#Van Gogh Museum tours

[taruntravell]

A Day at the Van Gogh Museum: What Your Ticket Grants You Access To

A visit to the Van Gogh Museum tours offers a fascinating journey into the life and work of the renowned Dutch artist, Vincent van Gogh. As of my last knowledge update in January 2022, please note that specific details may have changed, and it's always a good idea to check the museum's official website or contact them directly for the most up-to-date information. That said, here's a general overview of what your ticket might grant you access to:

Permanent Collection:

The heart of the Van Gogh Museum tickets is its extensive permanent collection, featuring a remarkable selection of Van Gogh's paintings, drawings, and letters. You can explore his artistic evolution, from his early works to his iconic masterpieces like "The Bedroom," "Sunflowers," and "Starry Night."

Special Exhibitions:

The museum often hosts temporary or special exhibitions showcasing specific themes, periods, or aspects of Van Gogh's art. Your ticket may grant you access to these exhibitions, offering a deeper understanding of the artist's life and influences.

Audio Guides:

Many museums, including the Van Gogh Museum, provide audio guides with the purchase of a ticket. These guides offer insightful commentary on the artworks, providing historical context, artistic techniques, and personal anecdotes related to Van Gogh's life.

Educational Programs:

Some tickets may include access to educational programs, lectures, or workshops organized by the museum. These activities can enhance your understanding of Van Gogh's art and the broader context of 19th-century European art.

Museum Facilities:

Your ticket typically allows you access to the museum's facilities, including restrooms, cafes, and gift shops. Take the time to relax, grab a snack, or purchase souvenirs related to Van Gogh's art.

Guided Tours:

Depending on the type of ticket you purchase, you may have the option to join guided tours led by knowledgeable museum staff. These tours provide in-depth information about the artworks, the artist's life, and the museum's architecture.

Online Resources:

Some museums offer online resources or virtual tours in conjunction with a physical visit. Your ticket may provide access to additional digital content, allowing you to continue exploring Van Gogh's world even after leaving the museum.

Before planning your visit, make sure to check the Van Gogh Museum's official website or contact their visitor services for the latest information on ticket inclusions, special exhibitions, and any COVID-19-related guidelines or restrictions that may be in place.

[thatdamguide]

Van Gogh Museum Tours

What's my favourite Van Gogh painting? That's very hard to answer as I love so many. I love the Almond Blossoms that he painted for his new born nephew, also named Vincent.

There's often a crowd around it, understandably. It is the last painting in the museum route and although not chronological, it is a beautiful painting to end the exhibition with. Why, well his was full of hope and joy, which is not always the case with Vincent. A couple of days ago I was at the Van Gogh Museum early and able to have a long slow look at it and there is a lot of detail there that I had previously not noticed. Vincent often painted very quickly but he obviously took time with this. Check out the tiny details in the closeups below: little red unopened buds; tiny yellow stamens; the lovely varieties of blue.

Gorgous hey! I'm loving giving these Van Gogh Museum private tours. If you are intersted in joining me, here's the info:

[traveleventandnews]

Visiting Amsterdam: A Journey Through Culture, Charm, and Many Canals

Visiting Amsterdam: A Journey Through Culture, Charm, and Many Canals Amsterdam is one of the most enchanting cities in the world, renowned for its picturesque canals, vibrant culture, and rich history. Whether you’re a history buff, art enthusiast, or simply seeking a laid-back yet exciting getaway, Amsterdam has something to offer for everyone. In this guide, we’ll explore why this Dutch gem…

[hamletthedane]

I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

[dutchjan]

July 04, 2024

[astraystayyh]

Starry night.

in which you and hyune fall in love through paintings.

idol!hyunjin x museum guide!reader. love at first sight, kinda. both mc and hyune are romantics.. lots of art analysis and conversations. very fluffy and soft. like so soft i hurt myself with this you guys.

all the info about Vincent Van Gogh’s life and works are from the Van Gogh Museum. the interpretations are my own but im not an art critic, obvi, just a yearner 💔 please enjoy, feedback is highly appreciated 💞

thank you to the lovely reader who commissioned me!!!! the money went to our stayblr fundraiser for palestine. please consider donating if you are able too as well <3333

“You’ll be able to do it, right?” Your manager Martin looks at you expectantly, and you blink slowly in response. It, referring to leading a private tour of the Van Gogh exhibition.

You’ve been a museum guide in New York for four months now. When you’re not painting, you’re here, amidst the array of artworks nestled in a quaint street near East River. You’ve led group tours before, always under the watchful eye of Martin, a middle-aged man who never forgets to bring you a vanilla bourbon macaron every morning.

However, you’ve never handled a private tour before. You see the desperation in Martin’s eyes as he awaits your answer—he’s the one who usually handles these tours, but he has urgent family matters to suddenly attend to.

You blink again, your tongue unknotting in a split second. “I’d be happy to,” you beam. The exhibition feels like a second home to you; you’ve visited it countless times long before you started working here.

Martin heaves a sigh of relief, smiling back at you. “I believe in you,” he reassures, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Remember why I chose you.”

You grin at his words, nodding vigorously. Your love for art brought you here; your very being seems molded to breathe in paintings and live among them. It’s as sweet a life as it can get.

“You’ll find all the details about our guest in our log. He’s famous, so he’ll be a bit discreet. He’ll expect you to be too,” he explains, hurriedly packing his things. You nod, taking the keys to the art gallery from his hand.

“Don’t worry, the gallery is safe in my hands.”

“I know,” he says with a comforting smile, before finally waving goodbye. You take a deep breath and check the booking for tonight’s exhibition—Hwang Hyunjin.

The name is unfamiliar to you, and so is the face that greets you at 8 p.m. sharp—at least, what you can see of it. He’s wearing a navy cap and a face mask, with a varsity jacket sitting perfectly atop his broad shoulders. He looks young, roughly your age.

“Hi, welcome to our Van Gogh exhibition,” you greet him with a grin. He bows slightly in response.

“No one’s here, so you can remove your mask if you wish. I can take your bag as well,” you offer with a smile. He nods and hands you his black duffel bag, which you quickly pass to the security guard, who places it inside a safe cabinet.

Hyunjin removes his Versace cap, running a hand through his silky black hair. There is an aura of assurance around him, as if he’s poised before a camera in a professional photoshoot. But then, a shy smile appears on his face as he finally removes his face mask, his eyes glinting beneath the golden lighting.

You feel your breath catch in your throat; for a split second, the world around you seems to still, the paintings dimming before the beautiful face in front of you.

“Right,” you clear your throat, “shall we?”

Hyunjin nods, falling easily into step with you. You pause before the first painting, ‘Woman with a Child on her Lap’, 1883.

“This is rumored to be about Sien Hoornik, who became both Vincent’s lover and model. She was a former prostitute, pregnant at the time, and had a five-year-old daughter. Vincent was determined to help her through her hardships, and they dated for a year and a half. But then, he broke it off because he said she was too far gone to be saved.”

Hyunjin nods, his eyes fixated on the painting, his head tilted slightly to the side. “The eyes are telling,” he speaks for the first time, and his voice floods your being like dewdrops reviving flowers at dawn. It is smooth and soft, the end of his words getting lost in the air and caught by your heart.

