The Art of Tragedy

Alexander stumbles his way into his office; a moody room with dark red walls, illuminated by dim display lights. The air is filled with a smell he has grown quite accustomed to, a distinct earthy aroma. He is alone, despite this he feels hundreds of eyes watching him.

There awaits a deep brown leather recliner stationed directly in front of an ivory fireplace. Where once a warm fire blazed; now fizzled out into a pile of ash making the room feel frigid. He barely notices, though, as the empty bottle in his hand has helped warm him enough.

He practically falls into the chair and begins to twist the ring on his finger with his thumb. He slowly raises his gaze to a picture sitting on top of the mantle. Inside a black frame, is a captured memory of a time before this. With a somber expression, he allows himself to succumb to exhaustion.

Then came the feeling of thousands of thin needles prickling on his skin. The sensation jolts him awake. His hair dripped icy water onto his face. With sharp breaths his mind struggles to comprehend the situation. He finds himself sitting upon a worn raft surrounded by violent waters. With him, a group of individuals yelling out into the distance and frantically waving pieces of cloth. When he looks out, he can see the reason, a ship. Far off into the distance but getting closer.

“How did he get there? Why does this scene feel so familiar?” Both thoughts that Alexander could not help but conjure. His eyes scan the surrounding scene and settle on a disheveled man. His face masked by a lengthy white beard, and body covered with a tattered red robe. He is slouched forward, his head resting upon his palm. In his lap lies a younger man - naked and pale. An uncomfortable sight as the older man stares off blankly into the distance, unaware of the shouting behind him.

Alexander takes note of the man's broken expression; one he has seen before. He spent days trying to grasp the mix of emotions captured in such a face. The day he lost Jane, he felt like he finally understood. The revelation makes his blood run cold as it is so unbelievable but the only explanation for his current predicament.

The Raft of Medusa, a controversial French painting he collected years ago. These men would not have been here if it were not for an incompetent captain.

He feels the wet sensation of a red ink-like liquid covering the palm of his hand. Regrettably, he spots the source; the corpse of a man, missing the lower half of his body. Pale exposed bones and a sunken face, but that is not what disturbed him the most. The torn flesh, resembling that of a devoured animal; a part of history he wished to forget. The sight makes Alexander gag and try to cover his face with his non-compromised hand. The sea takes this moment to send a wave that knocks him off balance and into the dark freezing waters. Through blurred vision, he watches as light slowly fades from view.

Until it appeared once more, joined by a gentle breeze and the pleasant chirping of birds. Alexander was alive, much to his surprise; in fact, it was as if the incident had never happened. Could it have been a dream? But he was not back in his office.

“Where am I?” He muttered.

There he stood in the middle of a beautiful garden; the ground made up of fragrant flowers. A small forest of towering trees with twisted branches; light forces its way through the bright green leaves.

In the center of it all, a woman is seated upon a cushioned swing attached to branches by a thick rope. Her body is swallowed by an elegant salmon dress detailed with a white lace trim, which follows behind as she gracefully swings back and forth. Of course, Alexander recognizes her as another part of his ever-growing collection.

The Swing, a very colorful painting which seems innocent, but it hides a scandalous secret. Such a painting was made with the intention to mock the husband and revealed a deep betrayal.

He becomes distracted by the whiny bark of a small white dog, behind it a man. He has an aged appearance and his hands, desperately, cling onto the rope. Alexander used to sympathize with this figure, but after everything all he could do was curse the man’s ignorance.

The pain in his chest grows with each moment he watches this scene unfold. He knows that laying in the bushes beneath the woman is her lover. A youthful man, his arms outstretched and a gleeful expression; what an immodest display. Alexander can not help but be overcome with hatred.

“How could you do this?” a question not entirely meant for the figures in front of him, but they were just as guilty. However, neither could hear him and he was left without an answer.

With a blink of his eyes, reality shifted. Alexander was no longer in the garden, but a room. Its walls are void of any decor and with the only light admitting from a simple black fireplace. Next to it, an elderly man is seated upon an old wooden chair. His thin white hair lays on the sides of his head. Alexander can make out an equally white beard from beneath his wrinkled hands, which hide his face. The man’s body is motionless and Alexander notices that, unlike the others, the scene is still.

At Eternity’s Gate, an emotional work done toward the end of Van Gogh’s life. An effective depiction of grief and despair now placed right in front of him.

Alexander is filled with a paralyzing anxiety, the same feeling that has held him in limbo for three years. The overwhelming reality of one’s own mortality.

Everything remained and time seemed to have stopped. Alexander tried shutting his eyes but to no avail. He frantically paced around the room searching for a solution, anything to escape this Hell. His desperation grew by the moment, and he found himself on his knees, begging for anyone - anything to set him free.

“Let them go” whispered a disembodied voice. Alexander’s head shot up and looked around frantically.

He was sitting on a rocky outcrop, overlooking a vast expanse of fog-covered landscape with jagged peaks peeking out from beneath. On the edge stood a man, dressed in a dark overcoat and boots. He was in contemplation, standing there as a romantic hero.

The scene in front of him; Wanderer Above a Sea of Fog, exudes a sense of awe and wonder in the face of nature's grandeur. There is a sense of mystery in what lies below, and forces one to face the vastness and power of mother nature.

“Let them go...” Alexander repeated the message. Life is full of fleeting moments; moments just as magnificent as this. He has held onto this anger and sorrow for so long; it has plagued what memories he had left of her. This limbo he has held himself in has begun to tear through his soul, turning him into a vengeful person.

It is time to move forward. Learn from the past and forgive what he could not before. Let himself breathe for the first time since Jane passed.

He awoke with a pounding headache. Alexander was back in his dark office, sitting in the same leather chair he passed out in.

“So, it was a dream...” He says and looks around the room, taking a moment to appreciate each moving part of his collection displayed on the walls. For the first time in years, he no longer wished to remain in this room. Instead, he takes a step towards the mahogany door, with golden light pouring in through the cracks. He takes a steady breath as he twists the handle, and steps into a new beginning.