'd found at least three in the last 10 minutes, claiming they were so loud for nothing. "Cos Avalon would pretty much rather be anywhere else."

"You are pretty much right," Avalon confirmed and laughed, "I'm not one for arts."

"Well, I asked if you'd rather choose another place instead," Amy reminded, though the mere idea of leaving the museum without checking out everything on her list wasn't very appealing.

"I'm good," Avalon looked around with a smile, shrugging carelessly. "I'm very, very, good." The museum wasn't her first choice but she wasn't about to make Amy leave just because she didn't agree with all their art opinions. Everyone had their different artists, Amy loved art and Avalon preferred stories. Plus, the museum did have some nice artwork, Avalon just didn't get the point of staring at them for so long. She assumed it was like when she read a book and wanted to go to reread it because it was just so good. But how do you do that with art? It's just one page? She'd get bored fast, and she did.

But one day wouldn't kill her. It would test her patience, but it wouldn't kill her. Let Amy stare at her one-paged artwork.

Amy was staring at artwork, but she also noticed other things. The main thing she noticed right now was how Avalon would drift away and suddenly the Doctor would too. Amy didn't mind looking at the artwork on her own. Actually, she didn't mind at all. The Doctor was such a commentator on everything. He made it impossible to look at an artwork without wanting to kill him.

So, Amy gladly watched the Doctor follow Avalon to another portrait. It was actually a common thing now. Ever since Amy caught them in the media room dancing together, they'd been closer. They still bickered but it was that playful bickering and not that murderous type Avalon often did. Something had changed and as curious as Amy was, she would not ask them about it for fear of ruining it. It was really nice seeing them get along and she wanted it to last.

Though that might be changing again...

Avalon was gazing at a painting and talking to the Doctor only to realize the bloody alien wasn't even listening! He was looking back at two boys in front of another painting, talking about a doctor. Avalon rolled her eyes. The ego, she thought and slapped his arm, making him jump and look back at her, "I was talking!" she frowned.

"Hm? Oh, right, I completely agree," the Doctor made an effort to seem like he'd been paying attention. He had no idea what she'd been saying...

"Oh really, you agree with everything I just said?" Avalon crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, I complete agree," the Doctor nodded. He didn't want to irritate her and ruin their relationship that had actually been going so well lately. It been so nice and him not listening might be the reason she gets all sad again. Sad Avalon was not a version he liked.

"Okay then," Avalon held her hand out with a sly smile, "Hand over the TARDIS key."

"What!?"

"Well, you just said I could go back and learn how drive it while you and Amy look around," Avalon wiggled her fingers, "So c'mon, hand it over."

The Doctor nervously laughed and quickly moved beside her, throwing an arm around her shoulders, "Let's save that for later, shall we? We can spend quality time with Amy and-"

"You weren't listening at all, just say it," Avalon crossed her arms again, sending hin a flat-eyed expression.

"I wasn't listening at all," he gave up and sighed. Another way to avoid conflict was to always say the truth with her.

Avalon rolled her eyes and shook his arm off her. "Next time just say so or who knows what you might end up giving up to me. The TARDIS...the screwdriver..."

"I'm gonna stop you right there," the Doctor pointed.

"Or the watch!"

The Doctor slapped a hand over his watch on his wrist. "I don't think so! It is my favorite watch!" He found it almost as soon as he got back to the TARDIS after his most recent regeneration and he almost smacked himself for never noticing it. It was such a cool watch. "I would never agree to give it up, much less to the likes of you!"

Avalon smirked. "Keep up the not listening and one of these days it'll end up on my wrist." She raised her left wrist and passed her fingers over it. "Lovely wrist, right here."

"Keep dreaming, Reynolds."

"Are you two arguing?" Amy walked by the pair, shooting them both scolding eyes.

"He started it!" Avalon was quick to gesture at the Doctor.

"No I didn't!"

"You weren't listening!"

The Doctor opened his mouth to keep on arguing but she actually made a good point. "Oh...yeah, maybe I did." Avalon hummed in agreement, satisfied that he'd taken his fault.

"You two, I swear..." Amy mumbled under her breath and nodded for them to follow her. "Look at this one," she stopped them in front of a painting with an odd building, least that's what Avalon said it was which elicited an offended gasp from Amy and the Doctor. "It's 'The Church at Auvers!"

"Sorry," Avalon raised her hands in defense.

"Honestly, Avalon!"

"What? It's not like it's a big deal-"

"Doctor, tell her something!"

But the Doctor had found something curious about the painting that he was sure shouldn't have been on there. Avalon noticed his eyes squinting at something and she wondered, or perhaps dared to think, there was something out of place.

"Look at that," he finally told them and raised a finger to what he was looking at. One of the church's windows had a small dark figure painting in it.

Amy leaned forwards and stared more intently, "Is it a face?"

"And not a nice one," Avalon looked back at the Doctor with a bright smile, "Does that mean we get to leave now?"

The Doctor made a 'stop talking' motion with his hand and noticed one of the lecturers nearby, Dr. Black, and quickly headed over.

"Did he just give me 'the hand'?" Avalon blinked with a mouth half-open, "Amy?"

Amy put a hand on Avalon's arm, gripping it so she would be forced to stay still, "Let's not kill the man who's our only ride."

"Hm," Avalon huffed and started walking after the Doctor anyways, pulling Amy who yelped with the girl's strength.

They caught up with the Doctor just as he was asking Dr. Black about the painting, "Do you know when that picture of the church was painted?"

"Ah, what an interesting question. Most people..."

"I'm going to have to hurry you," the Doctor cut in as he saw the man taking his sweet time to answer, "When was it?"

"Exactly?"

"As exactly as you can. Without a long speech, if poss. I'm in a hurry."

"Well, in that case, probably somewhere between the 1st and 3rd of June."

"What year?"

"1890. Less than a year before he killed himself."

"Thank you, sir. Very helpful indeed. Nice bow-tie," the Doctor pointed to the man's own bow tie and looked back at the gingers behind him, "Bow-ties are cool."

"Not really," Avalon whispered sarcastically to Amy who snickered.

"Yours is very..." Dr. Black also pointed to the Doctor's bow-tie.

"Oh, thank you. Keep telling them stuff," the Doctor turned to Avalon and Amy, although before he could say anything, Avalon interrupted.

"And we get to leave, yes!" she cheered and clapped her hands, "Meet you there!" she waved and ran off.

"She really does not like museums," the Doctor blinked at such haste.

"Mhm," Amy agreed and so they followed.

~ 0 ~

The group stepped out of the TARDIS to find themselves under a dark night and in a solitary alleyway of a town. The Doctor led the women through the alleyway while explaining the 'plan' he'd come up with, "Right, so here's the plan. We find Vincent and he leads us straight to the church and our nasty friend. "

"Easy peasy," Amy shrugged.

"Have you met the Doctor?" Avalon scoffed, the man about to defend himself but realized she was absolutely right and therefore shut his mouth, "Not to mention Van Gogh's own problems," she continued, "We'll be lucky if he even accepts our friendship."

"Well, we can always hope and try," Amy shrugged.

Avalon scoffed, "'Hope', that's a good one. It doesn't exist," she muttered and moved on with arms crossed.

The Doctor and Amy silently followed after Avalon, both of them glum due to Avalon's words. They arrived at the local cafe of the town where they figured Vincent Van Gogh would most likely be at the moment.

The Doctor approached the cafe and saw the owner by the entrance, "Good evening," he greeted, "Does the name Vincent Van Gogh ring a bell?"

"Don't mention that man to me," the owner muttered and walked into the cafe.

The Doctor turned to the waitresses clearing up the tables outside the cafe and tried one more time, "Excuse me. Do you know Vincent Van Gogh?"

The waitress closest to him made a distasteful face, "Unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" Amy walked over to the entrance of the cafe where the Doctor stood.

"He's drunk, he's mad and he never pays his bills."

"And yet he paints marvelously, doesn't he?" Avalon asked. Her answer was the laughter of the waitresses combined with the customers at the tables.

"I thought you didn't like art," the Doctor moved to Avalon, a bit dejected from the laughter.

"Just because I don't like art doesn't mean I don't recognize the talent," Avalon explained quietly, still shooting the waitresses a hard look for laughing.

"Come on! Come on!" they heard a man's pleads from the inside of the cafe, slowly carrying over as the voices grew closer to the door, "One painting for one drink. That's not a bad deal."

The owner emerged from the cafe holding a canvas and turned around just as a second man came out. Amy, who stood across Avalon and the Doctor and therefore closer to Vincent Van Gogh, nearly hopped up and down from excitement. The Doctor gave her a thumbs-up while Avalon playfully rolled her eyes and took a seat at an empty table. She presumed this had been her when the Doctor took her to visit Mary Costa.

"It wouldn't be a bad deal if the painting were any good," the owner argued, "I can't hang that up on my walls. It'd scare the customers half to death," he waved Vincent's self-portrait painting without a care in the world. "It's bad enough having you in here in person, let alone looming over the customers day and night in a stupid hat. You pay money or you get out."

"It's not a stupid hat you know," Avalon joined the conversation, or argument, "And I wouldn't make a fashion statement while wearing that," she pointed to the attire of the owner.

"What my good friend meant to say-" the Doctor began a bit nervously.

But Avalon cut him off with a loud scoff. "I meant what I said," she informed and promptly received a hand over her mouth, making her glare at the Doctor.

"Anyways," the Doctor gave a bright smile, "We'll pay if you'd like."

"What?" the owner turned to them, still eyeing Avalon coldly for her rude comments.

"Well, if you like. We'll pay for the drink. Or we'll pay for the painting and you can use the money to pay for the drink."

Vincent turned to the pair with confusion, "Exactly who are you?"

"We're...new in town."

"Well, in that case, you don't know three things. One, I pay for my own drinks, thank you," Vincent was startled by the immediate laughter of everyone nearby, "Two, no-one ever buys any of my paintings or they would be laughed out of town, so if you want to stay in town, I suggest you keep your cash to yourself. And three, your friends are cute," he pointed to Avalon and Amy behind him, "But that one-" he pointed at Avalon again, "-looks like she's about to kill you."

"That's common," was all the Doctor had to say, glancing at Avalon for some kind of opinion until he realized he was still covering her mouth, "Sorry," he mumbled and took his hand back. Well, at least this time she didn't bite him. That was a win!

"I really was," Avalon agreed with Vincent, "So," she looked at the owner, "How's about you let the man have another drink and you'll be paid tomorrow."

"No," the owner spat at her.

"Or, on the other hand," Vincent looked at him again, "Slightly more compassionately, yes."

"Or, on the other hand, to protect my business from madmen, no."

"Or-"

Amy had enough and stepped in between the two men, "Oh, look, just shut up the pair of you!" she pushed them apart and turned to the owner, "I would like a bottle of wine, please, which I will then share with whomever..." she glanced at Vincent, "...I choose."