“The way the mother and daughter look at each other, I mean.” He clarifies, stealing a fleeting glance at you. “There is disdain on the mother’s face, but more toward herself, I think. Maybe because she sees her reflection in her daughter.”

Groups usually scurry past this painting, eager to see Vincent’s more renowned works. You feel your heart soften at how much he seems to be thinking about it, lost in his own world. You’re not even sure he remembers you’re there.

“Vincent was really determined to help her, although his brother Theo disapproved. His parents did too.”

“Isn’t that what love is? To hold someone’s hand even if everyone tells you to let go,” he mutters quietly, his eyes still lost in the painting. A hue of vulnerability colors his words before he clears his throat, as if unwittingly revealing his inner thoughts.

“That’s a beautiful way to view it,” you smile, and he nods, shyly biting his lower lip. For some odd reason, his timidity stirs something unfamiliarly tender within your heart.

You walk over to the next set of paintings. “When Vincent moved to Paris, you can see how his style developed. He let go of the darker tones he used in his infamous ‘The Potato Eaters’ and began using lighter colors, like here,” you explain, pointing to ‘The Hill of Montmartre with Stone Quarry’.

“Do you think it’s because he was happier?” he suddenly asks, and you frown slightly. “Pardon?”

“The shift to lighter colors. ‘The Potato Eaters’ is so sorrowful and shrouded in darkness. ‘The Hill’ is much more colorful, lighter, you know?” His eyes glide to yours, a twinkle of curiosity glimmering in them.

“Vincent did flourish in Paris. For once, he was in the same city as his brother Theo, whom he loved dearly. But he was mainly influenced by modern art, which uses much lighter colors than his previous works. Art critics usually attribute this change in the influence of his contemporaries, such as—”

“But what do you think?” he interrupts softly, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are penetrating, and you find yourself lost in the seas of emotion they contain.

You quiet down, licking your lips tentatively. No one has ever asked for your opinion on these tours before.

“Well,” you begin slowly, “I think it’s possible. Being around his brother and other artists who embraced brighter palettes could have uplifted his spirit. But also, maybe the light colors were his way of reaching for happiness, even if he didn’t always feel it. Art often mirrors our hopes as much as our realities.”

Hyunjin listens intently, a thoughtful look on his face. “I agree,” he finally says, smiling sincerely. You don’t know why the sight of his grin renders your brain putty, like melted ice cream under the kind sunrays.

“His use of lighter colors continued when he moved to the south of France. He was delighted with the bright colors in Arles, painting orchards in blossom and workers gathering the harvest,” you explain, pointing to the respective paintings.

“That’s when he told his brother that he wanted to open a studio for fellow painters. He wrote in a letter the following: 'you always lose when you’re isolated.' He sent out many invitations, but only one painter agreed to come.”

“Paul Gauguin,” Hyunjin swiftly replies.

“Exactly. He was the first and last painter to move in with Vincent.”

“It seemed like the more he tried to escape loneliness, the more it found him,” Hyunjin muses, his eyes fixed on ‘Portrait of Gauguin’ by Vincent. The bright colors he asked you about earlier make you wonder if, beneath the spotlight, Hyunjin too feels lonely.

“Sometimes loneliness becomes a friend. You have to make room for it to allow other things to come in,” you say softly.

“It’s sad how nothing good came out of that roommate situation, though” he frowns, and you nod in agreement.

“Paul and Vincent were very different. They had a lot of eclectic views that often led to disagreements. I assume you know their most prominent one.”

“Yes, when Vincent cut off his ear.”

“Correct, he then wrapped it in newspaper and presented it to a prostitute in the nearby red-light district.”

“A prostitute…” Hyunjin muses, his thumb swiping slightly across his lower lip. “It seems like phantoms of his first love found him again. Even in his most disoriented state, he somehow remembered her.”

“You speak of love beautifully,” you suddenly say, before biting your tongue harshly, instantly regretting your words. But Hyunjin’s eyes seem to soften as he gazes at you, the warm light dancing across his pupils.

“It is a beautiful feeling.”

“Only to those who have beautiful souls,” you speak earnestly, and your words seem to morph into brushstrokes, painting the gallery in hues of red. Intimate, soft, too intimate all of the sudden.

“Vincent’s mental health rapidly declined, and he put himself back into the mental asylum,” you quickly clear your throat, though you can still feel Hyunjin’s eyes on you, not the painting. “Still, that’s when he created some of his most famous artworks, like ‘The Starry Night’. He was inspired by the view from the asylum’s window. It’s dominated by vivid yellow and blue, and the colors and paint seem to describe a world outside the artwork itself.”

“It’s breathtaking,” Hyunjin marvels, lost in the painting, leaning in until his nose almost brushes the canvas.

You suppress a giggle, but your laughter fades as you take in the mole right by his jaw, then the one by his neck. The delicateness of his face, the plumpness of his lips, and the curve of his lashes.

He’s beautiful. The painting could seep him in and he’d fit right in with the silver stars. Outshining them too, surely.

“I really liked the tour,” he smiles, nearly two hours of lazy strolls later. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” you grin back, grabbing his outstretched hand. His fingers wrap around yours slowly, deliberately, as if on a mission to ignite your nerve endings. To set your soul ablaze with his palm alone.

His hand holds yours for a few seconds longer than necessary. Your blush mirrors his when he finally lets go.

He quickly bows again, grabbing his bag from his manager, who was waiting by the door. He almost bumps into the handle on his way out, and you let out an endeared chuckle, your eyes lingering on his figure until he disappears into his black van.

You think you'll never see him again, two lines crossing serendipitously at one point, never to cross paths once more. The thought sends a pang of sorrow latching onto your heart, before you quickly brush it away.

But then you do see him again, the very following night, at that.

It is near nine p.m. when Martin exclaims suddenly, “Mr. Hwang!” and you freeze in your place, book guide in hand.

It has been exactly twenty-four hours since you last saw Hyunjin, but when his voice softly echoes through the art gallery, it feels like a lifelong ache finally soothed.

“Please, call me Hyunjin,” he says, shaking Martin’s hand, though his eyes quickly find yours. They stay on you, unmoving yet tender, like a cotton blanket draped over your being.

“How was the tour with Miss Yn?”

“Ah—“ his gaze finally drifts away from yours. “Yes, it was really nice. That's why I came again,” he explains, a touch sheepishly, and your quizzical eyes meet Martin’s.

“Hyunjin booked another private tour. He specifically requested you to be his guide,” Martin explains, and your eyes widen in shock. You don’t have time to reply because your manager quickly scurries away. “I’ll leave you two then. Have fun!”

You wait until Martin disappears into his office before turning to Hyunjin, who avoids your gaze, one hand deep in his pocket, moving side to side. You remain silent for a few moments, simply admiring the side of his face. You’ve always had a deep appreciation for art running through your veins, after all.

“Hi,” he finally says, his eyes quickly meeting yours. You can’t stop the smile that floods your face, coating every nook and cranny of your features.

“You came back,” you say with a breathy giggle.

“Mm,” he instantly grins. “I don’t know when I’ll be back in New York, so I wanted to truly memorize the art here.”

