Sunflowers and Rifles

I remember the afternoon of October 14th, 2022, very clearly. I was sitting at the kitchen table, bundled in fuzzy socks and my winter coat because our heater had broke. I was eating cold pizza in a cold house, ready go out and walk down the block to my art class. 

On the news channel I put on absentmindedly, a headline about Van Gogh streamed across the screen. We’d learned about him just last week, so I snapped out of my daze and focused on the display. 

CLIMATE PROTESTERS THROW SOUP ON VAN GOGH’S ‘THE SUNFLOWERS’

It went on to show the two culprits being arrested by police officers. They looked younger than I’d thought they’d be. Fresh out of high school. A dramatic close up of the tomato soup covered painting followed. 

It didn’t look too bad to me. And I remember thinking that there there were worse people to focus on arresting as I made my way out the door. 

The woman who taught our small Saturday class of 7 held her lessons in her basement. The other floors of the house were as plain as a blank sheet of paper, but the basement— the basement was anything but. It was cramped, yes, filled to the brim with trinkets and souvenirs from various countries, but it made you feel like you’d never stop unearthing new objects, like a Narnia of art. Vases and small statues sat on every table, and plastic tubs full of acrylic paint tubes sat under our seats. A quiet grand piano rested in the corner. Paintings littered every inch of the walls, to the point where one couldn’t even tell what color the room was painted in originally. 

However, one painting stood on an easel, separated from the chaos of the walls. It was a large canvas, maybe 4 feet in length. A replica of Van Gogh’s ‘The Sunflowers’ that she had painted in 2015. The painting itself was in perfect condition, but what looked like red and black jumbo crayon had been scribbled onto the flowers, inharmonious with the flowing brush strokes and golden yellow hues. When I asked her about it, she only pointed to a polaroid of a small girl clipped onto the edge of the easel with a clothespin, and told me it was her favorite out of all things in the basement. 

This week in class, we read Sherman Alexie’s “Because my father always said”. Sherman Alexie’s father took part in a protest against the Vietnam War, and had beaten up a National Guard while holding a rifle. 

I thought about all three protests. A child rebelling against her boredom. College students rebelling against greedy oil companies. Sherman Alexie’s father against the government. Are we all inherently protesters at heart? In our own lives, we see and are a part of rebellions everyday, however small or big. IA teachers protesting for higher pay. Seeing writing on the stalls of Troy High bathrooms. Boycotting brands you don’t support. Even drinking milk when you’re lactose intolerant. 

Viewing ourselves as protesters is an interesting way to remember the fact that no matter how monotone life gets, we are all powerful protesters of something or the other every single day. And in that case, maybe we're all children holding jumbo crayons in our own way. 

From, 

Vinaya 🌻