Van Gogh, Don't Cut Off Your Ear! Your Top Trader Is Here

"By sunset tomorrow—20 francs! Not a single sou less! Or else pack up your rags and get out! Go fight the stray dogs for a spot under the bridge over the Rhône, boy!"

The vicious face of his landlord, Louis, and the shrill eviction notice exploded once again in Marcel's mind.

Twenty francs.

Tomorrow.

He jolted, trying to push himself up, but the movement tugged at the bruise on the back of his head. A grunt of pain escaped him.

His hand instinctively reached into his coat—good, the oilpaper packet was still there.

Inside were his last few copper coins and half a loaf of black bread.

If he couldn't scrape together those damned twenty francs by tomorrow, he was finished.

In Arles, in December, the cold wind was enough to kill a penniless man on the streets.

These memories of the original owner tore at him: Marcel Duval, twenty years old, French, orphan.

Just before Christmas, he'd taken a job fixing the chimney of the Yellow House, but his strength gave out.

He fell from the height and knocked himself out, lying unconscious in this tiny garret.

When he awoke, the soul inhabiting this body was from Takumi Asano, a painting artisan from Kyoto, Japan, 2025—a man who had painted tens of thousands of Van Gogh replicas.

He'd gone to sleep and woken up as this poor kid in the small town of Arles in Provence, France, just before Christmas, 1888.

Time travel?

The soul of a Japanese painting artisan in the body of a French chimney sweep?

The memories and consciousness of two people merging into one?

The absurdity made his head throb with pain.

BANG—!

CRASH—!!

Sudden, violent shouts and the sound of shattering porcelain from downstairs ripped through the garret's silence.

Fierce, broken, like wild beasts tearing into each other!

Marcel struggled to get up from the floor, the pain in the back of his head still lingering, when he heard a woman's sharp cry from below.

Staggering, he lunged toward the top of the stairs and looked down—

Below was a studio. Next to the fireplace, a young woman, her chest partially exposed, scrambled up from a chair in panic, grabbing a garment to cover herself.

She had snow-white skin, a fiery, attractive figure, disheveled blonde hair, and a face full of terror.

"Paul! Vincent! Please, stop this!" her voice trembled as she hurriedly pulled on her clothes, trying to navigate around the wreckage of canvases and paint tubes littering the floor.

Paul?

Vincent?

Such familiar names!

Marcel's heart gave a violent jolt!

"Get out, Adèle! This doesn't concern you, model!" The man with his back to the stairs roared, kicking over an easel. "Leave!"

Adèle's face was deathly pale.

With one last glance into the room, she pulled the door open and fled into the cold wind.

"You are murdering it, Paul! You murder color with your damned theories! You murder art!" A hoarse, neurotic voice, strained like a canvas stretched to its limit, trembled with desperate intensity.

"Murder? You're the madman who refuses to hear the truth!" Another voice, higher, colder, dripping with arrogance and impatience. "Rein in your arrogant impasto! This chaotic brushwork is nauseating! This damned yellow cage only breeds madness! I've had enough!"

"Paul, I would do anything for you… any trouble, I'd solve it for you… Just don't criticize my paintings… Just please stay…" The raspy voice was mixed with pleading and agony.

"My affairs are none of your concern!"

Marcel's heart hammered against his ribs.

The rent was imminent—but was what was happening downstairs that famous rupture in art history?

The studio was a wreck, paint splattered across the floor, sunflower paintings piled in chaos.

Those were Van Gogh's sunflowers!

The muscle memory from tens of thousands of replicated Van Gogh oil paintings within the painting artisan's soul—Marcel recognized them instantly.

Yet, the scene before him left no room for contemplation—

Two men stood facing each other amidst the ruin.

The taller one, with his back to the stairs, stood like a boulder in the wilderness.

Dark, short hair, shoulders tense.

Beneath a thick coat stained with paint, one hand was clamped firmly on his waist—where a sheathed sword hung. ①

This was absolutely not standard equipment for an ordinary painter!

He turned abruptly, his eyes sunken, burning like embers.

It was Gauguin!

Paul Gauguin!

The master of Post-Impressionism!

Marcel almost shouted his name aloud.