“When are you going home?” you ask as you take his bag again, your eyes taking in his outfit—a green cap this time, a knit vest over a white shirt, and a silver teddy bear necklace nestled perfectly against it. Pretty.

“Tomorrow. We had a tour stop here, and we’ll go back to Seoul now.”

“And you’ll be spending your final night in the city here?” you chuckle slightly, and he shrugs as if it’s the most obvious decision he ever had to make.

“Why not? I think it’s beautiful here.” though his eyes never move to look onto the paintings, gliding across your face instead.

“And I forgot to take pictures yesterday,” he quickly adds, pointing to the camera in his hands.

“I’ll help you then,” you offer, and he smiles so brightly that it renders you speechless, suddenly wondering if the first person who ever drew a portrait had a similar thought—that they saw a smile so beautiful they just needed to immortalize it.

Hyunjin is at ease before the camera. You can tell by the way he almost pretends the device isn’t there, his eyes fixed on the paintings, mere centimeters away from the canvas. He’s whisked away into another world. You see your love for art mirrored in his soul as well.

“Do you paint, by any chance?” you ask between pictures, and he nods.

“Whenever I have free time. And you?”

“I do. I can show you later, if you’d like.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says, pointing his finger at you, before looking directly into the camera this time. “I’ve been painting magnolias lately.”

“Really? Why magnolias specifically?”

“I read a poem about them. It said that when magnolias wither, they aren’t considered beautiful anymore. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t at one point. It really moved me.”

“You have to be very optimistic to view it that way,” you say as you finally hand him the camera, satisfied with your pictures. You are both standing in front of ‘Almond Blossom,’ the pastel colors drawing you in.

“Withering flowers mean that at one point they were in full bloom. Grief means that at one point you did love,” you muse. “It takes a lot of gentleness to find beauty in endings, to celebrate them as proof of what once was. Don’t you think so?”

You turn to look at him when the flash of a camera catches you off guard.

Hyunjin looks at your picture, a soft smile on his face. “You fit right in with the flowers,” he compliments, though it does not feel superfluous or bearing a hidden intent. It’s a simple observation he wished to share.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, a blush sprouting from your very veins. You quickly fix your posture, pointing to the painting. “I told you yesterday that Vincent painted this for his brother Theo, to celebrate his newborn, whom he named after Vincent.”

“Yes, I remember,” he nods, slinging the camera over his neck and taking a picture of the painting up close. “It seemed to bring Vincent a lot of solace in his final days.”

“I’ve been thinking about your question, whether Vincent was happy. I think he was hopeful more than anything. He had hoped his works would be recognized, he had hoped he wouldn’t be as lonely anymore. Sometimes hope keeps you going much more than happiness.”

“Because happiness will eventually wear off?”

“Right, it’s only natural. But hope… it’s like a flame that never goes out. It might flicker and dim, but it will still be there on your darkest nights.” You bite your lip slightly, your thumb digging into your palm.

“I hope you’ll always have hope in your life, Hyunjin. You’ve been my favorite person to talk about Vincent with,” you say sincerely, your eyes unwavering from his.

You imprint the way his gaze softens into your mind, the slight blush that powders his cheeks, the way his teeth peek behind his smile. You memorize his velvety voice in your mind, the way he accentuates certain letters and how it pulls at the strings of your heart when he says—“I’m very happy I met you, Yn.”

May is gone, and with it Hyunjin, and you think you are a fool for thinking of him as often as you do after only five hours in his presence. You don’t know why your mind is permeated with his essence. But why wouldn’t it be? is the better question. When he’s beautiful, truly, body and soul.

You feel slightly less foolish when a postcard is delivered to your exhibition on a sunny Saturday, one month later. It depicts the front entrance of the Museum of Modern Art in Seoul.

June 13.

“yn,

i saw Vincent’s works once again in this month’s exhibition. somehow they seem less beautiful without our conversations.

i hope you’re surrounded by art, too.

hyunjin.”

June 23.

“hyunjin,

i visited claude monet’s immersive exhibition, you have to visit it as well, once you’re back in new york.

i am still surrounded by art, as always. i don’t think i could ever part from it.

did you finish your magnolias? i hope you’re seeing beauty in them even after they wither.

yn.”

July 5.

“yn,

claude’s works are so different from vincent’s... don’t you think it's beautiful that they lived at the same time yet depicted their world so differently?

my magnolias are finished. i’ve been drawing scenes from your exhibition lately, the picture i took of you is particularly inspiring. i hope you don’t mind.

hyunjin.”

september 26.

“hyunjin,

leaves are falling all over new york. new beginnings are upon us. i hope this view of my window inspires you too.

i wish you happiness no matter the season.

yn.”

october 7.

“yn,

i just saw the first snow at dawn, it was such a pretty view! i’m happy i’m alive today.

i hope snow reaches you fast enough, too.

stay warm.

with love,

hyunjin.”

october 23.

“hyunjin,

i’ve always preferred spring, but snow brought me such a happy opportunity. i’m invited to an exhibition in seoul, next month!

i’ll enjoy it well and think of our conversations.

with love,

yn.”

october 5.

“yn,

the weather is beautiful in seoul lately. i’m happy you’ll be here to see it.

it is late at night, and the moon is shining brightly. i hope it’ll shine as brightly for you too, in new york.

with love,

yours.”

The click of your black heels against the marble floors echoes through the museum, a comforting sound as you stroll through the immersive Vincent exhibition; now gracing Seoul. The colors wash over you, reflecting off your skin, swirling around you until you feel as though you’re being drawn into the very heart of the paintings.

“Enjoying the art, Yn?” a voice like honey drips across your being. Your heart skips a beat, plummets to your knees and races back to its place once again. You feel an ache inside you unfold. memories of Hyunjin’s voice rewriting themselves, perfecting your recollection of his accent and the tender way in which he spoke your name.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, though you refuse to turn around and meet his eyes. Not yet. The scent of his rose perfume is enough to have your heart rattling against your ribcage— a bird wishing to escape its cage and deliver your love letter to its rightful owner.

“Isn’t it an amazing coincidence we met here? In Seoul, no less,” he says, his voice airy as he inches closer.

“I know you’re the one who invited me,” you giggle, finally turning to meet his gaze. His eyes widen slightly before morphing into crescents, as if lifted from Vincent’s Starry Night.

“How did you know? I thought I kept it a secret in our postcards,” he grins sheepishly.

“I kept pestering Mr. Martin about why the museum invited me specifically until he finally told me you were behind it.”

“Well,” he licks his lips, his eyes roaming over your face. “I admit, I missed you. I wanted to see you again. And I happen to be a major contributor to the museum.”

“Fancy,” you beam, before your grin morphs to something much softer, as you realize that you are away from your work, and that the Hyunjin of your postcards is finally before you.

“I missed you too. Show me around?”

“Am I your guide now?”

“Mm. I expect you to be an expert.”

“Oh, I am.”

Hyunjin speaks of the paintings as if it’s his first time seeing them, finding new things to admire, new details to point out to you. You find it hard to keep up, only because your eyes seem more interested in observing him. You’ll tell him later that you were right in thinking he’d make every painting more mesmerizing.