Vincent smiled, "That could be good.'

The owner shrugged, seeing himself being paid either way, "That's good by me," he walked off into the cafe again.

"Good," Amy proudly said and followed.

~ 0 ~

After receiving the bottle of wine, Amy had taken a seat beside Vincent at the table Avalon had chosen to sit in earlier. She'd placed the wine and glasses on the table for everyone and had gotten along rather well with Vincent.

"That accent of yours. You from Holland like me?" Vincent asked her

"No," Amy shook her head at the same time the Doctor had answered 'yes' with a nod.

"Why don't we start again?" Avalon suggested and leaned back on her chair, "Hi, my name is Avalon. That's Amy, and that's the Doctor-"

"I knew it!" Vincent startled Avalon with his near shout.

"I'm sorry?" she frowned.

"My brother's always sending doctors, but you won't be able to help," Vincent warned with a finger at the Doctor.

"No, not that kind of doctor," the Doctor chuckled and noticed one of the Vincent's unfinished paintings on his side and pointed, "That's incredible, don't you think, Amy? Avalon?"

"Absolutely. One of my favorites," Amy nodded while Avalon merely gave a shrug and sip her wine.

"One of my favorite whats?" Vincent suspiciously looked at Amy, "You've never seen my work before."

While Amy went into a state of stutters, Avalon calmly set her wine glass on the table and sighed, "She means it's the best painting she's seen in her life," Amy quickly nodded.

Vincent sighed, "Then she can't have seen many paintings, then."

"Oh no, she's seen many," Avalon shot the ginger a mock-glare, "I know because she's dragged Mels and I to every last museum she's ever heard of."

"I have not," Amy leaned on the table.

Avalon scoffed, "Your lying is becoming a sickness, Amy. Don't you feel shame lying in front of Vincent?"

"You are over exaggerating!"

"Am not. If Mels were here, she'd back me up," Avalon smirked.

"Your hair is orange," Vincent cut in and made both gingers look at him, though Avalon saw the comment hadn't been for her but for Amy instead.

Avalon scoffed again and crossed her arms, leaning back on her chair, "Going to have to step up your flirting, Vincent."

"I think he's doing just fine," Amy shot her a mock-scowl and leaned closer to Vincent, "Your hair's also orange."

"Yes. It was more orange, but now is, of course, less."

"So, Vincent, painted any churches recently?" the Doctor had to intervene. He didn't know what would be worse: hearing Avalon and Amy bickering or the flirting between the painter and the Scott, "Any churchy plans? Are churches, chapels, religiousy stuff like that, something you'd like to get into? You know, fairly soon?"

"Way to be subtle," Avalon mumbled.

Vincent was too focused on Amy to notice the insistence on the painting, "Well, there is one church I'm thinking of painting when the weather is right."

"That is very good news," the Doctor gave Avalon a smile, only to see her reaching for more wine. He smacked her hand away and ignored the death glare she had for him. He could only imagine how much her temper would be emphasized with alcohol and that was something he'd rather not see any time soon.

A woman came running down from an alley screaming, "She's been murdered! Help me!"

"That doesn't sound good," Avalon bolted out from her chair and ran towards the screaming woman but not before smacking the Doctor upside the head.

"That woman is incredibly strong," the Doctor rubbed his head as he glumly stood up, ignoring the laughter from Amy and Vincent by running after Avalon and the screams.

They found Avalon pushing her way through a crowd of local townsfolk and all saw a young girl's corpse laying on the ground. The Doctor quickly dropped to the girl's side and checked for any vital...before he saw the corpse was actually dismembered.

"Oh my god," Avalon breathed and put a hand over her mouth, "She's been ripped...to shreds."

That didn't look like anything a normal...'murder' should look like. It didn't seem like the town had animals roaming around and if anything, the nearby locals would've heard the roars of an animal. It had to be something different, something...not human.

Amy moved closer to Avalon and tried looking away from the corpse while Vincent moved to the Doctor's side. However, the women found themselves pushed to the side by a middle-aged woman shouting at the group, "Away, all of you vultures! This is my daughter," she knelt beside her daughter's corpse, "Giselle. What monster could have done this?" she shooed away the Doctor and Vincent, "Get away from her!"

"OK, OK," the Doctor stood up and backed away with Vincent.

"Get that madman out of here!" the mother glared at Vincent and picked up a nearby rock to throw at him, "You bring this on us. Your madness! You! He's to blame!"

The rest of the crowd started throwing rocks at the group and forced them to run from the spot. They ended up on the other side of the alleyway to catch their breaths,

"Are you alright?" the Doctor looked at Vincent.

"Yes, I'm used to it," Vincent nodded.

"I know the feeling," Avalon mumbled and sighed.

The Doctor looked at her for a minute, confused and yet surprised by her words. He glanced at Amy and immediately the ginger looked away as if trying to avoid something. "Vincent, has anything like this murder happened here before?" he returned to the moment at the sound of Avalon asking the painter.

"Only a week ago. It's a terrible time," Vincent sighed.

"One could say it's a monstrosity," Avalon glanced at the Doctor and nodded with her head to the painter.

"Come on, we'd better get you home," the Doctor clapped a hand on Vincent's shoulder.

"Where are you staying tonight?"

"What a gentleman," Avalon grinned, "We accept, don't we Doctor?"

"Completely," he agreed and moved to link arms with her, both heading off and leaving a stunned painter and nervous ginger.

Amy smiled at Vincent and quickly hurried to catch up to her friends. Vincent put on his hat and walked after the group, no idea what had just happened.

~ 0 ~

"Dark night, very starry," the Doctor remarked as he looked up at the sky.

Avalon pulled him by the jacket before he crashed into a wall, muttering, "Idiot," as she caught them up to Amy and Vincent.

"It's not much. I live on my own," Vincent was saying to Amy, "But you should be OK for one night. One night."

"We're going to stay with him?" Avalon whispered to the Doctor.

"Until he paints that church."

Vincent entered his cottage first and lighted a lamp, "Watch out," he called to them, "That one's wet!"

"What?" Amy hadn't caught his warning but soon noticed the painting 'Bedroom in Arles' at the doorstep and paused to look at it, letting the others pass by. If she wasn't careful, her eyes might be popping out of her head anytime soon.

"Sorry about the clutter," Vincent was going around the cottage lighting up more lamps, each additional light allowing the trio to see more and more of his artwork, the same artwork that they'd been looking at in the museum.

"Some clutter," the Doctor raised his eyebrows at all the soon-to-be priceless artworks hung around so carelessly.

"I've come to accept the only person who's going to love my paintings is me," Vincent sighed.

"Mm, you may want to revise that sentence," Avalon crossed her arms and nodded back to Amy who was slowly going around the paintings in fascination, "You may have your number one fan right here."

Vincent merely smiled at the comments and headed over to another room, "Coffee, anyone?"

"Not for me, actually," the Doctor followed and was horrified to see Vincent putting down a coffee pitcher on one of his paintings, 'Still Life: Basket with Six Oranges' like it was a simple table, "You know, you should be careful with these. They're..." he winced as Vincent wiped off the coffee stain from the painting with a couple fingers, "...precious."

Vincent scoffed, "Precious to me. Not precious to anyone else."

Avalon cleared her throat as she entered and pulled Amy with her, "Like I said, number one fan," she nodded to Amy.

"They're precious to me!" Amy agreed.

"Well, you're very kind. And kindness is most welcome," Vincent walked out to the main room again and went to sticks of wood around for the wood.

"Right, so, this church, then. Near here, is it?" the Doctor followed him out, Avalon and Amy walking behind him.

"What is it with you and the church?" Vincent gave the alien an odd look.

"Oh, just casually interested in it, you know," the Doctor shrugged.

"Far from casual. Seems to me. you never talk about anything else," Vincent remarked and looked at the gingers, "He's a strange one."

Avalon scoffed, "That is probably the understatement of his life," she smirked at the Doctor who opened his mouth to retaliate but quickly shut it when he figured it was true.

She'd been making a lot of good points about him today it seemed. He'd get her back the next day.

Avalon did a look-over of the room again with a small smile, "I'd ask what you like Vincent but I think it's pretty obvious. Art."

Vincent nodded, "Just a bit, eh?" she nodded and chuckled, "For me, it seems to me there's so much more to the world than the average eye is allowed to see. I believe, if you look hard, there are more wonders in this universe than you could ever have dreamed of."

"You don't have to tell me," the Doctor agreed with a content sigh. He'd seen so many of those wonders and they never seemed to end. There was always something new to see each day.

~ 0 ~

A while later would find the Doctor sitting on a chair listening to Vincent, or rather being forced to listen after the cups of coffee the painter had taken. Vincent was pacing back and forth, passionately talking about his view of art, "It's color. Color that holds the key. I can hear the colors. Listen to them. Every time I step outside, I feel nature is shouting at me. 'Come on. Come and get me. Come on. Come on!" he grabbed the Doctor by the lapels of his jacket and shouted, "'Capture my mystery!'"

"Maybe you've had enough coffee now," the Doctor slowly removed the painter's hands from his jacket, "How about some nice calming tea? Avalon makes good cups of tea, Avalon..." he trailed off when he noticed Avalon, who'd grabbed a chair and placed it across him, was fast asleep.

He frowned and stood up, forgetting the tea, and walked up to the ginger. It seemed like despite the time that passed, Avalon simply could not sleep. He'd even taken custom of taking 'late-night trips' with her because she always ended up coming into the console a couple hours after she and Amy excused themselves for sleep. He had wanted to really look into that, her insomnia, but every time he asked about it Avalon would become irritated and defensive, something that wouldn't help their relationship. He just didn't want to push her. But looking at how easy she fell asleep and in such a poor posture...it seemed like she was on the verge of breaking. He knew it was wrong, and an invasion of privacy, but he wanted and needed to know what was keeping his friend up every single night. Only then he could help her.

"What are you...?" Vincent tilted his head in confusion as the Doctor quietly reached to press his fingers on Avalon's temples.

"Sh!" the Doctor quickly cut the painter off.

But right before he could touch her, Avalon's eyes snapped open with a deep gasp. And, for a split second, the Doctor saw a terrible fear in her eyes. "Avalon," he frowned, even more concerned than he already was, "What's wro-" but a scream of Amy's cut him off.

"Amy!?" Avalon jumped out of her chair, nearly knocking the Doctor down, and ran out the doors with Vincent behind her.

The trio found Amy in the backyard on her knees, struggling to get up. She looked terrified and out of breath, like she'd been running around. Avalon rushed and helped her up, "What happened?"

"I was having a look at the paintings out here when something hit me from behind," Amy put a hand on her back, breathing heavily as she tried calming down.

"It's OK. He's gone now and we're here," the Doctor assured her, unaware of the sudden reaction Vincent was having behind him.

"No!" the painter shouted and backed away.