"Madman! Unreasonable!" Gauguin, like an enraged bull, snatched his cloak and hat from the back of a chair. "I should have known! Living with a madman who even wants to paint shadows—it's a disaster!"

He slammed violently against the green door, stormed out without a backward glance, and slammed the door shut behind him.

The door closed with a final THUD, then bounced slightly ajar, letting in a sliver of fading light.

Silence descended once more.

Marcel's gaze fell on the man left standing in the center of the studio.

He was stooped, gaunt, like a sunflower broken by a storm.

A messy thicket of a beard, hair the color of red fire, struck by lightning, sticking out wildly.

He was biting blankly on the handle of a paintbrush.

It was Vincent van Gogh himself!

A legend in modern art history!

The man who sold only one painting in his lifetime, yet whose works were worth billions after his death!

Now, he stood there in a dirty blue smock, sleeves caked in paint, his expression desolate.

He bent down, picked up a painting from the floor, pressed a gentle kiss to it, and placed it back on the table.

Then, he turned and walked towards a dusty mirror on the wall.

His scattered gaze locked onto his left ear in the reflection.

Next, he reached out his right hand—stained with paint, knuckles thick and coarse—and slowly felt for a straight razor on the table.

Steel blade, wooden handle, the edge glinting with a cold, sharp light.

He grabbed his left earlobe with his left hand, pressed the blade against the skin, muscles tensing, on the verge of cutting—! ②

"NO—STOP!!"

Marcel yelled at the top of his lungs.

This wasn't just to prevent a tragedy in art history—it was for himself!

He saw a possible solution to his twenty-franc rent problem tomorrow—an opportunity that might even change the fates of both himself and Van Gogh!

Stopping Van Gogh from cutting off his ear was grabbing onto a lifeline!

"Drop the razor, Mr. Van Gogh! You must not cut off your ear!"

Van Gogh shuddered, the razor pausing precariously at the base of his ear.

He spun around, bloodshot eyes fixing fiercely on the young man at the top of the stairs, his face still smudged with soot.

Shock, fury, pain, and confusion churned in his eyes.

"Who!?" he shouted hoarsely, the razor still pointed towards his ear.

"Are you from Armand's? So soon?!"

He gestured neurotically with the blade, almost incoherent:

"Tell that butcher… the ear, I'll cut it off for him right now!"

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①Regarding Paul Gauguin's Sword：

A、Paul Gauguin was an amateur fencer, and he also took his fencing equipment to Arles.

For reference, see Van Gogh's Ear:The True Story(CHAPTER 14:"Unlocking the Events").

Van Gogh's Ear:The True Story, written by Bernadette Murphy, published by Random House,2016.

B、"He ridiculed Gauguin's fencing gear as 'toys'……"，for reference, see Van Gogh:The Life(CHAPTER 37:"Two Roads").

Van Gogh:The Life，written by Steven Naifeh & Gregory White Smith,published by Random House,2011.

②Regarding Van Gogh's bandaged left ear：

A、His two self-portraits with bandaged ear, executed early in 1889, are the best known evidence of the incident.At first glance it appears that there is a bandage over the right side of his head, which early on led many to conclude that he had cut his right ear.However, self-portraits are done while looking in the mirror, so clearly it was his left ear that he had wounded.

For reference, see Van Gogh's Ear: The True Story (Chapter 14: "Unlocking the Events").

The misconception that Van Gogh cut off his right ear originated from Jo Baart de la Faille's Catalogue raisonnée de l'oeuvre de Van Gogh, 1928, stated that Vincent van Gogh cut his right ear. This was quoted and rectified in Doiteau and Leroy's article in 1936, 'Vincent van Gogh et le drame de l'oreille coupée', p.8.

For reference, see Van Gogh's Ear: The True Story (Chapter 14: "Unlocking the Events") & Notes.

Van Gogh's Ear: The True Story, written by Bernadette Murphy, published by Random House,2016.

B、"For his doctors, Vincent painted two self-portraits, both displaying his bandaged left ear and neat hospital dressing."，for reference, see Van Gogh:The Life(CHAPTER 37:"Two Roads").

Van Gogh:The Life，written by Steven Naifeh & Gregory White Smith,published by Random House,2011.