But for now, you stroll together, his hand brushing against yours every now and then. Before long, you’re far from the museum, walking into the chilly Seoul night, his jacket draped over your shoulders.

And you talk, you talk about every painting you’ve seen since his departure, the flowers you’ve picked, and the strawberry field you visited at the end of June. He shares stories of his favorite painters and his beloved dog, Kkami, whom he misses dearly. He speaks of the moon and how your postcards lessened his loneliness. You tell him you’ve kept every card by your bedside, the first and last thing you see each day.

Suddenly your pinky is entwined with his, your cheeks ache from how much you’ve spoken and laughed, your heart lighter than it had ever been.

“Thank you for walking me to my hotel,” you smile softly.

He nods, his thumb swiping across your palm tenderly. It’s only after a while that he speaks again. “I know you said that happiness wears off eventually. But right now, the happiness i feel… I think it will last me for the next four months, at least.”

“Just four months?” you tease, and he giggles, tipping his head back. You wish you had your paintbrushes, your camera, a simple pen, anything to commit his laugh into something tangible.

“For a long time,” he finally says, quietly, resigned. Tomorrow’s flight ticket makes your heart ache, all of the sudden.

“I… I’ll get going. Thank you for inviting me,” you smile, dropping his hand. You know it’ll hurt the more you hold it, the easier it’d be for you to remember the softness of his hand.

So you walk back, you’re near the hotel door, a hand suddenly wraps around your wrist, the security guards both discreetly look away.

“Yn,” Hyunjin turns you around, his eyes are as wide as the full moon hanging close to earth, listening in to your conversation.

“You didn’t- you didn’t show me your paintings.” he says a bit too quickly, desperately.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“Back in New York, you promised to show me your paintings. You didn’t.”

“You remember?”

Hyunjin's chest heaves in response, his warm palms cradle your cheeks, his eyes speak of a yearning you haven’t thought existed. When his lips crash upon yours, fervently, passionately, like the collision of all stars in Starry Night, you have your answer.

He remembered. He remembered as much as you.

Epilogue— seven months later.

“Now… next question,” Hyunjin grins as he takes out a folded paper from a glass jar, five sets of camera’s all pointed at him in the shooting set of Elle Korea.

“If you could feel only one emotion for the rest of your life, what would you choose?”

Hyunjin puts the paper down, adjusts the sleeves of his Versace blue silk shirt. He doesn’t need to think too much to answer— he already has his reply.

“Someone told me, a long time ago, that hope keeps you going longer than happiness. Because happiness wears off eventually. But hope doesn’t. hope is like a flickering flame, it surges and it dims, but it doesn’t go out, so I choose hope.” he smiles suddenly, eyes looking into those of the staff behind the camera.

“That got deep all of the sudden, right? Done worry, Stay, I have hope, happiness and love, all at once.”

He chuckles quietly, picking up the last piece of paper.

“Finally… who’s your favorite painter? Ah, easy, it’s Vincent Van Gogh.”

“What's your favorite painting by him?” the shooting director asks behind the camera, his eyes fixate on the lens. He knows his love will be watching.

“A woman with a child on her lap. It’s not very known, but… if you look into it closely, beautiful things might come into your life and change it forever.”

from left to right, Woman with a Child on her Lap, 1883 — Portrait of Gauguin, 1888— The Potato Eaters, 1885—The Hill of Montmartre with Stone Quarry, 1886— Almond Blossom, 1890— The Starry Night, 1889.

[whatsfourteenupto]

Fourteen’s wandering an art museum. Managed for a bit to behave like the Good Normal Quiet Thoughtful Art Patron but couldn’t keep it up, so:

Asks an incredible amount of increasingly-detailed questions and has long, in-depth conversations with the attendants.

Spends a ridiculous amount of time in the Van Gogh section just grinning from ear to ear.

There are several incorrectly labeled more ancient art items but for once he keeps his damn mouth shut. They’ll tell Mel later and she’ll get in touch with them

Doesn’t linger very long in the statuary section. There’s nothing obviously suspicious about it, but they’d just rather not.

Pleasantly surprised to come across a few of Clyde Langer’s pieces. The gun in that one looks so familiar, though, one of the must have shown him the painting at some point…

Fiddles with the audio tour headset so much he accidentally breaks it. He’ll fix it before he gives it back, and it’s super weird but that headset never runs out of battery ever again.

Of course they’re going to visit the Little Shop.

[bullet-prooflove]

Birthday Bingo Celebration: Paris: Terry Silver x Reader

Tagging: @volumesofforgottenlore@kmc1989@somethingdarkside17@noonee333

You spend your thirtieth birthday alone in Paris, touring all the places you haven’t had an opportunity to visit during your time with the residential program. You trawl through the vintage shops in Le Marais, selecting some of the less expensive pieces. You wander through the Jardin du Luxembourg and finally you visit the Louvre.

It's there that you meet him, the man that changes your life forever. You’re sitting on a bench admiring the painting ‘Orphan Girl at the Cemetery’ by Eugene Delacroix when he sits down alongside of you.

He’s tall, well dressed with soft, silver hair that falls across his handsome features. He places his palms in the space behind him as he leans back, his head tilted as he surveys the image.

“Do you think she’s questioning God’s will?” He asks you and you pause your sketching for a moment to consider his words.

“Most people assume she’s raising her eyes towards heaven.” You tell him as you place the mechanical pencil down upon your sketchpad and set it aside. “I don’t think it’s as cerebral as that. I think we’re looking at a girl who has just made the realisation that she’s completely alone in the world. The colour scheme Delacroix has chosen and the way the background blurs is meant to instil an aura of solitude.”

Your cheeks colour then as you tilt your head towards him because you always do this, talk too much about art. You think you must sound pretentious.

“Sorry.” You say as you gesture at the paint. “It’s just the work, it excites me.”

He smiles then and it feels like your whole world just lights up.

“Don’t apologise.” He tells you, shaking his head. “I enjoy spending time with someone so passionate, please tell me more.”

So you do. The two of you tour the entire museum together discussing the art on display before you take him to Musée d'Orsay to view the impressionists. It’s there that he discovers it’s your birthday.

“Let me take you to dinner to celebrate.” He requests as you stand in front of Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’ and you agree because you’re having a wonderful time in his company.

You spend the rest of the evening, sipping champagne in La Bouche while Terry tells you stories of his trips abroad, about how he spends the majority of his time travelling absorbing different cultures.

You can only dream of the places he’s visited. Once you’re residency is up you’ll be returning to LA, to the dumpster fire that was your world before you left.

“It sounds like such a wonderful life.” You tell him earnestly and he smiles as he reaches across the table, his hand clasping yours.

“Tell me.” He says quietly, his thumb chasing over the hollow of your wrist. “How does a woman as extraordinary as you end up alone in Paris on her birthday?”

“I’m a bit of a cliché I’m afraid.” You sigh as your fingers entwine with his. “The very definition of running from your problems.”

“Ok.” He says as he brings your hand up to his lips and kisses the tips of your fingers. “Why don’t you tell me all about them over dessert?”