"Take it easy," the Doctor turned, confused, "Take it easy!"

"What's happening? What's he doing?" Avalon watched Vincent grow more and more frantic.

"I don't know," the Doctor was also watching, displeased when the painter grabbed a large wooden fork.

"Why's he grabbing the big fork?" Avalon frowned.

"I don't know..."

And then Vincent charged towards them.

"But I think I may know why he's coming towards us..." Avalon pulled Amy and the Doctor back as Vincent ran past them.

"Run. Run!" the painter shouted.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's not a bad idea," the Doctor agreed and promptly pushed the two gingers towards the house, "Avalon, Amy, get back. He's having some kind of fit. I'll try to calm him down."

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Avalon asked while Amy ran inside the cottage.

"Nope!" the Doctor shrugged then pushed her as well.

With a roll of the eyes, Avalon hurried to where Amy was at the doorway of the house, turning to watch what she suspected wouldn't be a good spectacle.

"Easy, Vincent, easy. Look, look. It's me, it's me, it's me," the Doctor held his hands in front of him as he spoke to Vincent, the painter still frantic over something. "It's the Doctor, look. No one else is here. So, Vincent..."

"Look out!" Vincent pointed.

The Doctor only had time to look over his shoulder before he was thrown to the ground, able to hear a roaring and screams of his companions.

"We can't see anything!" Amy shouted then screamed in terror when a nearby painting was shred to pieces by something.

"What the hell is it?" Avalon looked around at the empty yard. There was clearly something in the yard that none of them except Vincent could see.

"That is a good question," the Doctor scrambled up to his feet and snatched a nearby stick to join Vincent who was fighting, "Let me help you."

"You can see him, too?" Vincent blinked, seeming relieved.

The Doctor started going off in the opposite direction trying to fight the invisible creature with his stick, "Yes. Ish. Well, no. Not really," however there was more roaring and the Doctor found himself being thrown over a table and landing at Vincent's feet.

Vincent looked down, not too surprised, "You couldn't see him?"

"No," the Doctor frowned and stood up again, "Oi!" he called to the creature. He picked up his stick and started fighting again.

Meanwhile, Vincent had walked a bit away from him and apparently hurt the creature enough to make it leave. Avalon and Amy looked at each other with a smile of relief. Of course it turned into amusement when they saw the Doctor still fighting off the creature. Vincent slowly backtracked to the gingers and was about to tell the Doctor it was safe when Avalon wagged a finger and took his fork.

She motioned for him and Amy to stay quiet as she walked to where the Doctor was and promptly poked him on the back with the fork, making the man spin around, and upon seeing the fork aimed at him he dropped the stick and raised his arms, "Don't you ever try to get into my head," Avalon warned and threw the fork to the side.

He winced at being caught and sighed, "I'm sorry, I just...I wanted to help."

"I don't need it," she muttered and turned away.

~ 0 ~

Vincent was drawing a sketch of the invisible creature for the group, sadly over a painting of irises. Once done, he held the canvas to the group and allowed them to see a strange, birdlike creature with a beak and talons and even a bit reptilian.

"OK. OK," the Doctor took the sketch from Vincent and studied it for a moment, "Right. Avalon, Amy, make Mr Van Gogh comfortable. Don't let any invisible monsters in through the front door."

"But it could be outside, waiting," Amy reminded.

"Don't worry, I'll risk it. What's the worst that can happen?"

"Well you could get torn into pieces by a monster you can't see," Avalon pointed out while absently studying her nails.

"Still upset I see," the Doctor sighed.

She looked up and shook her head, "Oh no, this time I'm being quite serious. The creature is invisible and doesn't seem too nice so the odds of being ripped to shreds is like 99.9%."

"Well as long as you're caring for me," the Doctor smirked and made Avalon smile.

"Like it any other way?" she smirked back after a moment.

Amy raised an eyebrow as she crossed her arms and looked between the two with a small smirk, "Did you just flirt?" she'd never been more amused than at that moment when the two went into sputters.

"What!? We-we did n-not...no!" the Doctor shook his head fairly fast.

"I would never!" came Avalon's response as she also shook her head.

And for some reason, the Doctor tool offense to that, "Oh, so you'd never want to flirt with me?"

"Are we really going to argue about this?" Avalon raised an eyebrow, stepping forwards.

The Doctor paused and evaluated his words, finding himself blushing, "Good point," he held up Vincent's sketch and faced the other ginger and painter instead, "I'll be back before you can say, "Where's he got to now?" and he quickly ran off.

Avalon turned to Amy with a big frown, "I hate you," she declared.

Before Amy could answer back, the Doctor returned with a purposely loud voice, "Not that fast!" both gingers flinched and turned to him, "But pretty fast. See you around," he waved and left.

And before Amy could even open her mouth, she was smacked on the arm by her ginger friend, "OW!" she turned to Avalon, "Well that was rude."

"I'm not nice," Avalon casually shrugged and moved away to gaze at more paintings.

And so, while they waited for the Doctor to return, the two gingers lounged around Vincent's cottage, the painter having excused himself for sleep. Just because they apparently wouldn't sleep over a monster didn't mean he had to stay awake too. Amy even found herself taking a nap in the meantime. However, she woke up to find Avalon bright and awake in the kitchen.

"Okay, what are you doing?" Amy asked as Avalon poured herself tea into a cup.

"I think it's pretty obvious," Avalon gestured to her cup in her hands.

"I meant why are you not sleeping?"

"I could ask you the same question," Avalon countered and walked back to the main room, taking a calm sip of her tea.

"I did take a nap," Amy pointed out as she followed Avalon out, "But I woke up. You, on the other hand, didn't sleep a wink. And I'm pretty sure it's not the first night."

"I just have a lot on my mind," Avalon shrugged and sat down on a chair, "Plus, you know me, I tend not to sleep anyways."

"Right, insomnia," Amy agreed and sat across her, "But even then you still managed to sleep. Now you just look..." Avalon stopped her sipping to look up, Amy debating whether or not she should speak about the bags under Avalon's eyes, not to mention the many, many times Avalon nearly fell asleep in broad daylight during their trips through space.

"Look like what?" Avalon raised an eyebrow.

"Just...really sleepy," Amy shortened the story and nervously smiled.

Avalon sighed and swallowed hard. There was no point hiding it around Amy. "There is...something new to my insomnia," she admitted.

"Like what?"

Avalon tapped her fingers on her teacup and swallowed again. She wasn't going to talk about her awful nightmares, but there was something else that had been bothering her lately that she did want to talk about with someone. "My journal," she began as she set her cup on a table nearby.

"What about it?"

"There's a lot of...blank spaces," Avalon sighed, "Pages where I know I've written things but I just can't remember what about."

"How do you know you didn't leave it blank? No offense but that journal is old," Amy shook her head, "Falling apart, almost. There's bound to be some missing pictures and whatnot. They probably fell out.

"This is something more than just worn out pages," Avalon insisted, "Where I've written there are blank lines and I know they had something but...I don't know what. It's driving me crazy!"

"And making you sleep even less," Amy concluded, "We need to talk to the Doctor about this. Maybe he can-"

"No!" Avalon shouted, startling Amy, "I don't want to give him another reason to want to get into my head. He nearly did that to me tonight and I won't have a second go."

"He's just trying to help," Amy shrugged, "I've noticed you've grown closer with each other lately. He really just wants to help. Why won't you accept it? I mean, you always droned on and on about the Doctor-"

Avalon's snort made Amy wince. "Was I the only one, dear Amy?"

"Alright, we both did," Amy amended and continued on with her point. "You always talked about how he was saving planets and people. You idolized him, you loved him for what he did. Why won't you let him save you?"

Avalon leaned against the counter. "I...I'm not used to it. I've always been the one to try and help others - in my own ways of course - when they need me. If I need help, I'd take care of it on my own."

"There's some things you can't take care on your own, Avalon," Amy said, meaning as comfort than a warning.

"Well this one I can," Avalon said with determination. "And I'm asking you as a friend not to mention this to the Doctor, nor to anyone else."

"Fine," Amy sighed. She didn't want to start arguing with Avalon now, but it didn't mean Avalon was off the hook. "But if this starts getting to dangerous roots the deal's off," she warned.

"It won't," Avalon assured and then headed for the doors.

"Where are you going?" Amy quickly followed her.

"To get the Doctor back, duh."

"But he said stay here."

"And listen to Vincent Van Gogh snore?" Avalon shook her head, "I did not travel through space and time to hear more snoring. Dad and Gavin do that all the time," she rolled her eyes and walked out, Amy shrugging and going along with it.

~ 0 ~

As it turned out, not much to Avalon's nor Amy's surprise, the Doctor had a bit of another run-in with the invisible creature while heading out of the TARDIS. He hadn't been too pleased to find both his companions out of Vincent's cottage but was relieved to know the creature hadn't gone after them.

So, they'd returned to Vincent's cottage where Amy had decided to come up with a little surprise for the painter...

The Doctor entered Vincent's room, ignoring the snores of the painter, "Wake, wakey. Rise and shine! Breakfast is served in the courtyard," he headed for the windows and opened them up,"Whoa! What a morning," he clapped his bands and went to get Vincent up, "Come on. And Amy's got a little surprise for you."

Vincent stood at the windows to see his yard covered in sunflowers, Amy sitting at the table while Avalon poured herself tea.

"I thought I'd brighten things up to thank you for saving me last night," Amy called with a bright smile. "I thought you might like, you know, possibly paint them or something? Might be a thought."

Avalon quietly scoffed, "Yea, because covering the man's yard with sunflowers was very subtle."

"Shush," the Doctor scolded as he joined them in the yard, Vincent still up in the room looking at the sunflowers.

"They're not my favorite flower, actually," Vincent was saying to Amy as he studied one close to the window.

That made the trio look up, stunned, "You don't like sunflowers?" Amy was the one to ask.

"No, it's not that I don't like them. I find them complex. Always somewhere between living and dying. Half-human as they turn to the sun. A little disgusting. But, you know, they are a challenge."

"I like poppies," Avalon casually remarked, making the Doctor stiffen. Those had been Lena's favorite flowers as well. "The bright red ones," Avalon continued, "Because, you know..." she poked her hair, making Amy and Vincent laugh, "...it matches."

"Moving on," the Doctor cleared his throat, "There's something I need to show you."

The trio went back into the house where Vincent finally joined them. The Doctor had brought from the TARDIS a printout of the actual creature, and held it to Vincent to make sure it was the same creature they were dealing with. Upon seeing the picture, Vincent fell back on his chair, amazed that it was actually real and not just a figment of his imagination, "That's him. And the eyes. Without mercy."

"This is a creature called the Krafayis," the Doctor began, "They travel in space, they travel as a pack. Scavenging across the universe. Sometimes one of them gets left behind and because they are a brutal race, the others never come back. So, dotted all around the universe are individual, utterly merciless, utterly abandoned Krafayis. And what they do is... Well, kill, until they're killed. Which they usually aren't. Because other creatures can't see them."

