I walked swiftly through the different wings of the Met, passing exhibits, brushing past families and tourists, until I finally reached the 800s section, where the 19th and 20th century European paintings were located. I slowed my step and approached the pedestals and walls, each one decorated with the works of preeminent 19th century artists. I recognized Monet’s water lilies and haystacks, as well as The Thinker by Rodin. As I entered Gallery 822, my eyes were immediately drawn to a Van Gogh painting. I read the small plaque: Wheat Field with Cypresses, 1889. On previous visits, I had seen the Starry Night and his numerous flower bouquet oil paintings, but I had overlooked the one that I was staring at now. Sunlit, golden plains juxtaposed with dark green trees, against a background of hypnotically blended clouds and sky – I was captivated.
I sat on the edge of the wooden bench, gazing at the painting for several more minutes. Suddenly, a young girl’s voice whispered in my ear:
“Come inside!”
I looked around me, but the only people in Gallery 822 were a pair of tourists, walking towards the next room. Slightly unsettled, I faced the painting once more. The voice came again:
“Close your eyes, and I will let you in!”
I was skeptical. Is someone really talking to me from a painting? It had been a long day and I had gotten 4 hours of sleep the night before. But I listened to the voice anyway and closed my eyes, trying to look as unsuspicious as possible.
I opened my eyes. The field stretched as far as I could see, the golden grass reaching as high as my waist. I looked upward, absorbing the strong rays of sunlight, and I saw the beautiful intermingling of the light blue shades in the sky with the thick clouds. I broke into a half-run, half-skip, almost gliding through the tall grass and rushing past the magnificent cypress trees. Where was the girl that spoke to me? I reached the top of a hill and craned my neck to catch a glimpse of my surroundings. There she was! At the bottom of the knoll sat a small cottage, somewhat obscured by the lofty prairie grass, and a young girl jumped up and down, waving gleefully. I walked quickly down the hill, stepping deliberately so as not to slip and tumble.
As I approached her, I felt as though I had seen her somewhere before– her face was simultaneously familiar and unknown. She was barefoot and wore a plain white linen dress. Her short blonde hair was as wispy and light as the wheat around us. She smiled broadly and introduced herself as Elisa, grabbing my hand and leading me toward the cottage. She spoke French, and I did not, but I understood by her gestures she was inviting me inside. I nodded and let her guide me. We passed a small cat, which she simply called “minou,” meaning kitty in her language. I heard a noise in the distance and turned around, briefly letting go of Elisa’s hand.
I blinked and the rolling golden hills were gone. I found myself on the same bench, staring at the painting that I had just been inside of. I blinked again – nothing. I slowly rose from the seat and looked around, but the gallery room was empty. I descended the stairs, in somewhat of a trance, and reached the lobby, where many visitors were still entering. I neared the doors and saw a golden-haired girl entering the museum, alone. She turned, and I was met with the same smile I had seen moments before in Van Gogh’s wheat field. I tried to push past the crowds to reach her, but an elderly man, moving sluggishly toward me, blocked my view and I could not find her again.