Love Terry S? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[yanderepuck]

Fun facts I've learned about Van Gogh by doing my own research and by tour guides in the Van Gogh museum:

Started art bc he thought it was easy

Does NOT understand how the postal system works and that it takes time for a letter to be received (he got to Theo's house before his letter, thus surprising them that he arrived and is moving in)

He also tended to burn his mail after reading it

Tried to take art classes but the moment he got bored he did what he wanted

The Japanese that's painted around The Plum Tree is an address to a brothel

Man offered his severed ear to a prostitute

Was an art dealer and hated it

Dropped out of school 3 times

Went to school to be a priest like his father but failed the final test and didn't try again.

Theo couldn't sell a single one of his paintings

Only signed the paintings that he liked

Thought that the Potato Eaters was his best painting ever, but art critics say it is one of the worst paintings

He painted 50 portraits as of peasants and chose the best 5 to put in the paintings and they were still considered awful

Gauguin didn't consider him much of an artist because Vincent couldn't paint from memory/imagination. He had to look at something in front of him

Was one of the first to use tube paint and was looked down upon for it

Theo had to pay Gauguin to move in with Vincent

Drank a LOT of absinthe

Was a regular at brothels

Nearly married a former prostitute (Theo and parents were against it and their relationship ended after 18 months)

Theo wrote to him more than he wrote back

Had no kids himself but had two kids named after him (Theos child and the Prostitutes child)

Loved Japanese art

Didn't want to romanticize peasant/poor life which is why many of his paintings didn't do well

Took a drawing class where they did 0 painting. Did a study with a skull and Vincent went "fuck it" and painted it which was absolutely not allowed in the class.

Was never actually diagnosed with anything, but modern day professionals have diagnosed him with 'manic depression' 'schizophrenia' and 'epilepsy'. But since these were made after he died they cannot be 100% confirmed.

This man was wild tbh and every time I learn something new about him it's wild

[xuchiya]

underneath the stars moments

a long chapter

₊˚.༄ || soft valentines m.list || hongjoong || seonghwa || yunho || yeosang || san || mingi || wooyoung || jongho || ₊˚.༄

i have this thought of jongho talking about the famous painting of van gogh. yes, the starry night. and the 12 sunflower, self-portrait, the cafe terrace at night— even the almond blossoms.

amsterdam. it was located at amsterdam; the museum of van gogh's paintings. you turn to jongho, all attention to the series playing on the television. you were at the kitchen counter, in front of your laptop with the flight tickets pending.

it was his dream to see the museum and your grandmother lives there and have a reason to visit without having suspicion.

"you're going to visit your grandma? at amsterdam?" jongho, on his pajamas, watch by the doorway as you pack up your stuff; including some of jongho's incase he forgot few clothes to pack. you hum, folding the scarf, "we're visiting grandmama, hun."

his eyes widen, pointing at himself, "me? I'm coming with you?" you nodded, chuckling. you close the suitcase and lean on one hip, "you don't want to?"

you pray that he agrees or else the whole plan will fail. jongho had a hesitant look in his eyes, "well it's across the world but ..." you gulp at his pause, shoulders tense. jongho look back at you with a small smile, "but it's not like i have never done that when i'm on tour with hyungs."

your shoulders suddenly relax, step one being check on the list to convince or tell jongho the 3 day trip.

little did you know, jongho had also check his step one.

the plane had landed on the runway, offering a glimpse of Amsterdam's quaint rooftops nestled beside sprawling canals.

a hit nostalgia erupt in your chest. You, the girl raised amidst the vibrant chaos of San Juan, and Jongho, the boy who dreamt of windmills and tulips, were finally landing in his dream city.

as you rolled your suitcase out of the airport, the crisp Dutch air sent shivers down your spine. Jongho notice your shivering body, offered you his jacket, his touch lingering a beat too long, sending a flutter in your stomach.

"thank you hun." He mouthed a 'no problem'. The taxi ride to your grandmother's house was a whirlwind of foreign sights and sounds, as the car turn, you notice the newly renovated playground. the playground that you grew up to. Jongho notice it, "your childhood place?"

you hum, a smile curling on your lips, "yeah my brother and I used to visit this place." jonho nodded. your brother was across the country too, working as a computer engineer.

it was still the same after years you left your hometown, and you couldn't feel one thing but nostalgia

upon reaching your destination, a quaint two-story house with ivy creeping up its facade, you felt a pang of apprehension. Your grandmother, a stern woman with a heart of gold, wasn't known for her fondness for strangers, let alone boyfriends.

"grandmama!" you called, dropping your items before rushing towards her. Jongho chuckles, picking up your purse and scarf before approaching you and your grandmother.

you braced yourself as you introduced him, her keen eyes scanning him from head to toe, "boyfriend?" Her lips pursed in disapproval, the etched lines on her face deepening. A familiar knot tightened in your stomach.

jongho stayed still, not know how to act when he realised that this is the first time he met one of your relatives. he glance at you for some kind of help but you reassured him with a smile, turning back to your grandmother.

"yes grandmama. he's good at singing too!" you saw a flicker of something else in her gaze, a hint of amusement perhaps, or maybe a grudging acceptance. you know you hit something there when you mention singing.

she was a singer once too. famous back in her time, you smile knowing at the end of this trip—she and jongho would be in good terms.

the following days were a whirlwind. you played as the tourist, leading jongho to places you recommended and places of your favorite. You strolled hand-in-hand through vibrant flower markets, marveled at the Anne Frank House, and took romantic canal cruises.

jongho has his vintage camera out, snapping pictures here and there—when he place his eye on the eye cup, his lens focus on you. crouch on the tulips stands, his heart fluttered when you spoke in Dutch, they way you converse with them so smoothly and elegantly.

his fingers hover over the button, snapping a couple pictures of you.

his step two is check.

your lips curled upward when the storekeeper pluck a tulip and gave it to you. the storekeeper pushed you towards him, "mr. Leo I cannot accept this."

mr. leo shake his head, a smile on his bearded face, "oh hush dear, it had been a while since you visited." jongho eyes you with affection, you were so beautiful that it overwhelmed him. you notice your boyfriend's gaze, your eyes sparkles.

"mr. leo, this is jongho. my boyfriend. " you cling on his arm, jongho bowing at mr. leo. He eyed jongho before sticking out his hand, jongho slightly confused but grasp his hand.

a firm shake before mr. leo lets go, "strong. I like it." his voice is rough and deep. you chuckle, patting jongho's back, "he is."

jongho was confused, "huh?"

mr. leo answered, amused "i know a person is strong when I see one. and that reassure me that you can take care of her."

jongho smiles, looking at you with adoration, puffing his chest, "of course, I will."

One evening, jongho was ask (by your grandmother) to helped in preparing dinner, confusing you but didn't question which in jongho's dismay.

she stirred the soup while jongho set up the table, "jongho." she called. jongho halted, heart flipping at the firm voice of your grandma, "yes grandma?"

"do you love my granddaughter?" his throat clogged. of course, more than ever. he nodded, clearing his throat, "yes i do. she's my everything." your grandmother turn around, eyeing him, "why?"

jongho was taken back. he was not expecting this question as he never questions his love for you. he'll go beyond any lengths.