"But I can," Vincent looked up.

"Yes. And that's why we are in a unique position today, my friend, to end this reign of terror. So, feeling like painting the church today?"

"Doctor, you may want to explain the reason behind painting church," Avalon sighed as she looked at the confused painter.

"Oh, right," the Doctor caught on and went ahead explain, "Take my word for it Vincent, if you paint the church, the creature will come."

Vincent nodded and stood up, "OK. I'll get my things."

"In your own time. I promise you, we'll be out of your hair by this time tomorrow," the Doctor took his place on the chair as Vincent headed for the doorway, not seeing the hesitation the painter had upon hearing those words. After he finally left, the Doctor let out a sigh, "This is risky."

"Riskier than normal?" Avalon pointed out, "Your life doesn't exactly scream 'safe and sound'."

He rolled his eyes and stood up, glancing back to see if Vincent was still around, "Well, think about it. This is the middle of Vincent Van Gogh's greatest year of painting. If we're not careful, the result of our trip could be the brutal murder of the greatest artist who ever lived. Half the pictures on the wall of the Musee D'Orsay will disappear. And it will be our fault."

~ 0 ~

"Vincent? Vincent!" the Doctor knocked on Vincent's bedroom door.

They'd been waiting for Vincent for quite a while now so the Doctor offered to go and make sure everything was alright. Unfortunately, he saw things were so not right. Vincent laid faced-down on his bed, sobbing.

"Vincent, can I help?" the Doctor slowly approached the man.

"It's so clear you cannot help. And when you leave, and everyone always leaves, I will be left once more with an empty heart and no hope," Vincent rolled back to look at the Doctor.

"My experience is that there is, you know, surprisingly, always hope."

"Then your experience is incomplete," Vincent snapped, "I know how it will end, and it will not end well."

"Come on," the Doctor insisted and clapped Vincent's back, "Come out, let's go outside."

But Vincent exploded into frantic shouts, "Out! You get out. What are you doing here? What are you doing here?"

The Doctor quickly backed away towards the door, "Very well. I'll leave. I'll leave you." And indeed he did leave the sobbing painter, shutting the door behind him.

"What's happening?" Avalon startled him by the stairs, Amy behind her. They'd both heard the shouts coming from the room and decided to go up and see what was happening.

"We're leaving," the Doctor declared as he leaned on the staircase rails, somber, "Everyone knows he's a delicate man. Just months from now he'll...he'll take his own life."

"Don't say that," Amy scowled, "Don't you ever say that."

"C'mon," he ignored them and went down the steps.

"No," Avalon snapped, "I will not leave a man to his death." And before anyone could say more, she quickly entered Vincent's room and shut the door behind her.

"Avalon!" Amy hurried to get her out when the Doctor stopped her, "What are you doing? We can't leave her alone!"

"Just...let's give her a minute," the Doctor offered and looked at the door. He knew that little attitude from Avalon stemmed from her mother's death, and maybe even from Lena's death (even if she couldn't remember it). He had wanted to talk to Avalon about her recent problems with her sleep, theorizing they could also be stemming from those deaths. He wondered if perhaps Vincent could be the one to help...it was a longshot, but...still possible.

~ 0 ~

"I said get out!" Vincent kept crying to Avalon, the ginger standing beside his bed with her arms crossed, pretty adamant about staying, "I just want to be alone!"

"Well tough, because I have quite a temper and when I make a decision no man on earth can make me change it," she declared. She grabbed a chair and put it beside the bed, sitting down and staring at Vincent, "I can relate to you, you know."

Vincent scoffed, "I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity," she said quietly, "I can understand your position quite better than anyone else, even the Doctor himself. It's pretty clear that we're not from this...area," she gestured, "I won't be born for centuries more, on another planet. I live in a small town called Leadworth where everyone knows each other, everyone is friends with each other...except with me," her eyes drifted to the side as she forced herself of her past. Being aboard the TARDIS had given her some time to finally get away from the town but it didn't make all the memories go away. "My name is Avalon Reynolds and if you say you're friends with me, a lot of people in that town will laugh at you."

Vincent sobered up a bit upon seeing the girl tearing up, "Why?" he decided to ask as he sat up.

"I'm not a nice person," Avalon sighed, "I've been in jail several times for, um, robbery, trespassing, being chaotic..." she let out a small, bitter laugh, "...funny thing is, I can't even recall some of those times. I've been in a cell for so many reasons I'm beginning to forget them."

"You don't look like a criminal," Vincent concluded just by looking at the frilly-like clothes Avalon was dressed in.

Avalon scoffed, "That's the image you get when you first see me. And if you live in Leadworth, you'd be one of those people that would be insulted for believing that of me. When I walk out of my house, a lot of people point at me and go 'that's the girl' or 'that's the Reynolds' girl, the criminal'. I get mocked, I get insulted, I get laughed at without even getting the chance to explain myself," she swallowed hard and closed her eyes to stop herself from crying, "Hardly anyone likes me back home. I'm a criminal, I'm the girl all parents want to keep their children from. I got lucky with Amy and Mels, their parents are dead. Their guardians didn't really care much for their safety. I grew up with nothing except my fairytales, much like you with your paintings," she opened her eyes and looked at the paintings hung on the walls with a smile, "Beautiful paintings."

"Seems like only you and your friends think that of them," Vincent sighed.

"Because they are," Avalon clarified, "And I get it, I understand how lonely you feel. You step out and it's the same story, you're pointed at, you're laughed and insulted. I get it. There's nothing to hold onto, not even hope. I don't believe in hope," she confessed, finding it unusually easy to say all these things to the painter, never having experienced someone who understood her so well, "I thought I did but when my mother passed away I stopped. There is no belief that can help us, Vincent. I don't believe in deities or Gods of any sort. Because if you do, you just have rules and expectations from everyone and because you're different you still get laughed at," she shook her head, "Don't cling onto hope, Vincent. You want to feel better? Stick with your paintings. Paint your feelings and only believe in that. Believe in how beautiful they are."

"And what do you do, then?" Vincent wondered, taking her words to heart. It really was true, the belief system only served to get insulted by the others.

"I'm a girl, Vincent," she sheepishly smiled, "I cling to my fairytales. I pretend I'm free like, um, I don't know a butterfly," she blushed, "And I look at the worlds written in stories and try to imagine myself there, try to even imagine a new world for me," she looked at him, now fully embarrassed, "I have this journal, and inside of it...I write the world I'd like to live in. I capture everything I can from this world, everything I find genuinely beautiful and I put it down in my journal. It's my escape, my 'paintings'."

"I'm sure they are beautiful creations," Vincent smiled, reaching to take Avalon's hand, "And in it they must capture all the pain and grief you have."

"Yeah, a lot of them include my mum," Avalon nodded, "She ends up being the Queen or the fairy godmother," she chuckled to herself.

But Vincent grew serious, "I am so sorry for your losses."

"Losses?" Avalon stiffened, "What do you mean? I lost my mum, that was it."

"It's alright," Vincent half-smiled and patted her hand, "I thank you for your help, Avalon. It really is nice to talk to someone who seems to understand. People can be cruel, they judge and hurt when they don't understand someone."

"I know," Avalon nodded, sighing, "And I wish I could say it will get better but 'hope' doesn't change people at all. It's done by action. I left my own home, well, the Doctor took me away, thankfully. Perhaps you could move too."

"I don't plan leaving anytime soon," Vincent shook his head, "But I do plan on helping you and your friends with the monster."

"You will?" Avalon beamed.

"You're right, actions help much better than 'hope'. I'm going to take action and help before the monster kills more innocent people."

"Vincent, thank you!" Avalon stood up and hugged the painter, "I'll go tell the others while you get ready!"

"Alright then," Vincent nodded and so Avalon rushed off.

~ 0 ~

The group walked along the village lane, Amy walking beside Vincent on one side with Avalon on his other side, the Doctor walking behind them all carrying a case in his hand.

"I'm sorry you're so sad," Amy said to Vincent while holding his paint case, Avalon holding the canvas.

"But I'm not. Sometimes these moods torture me for weeks, for months. But I'm good now," Vincent nodded, "If Avalon Reynolds and Amy Pond can soldier on, then so can Vincent Van Gogh."

"Okay, you keep saying that but I still don't understand," Avalon shook her head.

"Yeah, I'm not soldiering on," Amy had to agree, "We're fine."

"I hear the songs of your sadness," Vincent sighed, "You've lost people, I think."

"I'm not sad," Amy repeated and looked at Avalon for help, but Avalon was staring ahead, seemingly lost in thoughts now.

"They why are you crying?" she heard Vincent ask.

She quickly put a finger on her hand and felt the tear on her cheek. She quickly looked at Avalon and found the girl also wearing tears on her face.

Vincent just faintly smiled, "It's all right. I understand."

"But I don't," Avalon frowned as she quickly wiped her face, "One more thing I don't understand."

Neither of them saw the Doctor behind with a grim face. While Amy's subconscious seemed to remember Rory, Avalon seemed to be on the brink of remembering, like all her memories of Lena and Rory were on the surface of her mind. It should be impossible and yet here they were; just one more thing that didn't make sense with Avalon Reynolds.

~ 0 ~

After the Doctor had finished explaining the 'plan' Vincent set up his utensils in front of the church and started painting. They would have to wait for the monster to show up and then the Doctor would apparently deal with it using the case he carried.

But as the time went by...the Doctor grew more...and more...irritating.

Avalon and Amy watched as Vincent finished the outline of the top of the church, the painter beginning to color in the sky. The Doctor paced behind them, rambling away, "I remember watching Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel. Wow! What a whinger. I said to him, "'If you're scared of heights, you shouldn't have taken the job.'"

"Shh!" Amy cut him off with a finger to her lips.

And that worked...for another hour or so...

Vincent had added more details to his painting, trying his best to ignore the Doctor who was standing right behind him, rambling again, "And Picasso. What a ghastly old goat. I kept telling him, 'Concentrate, Pablo, it's one eye, either side of the face.'"

"Be quiet," Avalon sighed wearily.

The Doctor huffed and moved to sit away from the group. And so passed about an hour more or when Vincent was nearly done with the church.

"Is this how time normally passes?" the Doctor whined from his spot on the ground, "Reeeeally slowly. In the right order," he stood up and walked away, "If there's one thing I can't stand, it's an unpunctual alien attack."

"If I didn't know any better I would say you're nervous," Avalon followed him.

"There's something not right and I can't quite put my finger on it."

"Let's see, there's a painter who's not...quite there, and who's being haunted by an invisible creature only he can see. Yeah there's a lot of things that aren't right here."

"There," Vincent cut their conversation short and made them turn back to the church, "He's at the window."

"Where?" the Doctor hurried back.