"I love your granddaughter who she is—anything and everything. no question ask." with the answer given by him, your grandmother felt reassured. nodding, she turned back around, "okay."

he guess, step three is check?

later that dinner, everything went well. your favorite food was cooked, your grandmother seems to slowly warm up to jongho— still questioning what happened will resting in your old room.

after your grandmother observe him, a rare smile playing on her lips. you and her were on the back, on the veranda, "He seems serious about you." she finally said, her voice gruff but softer than usual. "he might pop up a question any time dearie, be prepared." she added, a twinkle in her eye.

relief washed over you. you realized your grandmother wasn't just tolerating him; she was beginning to see what you already knew - that beneath his easy smile lay a genuine heart worthy of her granddaughter's affection.

as you smile, sipping on your tea when you suddenly choke upon what you heard from your grandma a little late, "wait what question?!"

the last day came, the whole morning was about jongho and your grandmother having a little session at the small town in your area.

they were a great combo.

when afternoon, came you dress up again then going downstairs to see your boyfriend and grandma on a hushes conversation which in panic, your grandma smack him on the head for being 'too noisy' while he read the newspaper. upside down.

you walk in, confused "is there ... something going on?" your grandma cleared her throat, waving you off, "I told him I'll cut his balls off if he ever hurts you, even a paper cut."

you were flabbergasted, "grandmama!" you stare at your boyfriend, who was red in the face—hiding behind the newspaper.

you stare at your boyfriend, eyes squinting. you both were in the taxi, on your way to your destination the awkwardness dissipates the moment jongho looks at you; pouting, looks like it's angry but just look like a angry Maltese to him.

he shakes his head, just grabbing your hand squeezing it, "such curious cat hun." you huff, looking at the window, not really mad at him but —yeah, you were curious.

you turn back to him, "how come you both were on the top ten most tensed people the moment you step inside the house then the next day as if you were his grandson instead?"

jongho looks at you, leaning closer before pecking the tip of your nose, pulling away by a an inch, "you'll know soon."

when you both arrive at the place, stepping out the car had jongho confused at the silent yet illuminated building. you grasp his hand, leading him inside the building. when entering the building, jongho felt his eyes watered in excitement.

it's the museum he was talking about. van gogh's museum.

he turn to you, his eyes settled on your soft eyes. they held emotions he couldn't explain yet behind those were happiness.

"thank you hun." he spoke so gently, taking your hand in his. you smiled, shaking your head, "no need to thank me, it was my plan after all."

his step four ...

oh how could he tell you when you were back in the apartment that he accidentally saw at your laptop to see the tickets confirmed to your hometown when he was grabbing a drink?

how could he tell you that he panic to his hyungs about different things when you guys landed at Amsterdam? how could he tell you that he had different plan?

oh, how could he tell you that ever since the trip, he has been carrying a ring inside his pocket?

The museum hummed with a quiet reverence, the late-evening air thick with the scent of aged paper and possibility. Jongho kept himself from checking the box inside his coat without having you being suspicious to him but his heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Tonight was the night. he or more like your grandmother had pushed him to go on with the plan. As he approached the designated room, a wave of anticipation washed over him. The room was bathed in an ethereal glow, engulfing the place like the actual painting.

He found you, standing amidst the celestial spectacle, a smile gracing on your lips that mirrored the crescent moon hanging low in the projected sky. Jongho's throat tightened; adjusting the scarf around his neck, his carefully rehearsed words dissolving into a puddle of nervous excitement.

"Wow," you take in the room, the swirling yellow hue as a resemble of the stars and the soft twinkling above the ceiling was mesmerizing. "It's beautiful."

"Not as beautiful as you," Jongho blurted out, surprising himself with his sudden boldness. A blush bloomed on his cheeks, but he held your gaze, his heart pounding a fierce tattoo against his chest.

you chuckled, "that's very sweet, Jongho but I think the stars have you beat on that one."

Taking a deep breath, Jongho stepped closer, his hand instinctively reaching for yours. your fingers automatically intertwined with his, sending a jolt of electricity through him. He led you towards the center of the room.

the projector of the starry night was the only light that shines. you were confused, concerned etching on your face but jongho ignores it. "there's something ... i've been meaning to tell you," Jongho began, his voice husky with emotion.

it was now or never. step four on the go.

that's where your heart soared up on the starry night, jongho knelt down on one knee, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The ring box felt heavy in his hand, a tangible symbol of the question he was about to ask.

"hun..." he said, his voice thick with emotion, "you are the brightest star in my own galaxy. You make me laugh, you challenge me, you inspire me. You are my everything. You are i've ever wanted and more. So, with these stars as my witness," he continued, his voice trembling slightly, looking at you, "will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

He opened the box, revealing the ring nestled within, its diamond catching the projected starlight and sparkling like a fallen star. Tears welled up in your eyes, gaze shimmering with emotion.

"jongho…" you whispered, a hand flying to your mouth in surprise. your mind was all over the place but when your eyes landed on jongho, it was like everything started clicking.

his slight hesitation, his actions of taking you to your places, the way he always checks his pockets or bag whenever you visit a place—even checking his suitcase for something.

"he might pop up a question any time dearie, be prepared."

voice choked with happy tears, a smile bloomed on your face, "Yes," you spoke, voice trembling with joy, "a million times, yes!"

tears streamed down Jongho's face as he slipped the ring on your finger. a soft sob left your lips as you wrap your arms around his neck, "i love you."

jongho chuckles, even amidst the tears down his cheeks, he whispers, "i love you too hun."

both of your plans were achieved, the stars being the witness of your own happiness, sadness-- whatever was stored for the both of you. this story of you and jongho is a testament to the love that shone brighter than any constellation.

all plan check, she said yes.

THAT IS THE END OF MY SOFT VALENTINE MASTERLIST. STAY TUNED FOR THE FILTH VALENTINE MASTERLIST.

[catslvrr]

heaven sent — 06. art museum

previous | next

“Okay, I thought I was out of place at the ice skating rink. But this is considerably worse.” You crossed your arms over your chest, standing outside of the art museum that loomed over you.

“Don’t be such a party pooper, I’ll be an excellent tour guide.”

“We literally know nothing about art.”

“Not we,” she wagged her finger in your face with an annoying grin. “You know nothing about it.”

You scoffed, “Tell me one interesting art fact.”

“I know that there’s a guy named Picasso. He cut off his ear.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s Vincent Van Gogh.”

“Close enough,” she quipped indifferently. “Come on.”

Danielle dragged you inside. You flinched when she intertwined her fingers with yours.

“What are you doing?” You hissed, trying to pull away.

“Stop it,” she whispered. “There's a discount on the entry fee for couples, so act natural, babe.”

She emphasized the last part as the two of you neared the admission desk. Of course, you paid, and the two of you made your way into the exhibition.

“The guy at the desk didn’t even look at us twice,” you rolled your eyes. “I don’t think they care.”

“Well it worked,” she smiled proudly. “And you’re still holding my hand. I think you secretly like it.”

Blushing, you hastily tried to let go, but she only giggled in response and held your hand tighter, pulling you to the first artwork.

It was a blank canvas, with a blob of blue paint smack dab in the middle.