"There, on the right."

"As I thought. Come on. I'm going in."

"Well, I'm coming, too," Vincent let his painting utensils drop to move to follow the Doctor.

"No," the Doctor quickly stopped him, "You're Vincent Van Gogh. No."

"But you're not armed."

"I am."

"What with?"

"Overconfidence, this," the Doctor tapped his case, "And a small screwdriver. I'm absolutely sorted. Just have to find the right crosactic setting, and stun him with it. Sonic never fails. Anyway, Avalon, Amy, only one thought, one simple instruction - don't follow me under any circumstances."

"I won't," Amy said.

The Doctor looked over at Avalon who innocently looked away, "Avalon?"

"Amy said she wouldn't," Avalon shrugged.

"Avalon I don't have time," the Doctor, in frustration, exclaimed.

"Whatever," Avalon shrugged and motioned for him to go in. The Doctor warningly pointed at her before walking towards the church.

"Will you follow him?" Vincent looked between the two gingers.

"Of course," they both answered.

"I love you," Vincent was fondly looking at Amy.

Avalon laughed, "Before you snog, let's wait for the Doctor to get himself into trouble," she turned to them, "I bet money on this!"

"Five quid?" Amy raised an eyebrow.

"He gets into trouble in less than five minutes!"

"Deal," Amy shook hands with her, both looking back at the church to await the screams.

And in less than five minutes, as predicted by Avalon, they heard the growls of the creature followed by the cries of the Doctor.

Avalon grinned and pointed at Amy, "You owe me!" and she ran off.

"Damn," Amy muttered and quickly ran after her.

"Amy! Avalon!" Vincent ran as well.

~ 0 ~

"Doctor!" Avalon ran into the church, finding the Doctor aiming the screwdriver at air.

"Argh! I thought I told you... Never mind," he shook his head, not even surprised to see Amy catching up, "We'll talk about it later. Quick, in here."

Avalon pulled Amy towards a confessional, cramming into one side while the Doctor hid in the other side. They stayed quiet as they heard the Krafayis moved around the room.

"Absolutely quiet," the Doctor whispered to the women and slid the door over the grill between, "Whoever is breathing like that, breathe quieter!"

"It's Amy," Avalon grumbled.

"I can't help it," Amy defended herself and lifted the curtain on their side, "He's gone past."

"Shh," the Doctor said.

The Krafayis growled and blew the gratting on the ginger's side off, making them scream.

"I think he heard us," the Doctor winced, "Impressive hearing he's got, though."

Avalon winced as another part of the confessional was ripped off, "What's less impressive are our chances of survival," she snapped.

"Hey, are you looking for me, sonny?" Vincent ran into the room with a chair in front of him as a weapon, "Come on. Over here. Because I'm right here waiting for you," as the creature tried to fight him, he looked over to the others, "Come on. Quickly! Get behind me."

As the gingers ran behind Vincent, the Doctor tried using the screwdriver on the creature, "Doing anything?" he asked Vincent who shook his head as a 'no'. They backed away into another part of the church, "Where is he?" the Doctor looked around frantically.

"Where do you think he is, you idiot? Use your head," Vincent snapped.

"Anything?"

"Okay," Avalon pushed the screwdriver down, "I think we've established the fact that screwdrivers are not effective. Maybe it's time for another tactic."

"Like running!" Amy exclaimed.

And so they did manage to split up a little, the Doctor having the usual luck of his to have the creature after him now. Vincent was giving him instructions to avoid the creature's blow, "Duck!" he called and the Doctor went down, "Left!" and then the Doctor was swatted to the side and slammed into a wall, "Oops, right, sorry."

Avalon and Amy went to help the Doctor up while Vincent used his chair to defend them.

"This is no good at all. Run like crazy and regroup," the Doctor suggested as he stood up.

"Oh, come on, in here," Amy led them into another building of the church.

They went into a room and tried closing a large door together, though the Krafayis blocked the way with a leg until Vincent managed to stomp on it and make it jerk it away.

"Right. OK," the Doctor turned on his back as did everyone to keep the door closed, "Here's the plan. Avalon, Amy, Rory, Len-"

"Who?" both gingers looked at him with confusion.

"Sorry, um, Vincent," the Doctor mended.

"What's the plan?" Avalon asked.

"I don't know, actually. But in future, I'm just using this screwdriver for screwing in screws," he quickly put away the screwdriver.

"Best decision of your life," Avalon sighed and earned a mock-glare.

"Give me a second. I'll be back," Vincent said and ran away.

"I suppose we could try talking to him," the Doctor looked back at the door.

"Talking to him?!" Amy blinked.

"Well, yes. Might be interesting to know his side of the story. Yes, though maybe he's not really in the mood for conversation right at this precise moment," the Krafayis growled and banged on the door, "Well, no harm trying. Listen. Listen!" and finally the creature stopped, ''I know you can understand me," he turned to the door, "Even though I know you won't understand why you can understand me. I also know that no-one's talked to you for a pretty long stretch, but please... listen. I also don't belong on this planet. I also am alone. If you trust me, I'm sure we can come to some kind of, you know, understanding. And then, and then, who knows?"

The window across them shattered as the creature found another way in. The trio looked across and watched the objects in the room fly about as the creature moved around.

"Over here, mate!" Vincent returned with a new weapon in his hands, his easel

The trio moved behind the painter, "What's it up to now?" the Doctor asked.

"It's moving round the room. Feeling its way around," Vincent explained as he and the gingers moved behind a sarcophagus.

"What?" the Doctor blinked, now behind a column.

"It's like it's trapped. It's moving round the edges of the room."

"I can't see a thing," Amy shook her head.

"I am really stupid," the Doctor sighed.

"Oh get a grip," Avalon called, "Pick another time to re-evaluate your self-esteem."

"No, I am really stupid and I'm growing old," he shook his head, "Why does it attack, but never eat its victims?" he moved to the sarcophagus, " And why was it abandoned by its pack and left here to die? Why is it feeling its way helplessly around the walls of the room? It can't see, it's blind. That explains why it has such perfect hearing!"

Vincent blinked, "Which unfortunately also explains why it is now turning around and heading straight for us," he stepped forwards and held his easel's sharp ends in front of him as a weapon.

"Vincent. Vincent, what's happening?" the Doctor quickly asked.

"It's charging now. Get back. Get back!"

Vincent ran forwards and impaled the creature with the easel. He held onto the weapon as he was lifted from the air by the creature who was in clear pain and anger. When he let go, he fell to the floor as did t he creature. Vincent sat up and looked at the impaled creature, "He wasn't without mercy at all. He was without sight. I didn't mean that to happen. I only meant to wound it, I never meant to..."

"It's okay," Avalon whispered and helped him up.

The Doctor knelt down beside the body, "He's trying to say something."

"What is it?" Vincent asked.

"I'm having trouble making it out, but I think he's saying, 'I'm afraid. I'm afraid'," the Doctor patted the poor creature, "There, there. It's OK. You'll be fine. Ssh."

"He was frightened…and he lashed out," Vincent sighed, "Like humans, who lash out when they're frightened. Like the villagers who scream at me. Like the children who throw stones at me."

"Sometimes winning - winning is no fun at all," the Doctor muttered and left the place.

~ 0 ~

For some reason, the grassy field seemed more beautiful under the starry sky. Despite the group's loss, the peace of the scenery managed to bring peace to each of them. Vincent decided to stop walking and offered to take Amy's hand so they could sit down. Amy thought it was weird but then again, when was she ever going to get the chance to sit with Vincent Van Gogh? Absolutely never!

The Doctor offered his hand to Avalon but the ginger shook her head at him. "Don't think I've forgotten you tried getting into my head when I was asleep."

The Doctor winced. He had forgotten that bit. He never really apologized with everything that'd happened. "I'm sorry," he offered, hoping it would change her mind and totally not revert their relationship back to what it used to be. And judging by Avalon merely rolling her eyes without saying a word, the chance was getting bigger. "I'm very worried about you, Ava. I would never go into your mind without permission unless I had a huge reason."

"That you're worried?" Avalon scoffed lightly and moved past him, only for him to grab her arm and bring her back. She might have ended up a closer than what he intended on but he wasn't going to let it become a distraction.

Why would it even be a distraction? He suddenly questioned himself. With only a few seconds after, he decided he didn't want to think about the answer.

"Hey, I have a right to be worried when a good friend of mine can't, for the life of her, sleep. I'm sorry, but please don't be angry with me. I don't want to go back to that."

Avalon's expression softened when she realized what he meant. Sometimes he was just too...himself. "Oh Fairy Tale Man, you're being dramatic. I'm upset but it's not the end of the world." Before the Doctor could say something, she took his hand and led them to where Amy and Vincent had laid down. "Comfortable. Mind if we join?"

Vincent patted the empty spots beside them. Avalon smiled at the Doctor as the two found their spots on the mushy grass. They joined their free hands to Amy and Vincent and gazed up at the dark, starry sky.

"Try to see what I see," Vincent softly pleaded them. "We are so lucky we are still alive to see this beautiful world. Look at the sky. It's not dark and black and without character. The black is in fact deep blue. And over there, lighter blue. And blowing through the blueness and the blackness, the wind swirling through the air and then, shining, burning, bursting through - the stars! Can you see how they roar their light? Everywhere we look, the complex magic of nature blazes before our eyes."

"I've seen many things, my friend," the Doctor smiled, "But you're right. Nothing quite as wonderful as the things you see."

"You know the reason I don't like painting as much as writing is because I always thought that a painting only tells you one page of the story..." Avalon paused as she truly focused on the sky like Vincent was, though she doubted she was even half of what he saw, "But I've been looking at it all wrong. It's a whole story in one page."

"I will miss you terribly," Vincent sighed as he looked from the gingers to the alien, knowing that soon they would all be gone again and he would be once more alone.

~ 0 ~

"I only wish I had something of real value to give you," Vincent watched the Doctor hold one of his paintings, Self Portrait with Straw Hat, in the morning.

The Doctor chucked, "Oh, no, no. I could never accept such an extraordinary gift," he set down the painting on a table.

"Very well. You are not the first to decline the offer," Vincent sighed and held his arms for Amy, "Amy, the blessed, the wonderful," they hugged and Amy kissed his cheek.

"Be good to yourself and be kind to yourself," Amy whispered.

"I'll try my best."

"And maybe give the beard a little trim before you next kiss someone," Amy laughed and rubbed her cheek.

"I will. I will. And if you tire of this Doctor and Avalon, return, And we will have children by the dozen."

"Eek!" Amy laughed again.

"Why would she be tired of me?" Avalon pretended to be irritated, "What are you trying to say, Vincent?"

"Goodbye, Avalon," Vincent held his arms for the next ginger instead of answering.

Avalon playfully rolled her eyes, "Smart move, Vincent," she hugged him.

"Thank you for you words of advice," he pulled away.

"Yeah, I'm not sure if they were the best, but...it's what I've been doing," Avalon shrugged.

Vincent patted her shoulders, "I think it's going to get better for you," he smiled as he looked behind her to the Doctor and Amy. But Avalon just scoffed quietly and moved away so the Doctor could bid goodbye to the painter, "Doctor, my friend," Vincent shook the Doctor's hand, "We have fought monsters together and we have won. On my own, I fear I may not do as well," and the two hugged goodbye.

~ 0 ~

As the trio walked away from Vincent's cottage, the Doctor though of an idea that could perhaps make things just a bit better for their painter friend. When he stopped walking, both Avalon and Amy looked back with confusion.

"What are you doing?" Avalon asked.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he smiled.

"No, that's sort of why I just asked what were you doing."

He rolled his eyes and turned back to hurry to the cottage, calling for Vincent as the women caught up, "Vincent!" the painter poked his head out the window without a shirt and a brush in hand, "Got something I'd like to show you. Maybe just tidy yourself up a bit first."

"What are we doing?" Amy whispered but the Doctor waved her off as they waited for Vincent to come out.

Once the Doctor had brought them all back to modern day Paris, things started to get a little more clear...for everyone but Vincent anyways.

"Where are we?" Vincent asked the moment he stepped out of the TARDIS and no longer saw the alleyway in which the box had been in only a couple minutes ago.

"Paris. 2010 AD. And this is the mighty Musee D'Orsay, home to many of the greatest paintings in history," the Doctor nodded to the museum up ahead.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Vincent nodded but was distracted when two boys passed by with an electronic in hands.

"Ignore that. I've got something more important to show you," the Doctor said and pulled the painter towards the museum, the gingers following alongside them.

~ 0 ~

They led Vincent all the way up to his own exhibition, passing by other great painters where Vincent seemed to be staying behind to look at. Amy and Avalon pulled him by the arms and brought him into his exhibition room. Vincent was stunned to see all his paintings hanging on the walls.

The Doctor noticed Dr. Black lecturing a group nearby and walked up to him, "Dr. Black, we met a few days ago. I asked you about the church at Auvers."

Discreetly, the gingers brought Vincent closer to hear the conversation.

"Oh, yes. Glad to be of help. You were nice about my tie," Dr, Black remembered.

"Yes. And today is another cracker if I may say so," the Doctor pointed at the new bow-tie the human wore, "I just wondered, between you and me, in 100 words, where do you think Van Gogh rates in the history of art?"

"Well, big question. But, to me, Van Gogh is the finest painter of them all," Dr, Black got to thinking more thoroughly, "Certainly, the most popular, great painter of all time, the most beloved. His command of color, the most magnificent. He transformed the pain of his tormented life into ecstatic beauty. Pain is easy to portray, but to use your passion and pain to portray the ecstasy and joy and magnificence of our world - no-one had ever done it before. Perhaps no-one ever will again. To my mind, that strange, wild man who roamed the fields of Provence was not only the world's greatest artist, but also one of the greatest men who ever lived."

The Doctor's smile faded when he saw Vincent with red eyes and a face stained of tears. He quickly moved back to the them, giving Vincent a hug, "Vincent. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Is it too much?"

"No. They are tears of joy," Vincent left the group to go to Dr. Black, giving him a Gallic kiss and a hug, "Thank you, sir. Thank you."

"You're welcome. You're welcome," Dr. Black nodded as Vincent pulled away.

"Sorry about the beard," Vincent apologized quietly as he returned back to the trio.

~ 0 ~

The TARDIS materialized back on the field in Vincent's time, Vincent stepping out first of the box, "This changes everything. I'll step out tomorrow with my easel on my back a different man. I still can't believe that one of the haystacks was in the museum. How embarrassing."

"It's been a great adventure and a great honor," the Doctor shook Vincent's hand.

"You've turned out to be the first doctor ever actually to make a difference to my life."

"I'm delighted. I won't ever forget you," the Doctor waved and headed back inside the TARDIS.

"And you are sure marriage is out of the question?" Vincent tried again with Amy, making both she and Avalon laugh.

"This time," Amy moved to hug him, "I'm not really the marrying kind."

"So, I lied," Avalon said as Amy pulled away, "Perhaps there can be hope for some people," she hugged Vincent next.

"That would include you too," Vincent said and pulled away.

"Yeah, not for me," Avalon shook his head, "It's completely out of the market for me."

"No, but you are free," he pointed out, "In there," he nodded to the TARDIS, "Free as a bird...or, butterfly," he whispered and made her laugh.

"Goodbye, Vincent," she waved and moved into the TARDIS with Amy, Amy requesting to go back to the gallery for one more look.

~ 0 ~

As soon as the TARDIS materialized back at the museum, Amy running out, heavily excited, "Time can be re-written. I know it can. Come on!"

Avalon shrugged and went to follow her friend, neither noticing the indulgent face the Doctor had behind.

"Oh, the long life of Vincent Van Gogh. There'll be hundreds of new paintings," Amy cheered as she ran up the stairs.

"I'm not sure there will," the Doctor said calmly.

"Come on!" Amy entered the exhibit and looked at the paintings on the walls, finding them to be the same ones and the only ones around.

"We have here the last work of Vincent Van Gogh, who committed suicide at only 37..." Dr. Black's voice carried over as if on cue.

Amy closed her eyes, her excitement gone. Avalon stepped up and gave her a hug, "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"So, you were right," Amy looked back at the Doctor as the hug ended, "No new paintings. We didn't make a difference at all."

"I wouldn't say that," the Doctor shook his head, "The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. Hey," he hugged her, "The good things don't always soften the bad things. But, vice versa - the bad things don't necessarily spoil the good things or make them unimportant," he ended the hug but held her head, "And we definitely added to his pile of good things."

"I suppose..." Amy smiled a little then noticed Avalon was missing, "...Avalon?" she looked around.

Avalon had gone to the painting of the church and looked back at the call of her name, "Hm? Oh sorry, I was just looking at the difference we made for Vincent," she pointed at the church with a smile, "I think we did good, come and look."

The Doctor took Amy over to the painting and indeed noticed the change they had made to the painting.

"No Krafayis," Amy breathed with joy.

"Exactly," Avalon grinned.

Amy moved away from the pair and walked to the center, noticing something ahead of her, a small alcove displaying two paintings. She started walking towards it without a word. The Doctor saw and pulled Avalon behind.

Amy saw the painting of the 'Still Life: Vase With Twelve Sunflowers' with a small signature on the vase dedicating it to her, "Oh my..." she smiled and looked at the next painting.

"That's not..." Avalon blinked, moving to the painting, "...it can't be," she was looking at the painting of "Still Life:Poppies and Butterflies" which bore a signature dedicating it to her, just like it had been for Amy.

"Seems like other differences had been made," the Doctor remarked as he eyed both paintings.

"I don't like paintings..." Avalon smiled at the brilliant red poppies, "...but I do like this one."

"Your hair does match them," Amy teased through her tears.

Avalon chuckled, "Says the mother of an ultimate ginge with Vincent Van Gogh," she countered and moved to hug her.

The Doctor watched them with a small smile and suddenly found himself being pulled into the hug by both, "Okay," was all he had to say and hugged them both, hearing their muffled laughter.

#doctor who #11th doctor #ocappreciation #ocapp #dw imagine #doctor who imagines #11th doctor imagines #11th doctor fics #doctor who fics #amy pond #oc: Avalon Reynolds #fic: stars dance

[mmwm]

This month, I’m going to write words and post images relating to the landscape of memory. I hope to write poems most days and also share photos, quotes, and more prosaic thoughts related in some way to memory, nostalgia, longing for place, remembering and forgetting, landscape, dreamscape, landscape’s memory and memory’s landscape, the intersection of the layered historical physical world with personal memory, the frames that both landscape and memory use to contain and order our focus, the landscape of childhood, the landscape of devastation, how memories lie and tell the truth, the fragmentation of memory, how landscapes shape us and our memories, and so on. All the posts will be linked to the Introductory Page as they are posted. Thanks for visiting.

*

Today, I’ve got a messy tangle of thoughts about landscape, landscape painting & impressionism, photography, Arcadia (Western idealised landscape), and memory, beginning with a bit of background on the Impressionist painter Camille Pissarro, a Danish-French Impressionist painter living from 1830 to 1903, the only artist to have shown work at all eight Paris ‘Impressionist’ exhibitions (held from 1874 -1886), a father figure and master for many Impressionists and all four of the major Post-Impressionists: Georges Seurat, Paul Cézanne, Vincent van Gogh, and Paul Gauguin.

Pissarro was born on the island of St. Thomas (then part of the Danish West Indies) to French-Jewish parents, attending otherwise all-black schools until being sent to boarding school near Paris. He returned to the island at 17, worked as a cargo clerk and drew in his spare time, then travelled with another Dutch artist to Venezuela to sketch for a couple of years before moving to France to draw and paint, eventually seeking out Camille Corot, a pivotal French landscape painter, as a tutor. Corot inspired Pissarro to paint ‘plein air’; as Pissarro later explained it to a student,

“Work at the same time upon sky, water, branches, ground, keeping everything going on an equal basis and unceasingly rework until you have got it. Paint generously and unhesitatingly, for it is best not to lose the first impression.”

In fact, while Corot reworked his paintings in his studio afterward, “often revising them according to his preconceptions” (per Wikipedia), Pissarro finished his outdoors, usually in one sitting, giving them a more realistic feel. Sometimes his work was criticised as ‘vulgar,’ because he painted what he saw: “rutted and edged hodgepodge of bushes, mounds of earth, and trees in various stages of development.”

*

I find when I photograph landscapes and other outdoors scenes that I unconsciously seek the conventionally beautiful shot, the one with the light just so, the most aesthetically pleasing frame and subject matter, the nicely composed one, the one that doesn’t show the bramble, the tangle, the trees knocked hither and thither, cars and trash bins in the foreground, and so on.

That is, unless I look for a kind of landscape of devastation, or the vernacular landscape, and then I see it, and I appreciate it as beautiful, too, both for its outward appearance, and for the devastation or banality itself.

  Similarly, perhaps, memory: We may seek to construct or frame a plausible, well-balanced landscape, an orderly story of an experience (or a series of experiences, a relationship, a life), and we may even return to our memory-making studios to make it so, revising the experience(s) to match our preconceptions, a la Corot, and this task is made easier because as time moves on we have inevitably lost the first impression, the feeling and sensory observations of that moment, the experience of what we saw. We tend, I think, in memory to unconsciously tidy up our first impressions, add and subtract brushstrokes to create a more harmonious, fathomable, unambiguous picture.

I used to toss my blurry photos until I realised that although they were not coherent images, I liked many of them anyway, and maybe that’s because they remind me of my memory, which blurs and blends time and place into an uncertain wavering haze of colour, texture, pattern. “Lost to the mists of time” sounds a bit mysterious, as though antiquity and the modern world have woven a veil to obscure memory’s landscape.