“Amazing,” you said, devoid of emotion. “This one really speaks to me.”

Danielle cleared her throat, and adjusted her glasses.

“This piece right here,” she took on a posh voice as she straightened her posture. “Is quite an exquisite piece. Made in the Baroque period by painter Jean DeJean.”

You tried to hold back a snicker.

“Jean DeJean?”

“Yes,” she nodded seriously. “An artist ahead of his time. This artwork in particular conveys his sense of isolation, the blue representing sadness and the single dot representing himself.”

“Wow,” you said in pretend awe. “I love the symbolism.”

“We’ll move on to the next piece now.” She gestured towards the next artwork. “Follow me, ma’am.”

You coughed back laughter as she strutted boldly in front of you. Surprisingly, she kept up the facade for a while, truly living up to her name as an excellent tour guide. You couldn’t help but laugh at her nonsensical explanations and pretentious acting.

And despite your initial reluctance, you found yourself enjoying your time. You caught yourself looking at her instead of the artwork more times than you’d like to admit. It was then that you knew it was over for you.

“So,” Danielle said, munching on your fries as you drove back to the apartment. “I’m a pretty good art museum tour guide, right?”

“Sure,” you answered playfully, eating a fry that she fed to you. “You should apply there. I’m sure everyone else would love to hear about Jean DeJean.”

She threw a fry at your face in response (“You just wasted a fry!”).

“I’m guessing you didn’t like art back in high school?”

You chuckled at the thought of your grades for art back then. “God, no. I cannot be artistic to save my life.”

“You can’t be worse than Jean DeJean,” she joked.

“I remember being so insecure of my pottery skills that I purposefully left a big air pocket in my clay figure. It exploded in the kiln and destroyed everyone else’s. My classmates were devastated.”

“Never mind,” she grimaced. “What subjects were you good at, then?”

“English. Guess I have a way with words.”

“That makes sense. Seeing that you do law now.”

“Yeah.” You paused. “Music, too.”

“I do remember seeing a keyboard in your room.”

“But that’s a story for another day.” You slightly smirked, mimicking Danielle’s words from the other day, “Ask me again tomorrow.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, still curious, but didn’t push it any further and focused back on the moving scenery outside.

“Honestly, today was a bit of a last minute thing.” You could see her peek at you out of the corner of your eye. “Did you enjoy it, though?”

You smiled. “Aren’t you tired of asking everyday?”

“Never,” she answered earnestly. “I always want to know.”

Your attempt to fight off a blush was futile. “Today was good. Like always.”

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” She teased.

Yeah, it is.

“You wish,” you rolled your eyes. “…Are you down for movie night later?”

She bit her cheek, clearly hesitant to respond.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to spend more time with me,” you rushed out awkwardly, hands tightly clutching the steering wheel. “I forget that this is your job.”

“No,” she hastily reassured you. “It’s not that. I love spending time with you.”

“Really?”

“I do. It’s just that…” she trailed off, then shook her head and smiled. “Nothing. Let’s watch Frozen.”

“Out of all movies, you choose Frozen.”

She turned down the radio and started to loudly sing Let It Go.

She has a nice voice. Maybe it’s another ‘messenger of God’ thing.

“Enough,” you groaned, resting your head on the steering wheel at a red light. “Save it for later.”

Later, the two of you lay on your bed, your laptop on your lap, as you pressed play. You didn’t know if it was the warmth radiating off Danielle, or if it was the way she was playing with your hair, but you fell asleep 30 minutes into the movie.

You got up in the middle of the night to find her already gone. You could still smell hints of her entangled in the sheets, a mixture of strawberries and vanilla. You always thought the bed had always felt so small, but tonight it had never felt emptier.

previous | next

[taruntravell]

Behind the Scenes: How Van Gogh Museum Tickets Support Art Preservation

While I don't have real-time information, I can provide you with some general insights into how museums, including the Van Gogh Museum tours, often use van gogh museum tickets sales to support art preservation and various behind-the-scenes activities. Keep in mind that specific details may vary, and it's always a good idea to check with the museum directly for the most accurate and up-to-date information.

Funding Conservation and Restoration Projects:

Ticket sales contribute to funding conservation and restoration projects. Museums often have a team of professionals dedicated to preserving and maintaining the artworks in their collection. This can involve cleaning, repairing, and restoring pieces to ensure their longevity.

Research and Documentation:

Museums engage in ongoing research and documentation of their collections. This includes studying the materials used in artworks, understanding the artist's techniques, and documenting the historical context. Ticket revenues may support these scholarly endeavors.

Educational Programs:

Museums aim to educate visitors about art and culture. Ticket sales help fund educational programs, workshops, and lectures that enhance the understanding and appreciation of the artworks on display. This educational outreach often extends to schools and community groups.

Exhibition Costs:

Creating and hosting exhibitions can be an expensive undertaking. Ticket sales often contribute to the costs associated with designing, organizing, and presenting temporary exhibitions. This can involve borrowing artworks from other institutions, transportation, and insurance.

Maintenance and Infrastructure:

Museums need to maintain their physical infrastructure to ensure a safe and secure environment for artworks. Ticket revenues may be allocated to general maintenance, security systems, climate control, and other aspects that contribute to the overall well-being of the museum.

Digitization Efforts:

Many museums are investing in digitizing their collections to make them accessible to a wider audience. This involves creating digital archives, online exhibitions, and virtual tours. Ticket sales may support the technology and manpower needed for such digitization efforts.

Public Programs and Events:

Museums often organize public programs and events to engage the community. These can include special events, outreach programs, and collaborations with other cultural institutions. Revenue from ticket sales may help fund these initiatives.

It's worth noting that museums often rely on a combination of funding sources, including government grants, private donations, memberships, and merchandise sales, in addition to ticket sales. The specific allocation of funds can vary from one museum to another based on their priorities and strategic goals.

[palmtreepalmtree]

In the Van Gogh museum, just heard a tour guide end his tour by telling people to search Doctor Who and Van Gogh on youtube. He said he has personally decided that the scene is historical fact. It's a bit reductive, maybe, but I kinda get it. Even the museum's own audio tour notes that by visiting the museum you're helping Vincent realize his greatest dream.

[bad-fucking-omens]

The Witch Twin (Alec V. x OC) - Chapter 9 - Waiting

Summary: When I thought about my future, I was sure that I had the rest of my life vaguely planned out.

Then, my older sister moved up from Arizona to stay with us — and turned my entire life upside down.

I had no idea just how bad it had gotten until I was standing in a castle in Italy, convinced that I was about to die.

Length: 3K words (Complete fic 71.8K words)

Fic warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, death, explicit smut (M/F), referenced/implied past child abuse, emotional manipulation by sibling

Chapter warnings: Description of graphic violence and death, PTSD

Read on AO3 or read below

9. WAITING

Alec led me through the castle, watching me with a fond smile as my eyes traced over the artwork that hung on the stone walls. He had agreed to take me on a tour of the castle that I was now living in, but I was far more interested in the magnificent artwork that lined the walls.

“All of these paintings are masterpieces that have been considered lost over the centuries,” Alec told me.

“Really? How did the Volturi get them?”