*

After the conventional artists’ Salon of the day rejected all their paintings at their 1866 exhibition, Pissarro and some younger artists — including Monet, Manet, Berthe Morisot, Renoir, Degas, Cézanne, and later Gustave Caillebotte, Paul Gauguin, and American painter Mary Cassatt — formed an alternative group, which sponsored a total of eight exhibitions from 1874 to 1886. Their first exhibition shocked and horrified the critics with their “vulgar” and “commonplace” subject matter, such as scenes of street people going about their everyday lives, and their sketchy and incomplete-looking painting (visible brushwork, oh my!).

At first this group of painters was known as ‘Independents’ or the ‘Intransigents’, but by the time of the third exhibit, in 1877, they adopted the name that one critic had given them in 1874, the Impressionists.

Of Pissarro’s work in the 3rd Impressionist Exhibition, where he displayed 22 paintings,  the art critic Louis de Fourcaud (writing as Léon de Lora in Le Gaulois) said:

“Seen up close, they are hideous and incomprehensible; seen from a distance, they are incomprehensible and hideous.”

Here are a few of those paintings:

source: Wikipedia

source: Paris Insider’s Guide

Source: The Eclectic Light Company

*

  To use Fourcaud’s description of Pissarro’s landscapes, my memories are certainly incomprehensible, and perhaps even hideous, in some senses of the word: grim, macabre, weird, incongruous, unnatural, unlovely. They’re messy — incomplete, sketchy, unresolved, unfocused — which is what I think art critics reacted to when they looked at Pissarro’s paintings in the 3rd exhibition. He was painting what he saw and felt, his impression, not adding or removing elements to create another, perhaps more comprehensible, impression altogether.

I like this idea of impressionism, of allowing the initial sensory impression of the moment, the experience, to reach the mind, body, and soul — messy though it may be, both ordered & chaotic, appealing and repellent, ambiguous — even though it will be overtaken inevitably by layering experiences that alter the first impression.

*

Memory begins in the moment of the original event, but it doesn’t really end there. In that way it’s not like an impressionist painting (or most paintings, which are painted and finished), though it might be like our experience of a painting, which changes each time we view it, because we have changed.

In Matthew Stadler’s novel Landscape: Memory (199), a character is painting a landscape he had seen several years earlier:

“The painting develops slowly, over time, as Maxwell recalls and explores his memory. As he paints, he confronts the discrepancy between the view of memory as a static reproduction and what his own experience is telling him. He writes: . . . ‘if my memory ought to be an accurate replica of the original experience, if that was so, my painting was hopelessly inaccurate. It was a bad painting of a fuzzy memory. But I preferred to think that memory is never frozen, nor should it be. My painting was a successful rendering of the dynamic memory that had simply begun with the original event. . . . My painting, I figured, was so very accurate in its depiction of this memory that it would inevitably look wrong when compared to the original model.’” (in “Memory and Landscape in the Work of James Wright” by Richard P. Gabriel)

‘Artist in Greenland 1935-1960’ by Rockwell Kent, seen at the Baltimore Museum of Art on 15 Oct. 2017. Kent painted it around 1935, and in 1960 added himself and his sled dogs to the picture at the request of the then-owner.

  *

Simon Schama, in his tome Landscape and Memory (1995), writes about the ideal of arcadia, an idealised outdoor place, often a landscaped place (even when attempting to imitate the wildness of wilderness):

“There have always been two kinds of arcadia: shaggy and smooth, dark and light; a place of bucolic leisure and a place of primitive panic. … Arguably, both kinds of arcadia, the idyllic as well as the wild, are landscapes of the urban imagination, though clearly answering to different needs. It’s tempting to see the two arcadias perennially defined against each other; from the idea of the park (wilderness or pastoral) to the philosophy of the front yard (industrially kempt or drifted with buttercups and clover); civility and harmony or integrity and unruliness? … But as unreconcilable as the two ideas of arcadia appear to be, their long history suggests that they are, in fact, mutually sustaining.”

Over centuries the Western conception of the idealised landscape bounces back and forth between “something approaching Versailles, with clipt hedges and trellis work” (as Horace Walpole sneered), a place of bucolic contentment, sheep grazing placidly in the trimmed parkland, and on the other side the forest of Fontainebleau, a sort of forest primeval of “hollows, dark valleys, the thickest woods,” where denseness, darkness, shadows, and danger lurked, “a place that might be rugged or treacherous. ‘If scarcely picturesque,’ wrote [Etienne Pivert de] Senancour [in 1833], then the silence and … the ‘mute waste’ corresponded nicely to the state of his soul.”

In a June 1995 New York Times article by Mel Gussow titled “Into Arcadia With Simon Schama,” Central Park in Manhattan is suggested to represent “the double-sided nature of the Arcadian concept. The dreamlike version is, [Schama] said, ‘a place of effortless bucolic sweetness, where you can lie on your back and smell the grass while there’s a faint noise of people hitting balls with bats.’ The nightmare version is ‘a slightly scary, sinister, dense place of sex and death.'” Apparently, this was how Frederick Law Olmsted and his collaborator, Calvert Vaux, planned it, both “rugged, fierce, luxuriant” and a place of “silence, peace and repose.”

(above, images of Central Park)

*

The word landscape, Schama says, “originally came from the Dutch and had to do with making pictures. From the earliest time, it has been loaded with wishful thinking. All the images we have of Yosemite are of Edenic places’ .…”

“Mr. Schama recently did a five-part series based on his book for the BBC, with the last film dealing with Arcadia. It begins with a landscape that could be either England or Italy: ‘Haze over the meadow, sheep nibbling grass. Then the camera pulls back. The first line you hear me say, not from the book, is, “Arcadia has always been a pretty lie.” That’s because of the notion that there’s nobody around doing any of the work. The camera pans back and shows an abandoned tea party which has been invaded by insects.'” 

a worker in the rather idyllic Coastal Maine Botanical Garden, Boothbay, Maine, 17 June 2017

*

“Memory is both beautiful and deceptive, both sweet and perilous. It need not be any one thing” — Troy Jollimore in the New York Times, Nov. 2019, reviewing Charles Wright’s Oblivion Banjo

  Featured image: impressionistic photo of spouse on island in frozen Lake Sunapee, New Hampshire, 22 Feb. 2015

Write 28 Days: Landscape of Memory ~ Arcadia has always been a pretty lie This month, I'm going to write words and post images relating to the landscape of memory. I hope to write poems most days and also share photos, quotes, and more prosaic thoughts related in some way to memory, nostalgia, longing for place, remembering and forgetting, landscape, dreamscape, landscape's memory and memory's landscape, the intersection of the layered historical physical world with personal memory, the frames that both landscape and memory use to contain and order our focus, the landscape of childhood, the landscape of devastation, how memories lie and tell the truth, the fragmentation of memory, how landscapes shape us and our memories, and so on.

#Arcadia #art #Camille Pissarro #coherence #harmony #impressionism #impressions #landscape #Landscape of Memory #landscape painting #memory #messy #mists of time #order vs. chaos #revisions #Simon Schama #write 28 days

[digital-arts-etc]

This Artist's Hanging Gardens Find Beauty In Decay

By Isabel Lloyd On 8/15/16

Hanging flowers: “The Beauty of Decay” at Chandran Gallery, San Franciso, earlier this summer.

One summer, when the British installation artist Rebecca Louise Law was not quite a teenager, her father—then an assistant head gardener at a stately home in Cambridgeshire, England, and a man who understood the business of growing flowers en masse—insisted that his whole family bus out to one of the flat, Fenland fields near the village where they lived. It must have been late June, early July at most, because the field was brimful with the bright, airy faces of ox-eye daisies.

“I didn’t care,” says Law, a serene, fair-complexioned 35-year-old with artfully slipshod hair, as she sits in the back room of her tiny gallery in east London. “I was at the age where you’re seeing boys, and I didn’t care at all about gardening, or flowers.” While her father and younger sister were taking photos of the long-legged daisies, and her mother was drawing the daisies (it was an artistic family), Law thunked down in the middle of the field in a full-on adolescent sulk.

And then something happened. “I was just sitting there, with all these flowers at head height around me, and I couldn’t see my family. And I thought, Oh my goodness, this is amazing. I knew from my father that the field would only be like this for one or two days; it was only now that it was that strong, and I thought, How can I re-create this? How do I share it?”

Law has been sharing some of the long-brewed results of that moment at her most recent exhibit, “The Beauty of Decay” at the Chandran Gallery in San Francisco, where visitors weaved between a rain of gleaming copper wires that ran from floor to ceiling, the wires strung with the heads of 8,000 fresh gerberas, roses and statice. She has been making three-dimensional works from flowers since 2003, buying them fresh in bulk and then paying assistants to thread the individual flower heads onto wire. Often, as at the San Francisco show, she suspends the flower-filled wires from the ceiling, creating an effect that can be either tender and ethereal or, if the wires are packed closer together, disconcertingly dense, as if the world has flipped and you’re walking beneath an inverted meadow. The flowers then slowly dry and die, fading from what she calls their “poppy” reds, oranges and yellows into shades of cream, tan and pale rose, the emphasis of the piece moving gently from color to form, from vivid, superficial life to the more solid structure below: the skull beneath the skin.

Once the installation is over, the flowers are taken off their wires and stored in acid-free tissue, ready to be used again. “Absolutely nothing is wasted,” Law says. “It all goes into my archive.”

Works from this archive will make up her next show, a comprehensive, six-week presentation of existing pieces—along with a new installation made of ”all the flowers I’ve ever collected”—starting August 25 at the Broadway gallery in Letchworth Garden City in southeast England. In December, an installation she made for Art Basel will move to Art Basel Miami, and early in 2017 she will be one of seven international artists exhibiting across Denmark as part of the city of Aarhus’s program as the EU’s European Capital of Culture for 2017. Law’s flowers have bloomed in shows at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, Times Square in New York, and—her biggest venture yet—in a semipermanent installation of 100,000 flowers in the roof of a shopping mall in Melbourne, Australia. “It’s intended to last for 10 years,” she says. ”Though if some massive spider takes up residence in it—well, we’ll have to see.”

Law’s studio is also her home: two floors above a storefront in a row of early-Victorian conversions made up equally of galleries, tony vintage-clothing stores and 24-hour mini-marts. (And guess what? It’s on the same road as London’s most famous weekly flower market; her husband buys her a bunch every Sunday—“But the deal is, he has to arrange them.”) The façade is brick, painted black to better show off the colors in the window, which in early August was filled with the fat cerulean heads of inverted hydrangeas.

Inside, the gallery walls display editions from a series Law worked on with the photographer Tom Hartford, re-creations of Dutch Golden Age still lifes by Jan Davidsz. de Heem, Ambrosius Bosschaert and Balthasar van der Ast, but with subtle subversions, such as a modern-dressed figurine peering up into the flowers. At the rear of the studio, a 3-foot plaster statuette of Christ suffering the little children is draped with garlands of minute, pinkish-white gypsophila interspersed with the iridescent green bodies of beetles. The dead insects are a typical Law move, a dainty, sly reminder that when it comes to the works of man, mortality always gets the upper hand. Still, the works of man—or rather, women—are much in evidence: At the table that almost fills the center of the room, four women, one wearing a floor-length caftan with a brightly embroidered hem, are stringing frilly orange helichrysum and laying each wire into long cardboard boxes marked “Nike”—part of a commission for the sportswear brand.

Nike is a little late to the party. The earliest adopters of Law’s work were high-end fashion houses—fashion loves flowers, nature’s own luxury brand—and a breakthrough moment came in 2011 when Hermès commissioned Law to fill the glass roof of the Floral Hall at London’s Royal Opera House. (If you have any illusions about how big brands sniff out new talent, abandon them now: They searched for “art with flowers” online.) This was eight years after Law had used flowers for the first time, in a “hideous” piece she made at the end of her third year studying fine art at Newcastle University. “I was trying to paint in 3-D. I had used food, sweets, wool, and some flowers in amongst it all,” she says. “And I actually didn’t even think of them as flowers. I was just trying to find any kind of materials I could use as my palette.”

Frustrated, she went home for the summer, where her dad’s nursery beds were full of “huge, stunning, colorful dahlias. I asked, ‘What do you think about these drying? Do you think they’ll dry well?’ And he said, ‘Yes! Of course they will, and they’ll be brilliant!’ So I took a whole carload back to university that September.”

Once there, she spent a week hanging the dahlia heads on fishing line, in “an exact square, very precise,” from the ceiling of the university’s installation space. “It felt like I was creating [a] painting in the air. Then when I saw the interaction between the viewer and the work, I realized this was beyond color. My obsession with color suddenly became not the most important thing. Instead, it was about the interaction between human beings and nature, and, too, the transformation of the flowers, which dried into a whole other material.” It might have taken a while, but that field in the Fens had worked its way out.

Law’s father was not just responsible for giving her early inspiration and materials; he also introduced her to an art collection that continues to inspire her: the Golden Age still lifes at Cambridge’s Anglesey Abbey, the former priory where he worked. From the beginning, Law was fascinated by how these paintings “capture time”—by which she seems to mean arrest it as well as portray it. They are highly artificial constructs, almost the diametric opposite of the Van Gogh way of stuffing flowers in a vase and then painting them, fast and bright, there and then. The combination of flowers and fruit they show was aseasonal, outside time, and Law knows from trying to reconstruct it that “the balance is impossible—the flowers defy gravity.”

Those 17th-century paintings also had a job to do: advertising new varieties of flowers from Dutch growers. Today, Law buys much of her raw materials from the Dutch, often homing in on whichever variety might have been over-grown that year in order to reduce her environmental footprint: The Dutch glasshouses grow at such scale that, even when she was installing in Melbourne, there was a moment when she thought it might be greener to get her materials from Amsterdam. In the end, though, local growers won the day, and all 150,000 flower heads were antipodean.

About 90 percent of Law’s work is large-scale work for public consumption, but her gallery sells limited, color-photograph editions at about £1,500 ($1,950) for a print. She also accepts private commissions, installing pieces in people’s homes for between £3,000 ($3,900) and £8,000 ($10,400). No one has yet complained when the flower sculpture that cost thousands begins to die, seeming to accept Law’s contention that the fading is a way of showing flowers not as “purely ephemeral objects but as a beautiful sculptural material for you to enjoy for a lifetime.” According to Law, visitors to the Chandran have certainly enjoyed it: “People were walking through and getting tangled up in the flowers, and going, ‘Aaahh!’”

She dreams of spreading the joy even further, filling the Turbine Hall at London’s Tate Modern with an upside-down meadow made of flowers donated by the public from people’s gardens. You imagine that vast space filled with people, sighing with pleasure, modern Marvells ensnared by flowers. Wouldn’t that teenager, sitting awestruck in a field, be delighted?

http://www.newsweek.com/2016/08/26/rebecca-louise-law-flower-installations-490502.html

[s3539630]

January - June Gallery Reviews typed from my journal.

Gallery / Exhibition Reviews Eliza Hogg s3539630 Turist

Henry Trumble 

NO VACANCY GALLERY Visual: a small, skinny room. walls lined with big A1 glossy prints. Very soft german music playing. Soft, warm lighting. Critical: The work in this exhibition all resembled old, film footage stills, and showed a beautiful, cinematic side of Berlin. Very touristy-like photos, of friends and family and recognisable landmarks. These works gave me a very nostalgic feeling about traveling with friends and was a personal and intimate look into Trumble's travels around Berlin. I noticed that the images were subtly grouped into colour-coordinated categories, and the whole exhibit was split down the middle, with images taken in the day time on one wall to the left, and all images taken at night, or that had very dark lighting or dark colours, placed on the right hand wall. The Artist: Henry Trumble explains that making these images whilst in Berlin really allowed him to slow down and take a deeper look at the world around him. He aspired to take a longer look at his subjects, 'getting to know every shadow, shape and detail.' Trumble describes these images as 'slow souvenirs,' which i found incredibly inspiring. The Great Exhibition

Patrick Pound 

ACMI     Visual: A long hallway with a glass cabinet stretched its length, leading to a big, tall, dark room with a large glass table in the middle. Walls painted black and lighting highlighting the collections of photographs in contrast to the rooms darkness. Small printed film photos groups together in different categories around the room. Critical:  Drawing on items from his own found collection and the NGV’s permanent collection, he weaves together a series of seemingly unrelated items, photographs and curios, into new collections, encouraging audiences to rethink everyday objects all around. Photographic prints make up the largest component of Pound’s collection. Family snapshots and newspaper images taken from their original sources. According to Maggie Finch, the NGV’s photography curator, Pound is not so much the “author” of these photographs as a kind of hunter-gatherer seeking out prints via the internet. Ther Artist: An avid collector, the New Zealand-born, Melbourne-based artist is fascinated by the categorisation and ordering of objects. Photographs, objects and curios sourced from the internet and op shops will be organised alongside artworks from the NGV Collection in a wondrous series of encyclopedic displays.  He describes his works as 'a museum of things.' Pound last exhibited at the NGV in the 2013 exhibition Melbourne Now with his popular Gallery of Air – a collection of diverse artworks and objects that held the idea of air, drawn from the NGV Collection and the artist’s archives. The idea of a 'collection' seems to be a common theme in this previous exhibitions. Top Arts

2017 Graduates 

ACMI Visual: A room that bends around in a 'U' shape, white walls and very open and natural lighting. The exhibitions considered of a massively diverse range of media used. Unexpected materials were also utilised, with Morgan’s Trencher’s application of human hair for her abstract sculpture Specimen 2, exploring the use of scientific materials as ornamentation, and Ruby Marchese combining human hair with papier-mâché for her portrayal of the illusion of security in the current global state. The artist's folios, essays, statements and research were all on a touch screen monitor with headphones and a video of each artist talking about their work was presented upon arrival. I found that this really made the exhibition much more powerful because they explained their long process of make each work.   Critical: I always go to this exhibit every year, and i always find it so relatable and inspiring. It's relatable because i feel like the artists are all in the same place in their life as i am, and they all have very similar skills and knowledge about this industry. Its a fascinating headstart for students just like me into the industry. Forty-seven of the state’s finest emerging young artists who have excelled in VCE Art and Studio Art will exhibit their work in the annual exhibition, featuring 57 pieces drawn from over 2,600 submissions from across Government, Catholic and Independent schools. One of my favourites, Mardi Denham-Roberts, a student from Caulfield North, places beauty standards under the microscope with her large sculptural work which digitally merges human wrinkles. The kaleidoscopic work aims to contrast the inelasticity of aging bodies with the popular obsession with flawless and youthful skin. The artists: This year self-identity was a key theme. Warragul student Maggie Hamilton challenged gender stereotypes with her photographs of young women competing in motocross, a male dominated sport. Swinburne Senior Secondary College student Rukaya Salum Ali-Springle also reflected on identity with her image tackling the underrepresentation of people of colour in media and the dominance of western beauty ideals. Bill Henson

The Festival of Photography 

NGV Visual: A giant room, massive spacial surroundings. Dark colours, dark lighting, dark artworks all around the room at eye level, about A0 sized. A collection fo works chosen by the artist including portraits, nudes, lush museum interiors and transcendent landscapes. Critical: Each of the works included has a palpable sense of the cinematic and together they form a powerful and enigmatic imaginative statement. Like much of his work, there is little that is explicit, and rather the works propose open-ended narratives and capture a transitory sensation. A powerful sense of mystery and ambiguity can be found within the images, heightened by the velvet-like blackness of the shadows and the striking use of chiaroscuro to selectively obscure and reveal the form of the nudes, sculptures and the landscape itself. The Artist: Almost a decade ago, police raided the Roslyn Oxley9 Gallery in Sydney and seized two dozen of Bill Henson's works, with then prime minister Kevin Rudd labelling them "revolting". This week, two major public galleries have put his photographs of naked young people back on their walls – and nobody has batted an eyelid. The images in this exhibition are drawn from a body of works created between 2008 and 2011 and continue Henson’s sensitive, sophisticated study of the human condition, which he has realised over his 40 year career. Vincent Van Gogh 

The Seasons

NGV Visual: I really admired the way that this exhibit was set out. First was a cinematic experience that showed a narrated video that talked all about his works and the time that it took to make them. This was very informative about the artist's life. Then the exhibition continued with 4 different rooms, all themed with a different season. Critical:  Although, whilst the Van Gogh exhibit was superbly presented with an in depth history of the artist himself, there was certainly a tinge of disappointment for me with the paintings on display. I was certainly surprised and indeed disappointed with the absence of so many of his iconic famous works. Van Gogh’s total immersion in the natural world, both as the subject of his art and for its therapeutic effects, saw him observe, in minute detail, the ever changing moods and landscapes of the seasons, cyclical time through the rhythms of farming and human activity, and the qualities of light that changed with both the time of day and the time of year. The Artist: I was really interested in the film that was shown before the exhibition. Van Gogh was the son of a Protestant clergyman of the Groningen school and exhibited fervent religious devotion in his mid-twenties. He rejected this, to some extent, in the 1880s, as he commenced his art practice in earnest. However, a Christian outlook remained central to a worldview that also bordered on the pagan, with all of the natural world infused with a divine presence. Van Gogh’s hope, expressed repeatedly in his letters to Theo, was to share with others the profound healing to be found in nature and in colour. The seasonal cycle promises predictability within inevitable change, and the seeds of rebirth within each death.