“The Masters — well, all of us, really — enjoy artwork and literature. We all keep an eye out for any news about lost or stolen masterpieces. Usually, we can find them if we put in a little effort. Instead of returning them to the humans that lost them in the first place, we keep them here. We take better care of them than any human museum can.”

“How many are there?”

“Oh, a fair amount. We have more than just paintings. There’s sculptures, too, but we only have a handful of those,” Alec said.

“Any by Van Gogh?”

Alec grinned and gently tugged my hand. He led me through several hallways until he finally slowed and stopped before one painting.

My breath caught in my throat as I looked at it. The oil painting portrayed a vase of vivid yellow flowers with two red flowers drooping on the left side against a dark background. I traced my eyes along the brushstrokes, awed at seeing a true Van Gogh in person.

“I take it that you like Van Gogh?” Alec teased gently. He tucked my brown hair behind my ear, a soft smile on his lips.

I smiled. “Yeah. I always have.” He slowly moved to stand behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and gently pulling me back against his chest. He rested his chin on my shoulder. “I’ve just always loved the way he paints. The brushstrokes, the colors, the composition. . . . Something about his work has always been compelling to me.”

Alec hummed. “He was a genius artist. . . . Which one of his works is your favorite?”

“That’s a tough question.” I laughed. “I’m not sure I could choose just one.”

“Tell me your top three, then.”

“Um. . . . Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette, Almond Blossom, and . . . Starry Night Over the Rhône, I think. They’re all different from each other, and beautiful in their own distinct ways,” I explained. I leaned back into his arms and asked, “Do you know the name of this one?”

“Poppy Flowers,” he answered. “It’s been lost to the human world since the nineteen-seventies.”

“How did the Volturi find it?”

“We were on a mission. When we told Aro that we had found it, he had it brought back to the castle and had it hung here,” Alec said. “I believe it is one of his favorites, too.”

“I can see why. It is truly gorgeous.”

“You’re prettier,” he whispered in my ear. I blushed and Alec laughed quietly, then pressed a kiss to my cheek, the warmth of my skin making his cold lips feel even cooler.

I turned to face him. I wrapped my arms around his neck as I looked up at him. Alec stared back down at me, a faint smile on his lips.

“Let’s go back to our room,” Alec suggested.

He led me through the winding corridors of the castle, my hand in his and our fingers linked together. When we reached our room, I pulled him towards the glass doors that led to the balcony. I stared out at the clear night sky, amazed at how easily I could see the bright stars that formed familiar constellations.

“Alec?”

“Eve?”

“Can we spend the night on the balcony?” I looked at him over my shoulder. “Please?”

“It will be cold,” he replied, his voice hesitant.

“I’ll be okay. And if you think that I’m getting too cold, we’ll go back inside,” I bargained, turning around to face him.

Alec held my eyes for a moment before he sighed and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Okay,” he murmured against my skin.

I grinned and hugged him tightly. “Thank you!”

“You’re very hard to say no to,” he teased. I giggled.

Alec pulled away from me to grab the pillows and the comforter off the bed. I opened the doors to the balcony when he returned to my side. Alec spread the comforter on the stone balcony and dropped the pillows down on one side. He took my hand and drew me down to sit on the comforter with him, so that I was sitting between his legs. I leaned back against his chest as he tucked the blanket around me.

From our place on the balcony, I could see the inner courtyard of the castle. It was a large rectangular area, hidden from the outside by the tall walls of the castle. Four pale stone pathways led from each wall of the castle to the center of the courtyard, where a tall, white marble fountain stood. I could faintly hear the sound of the running water.

“Thank you for agreeing to this,” I murmured to Alec as his arms curled around me. “I’ve always wanted to fall asleep under the stars with someone I love.”

Alec smiled and pressed a kiss to my hair. “I should have guessed that my incredibly sweet girl would be a romantic as well.”

“Shut up,” I mumbled, blushing.

“I like that you’re a romantic,” Alec said, resting his chin against my head. “It makes you even more adorable.”

I turned my head and brushed my lips lightly across his jaw. Alec hummed quietly and reached up to rub his thumb along my cheekbone.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, then another to my cheek. I smiled.

Alec laid back and drew me down with him. I curled up against his side and rested my head on his chest, wrapping my arm around his waist. Alec pulled the thick comforter over our bodies and tucked it tighter around my body so I stayed warm.

I stared up at the clear sky, which was so dark blue that it was nearly black. My eyes traced the imagined lines between the stars that made up each constellation that I could recognize. The great bear Ursa Major, the little bear Ursa Minor, the dragon Draco, and Perseus, the mighty Greek hero. The tales of how the constellations received their names were all very familiar to me — I had loved reading and learning about Greek mythology as a child, and that love hadn’t faded at all over the years.

My eyes began to flutter as I grew tired. I just barely felt the kiss Alec pressed to the top of my head and the fingers he trailed lightly along my cheek as my eyes finally closed for the last time that night.

“There’s something I want to show you,” Alec said.

I smiled as he took my hand in his and started to lead me through the long, winding corridors of the castle. He pulled me close to his side and I giggled as I blushed, which made him laugh along with me.

We finally stopped before a large set of double doors made of dark oak wood. Alec turned to face me, taking both of my hands in his and rubbing his thumbs along the backs of my hands.

“Have you ever seen our kind in the sunlight?” he asked softly.

“In the throne room when I was first in Volterra,” I admitted. “Only briefly, when two of the guards walked through a beam of sunlight. . . . Isn’t it forbidden to be in the sunlight around humans?”

“In public, yes. But the courtyard is only visible from within the castle and you are my mate,” he replied with a soft smile.

Alec leaned close and kissed me quickly, pulling away before I could be completely overwhelmed. He smirked at my slight pout. He reached up to brush his thumb along my lip so lightly that I barely felt his touch.

Then, he turned and opened one of the doors. Alec stepped aside, gesturing for me to go through the door before him. I walked out into the large courtyard. In each corner of the courtyard, gardens were filled with all different kinds of brightly colored flowers that were beginning to bloom. The smooth, off-white pebbles crunched under my feet as I stepped on them, slowly walking down the path that led to the large water fountain. Now that I was closer, I could see that it was sculpted in the image of some Greek or Roman gods. The crystal clear water was sparkling in the bright sun.

“The courtyard is beautiful,” I said.

I turned around when Alec didn’t speak, and saw that he had stepped into the sunlight. At first, the light blinded me. I put my hand up and blinked rapidly as my eyes tried to adjust to the light. I gasped when I saw Alec.

His skin was as pale as ever, but it was sparkling in the sun just like the water in the fountain. It was as if he had been carved from an enormous gemstone and now all the facets were catching in the light.

After a few moments, I took a small step closer and reached out to him. Alec’s hand flew up to meet mine quickly. I placed my hand in his and his cold fingers gently gripped my hand, drawing me closer. I moved my hand so that I was gripping his wrist. I turned his hand over. His palm glittered, scattering hundreds of tiny rainbows across my own skin.

“You’re breathtaking,” I breathed.

Alec smiled. He slid his fingers through mine, linking our hands together, and said softly, “Dance with me, sweet girl.”

I laughed and nodded. Alec drew me closer to his chest, wrapping one arm around my waist and holding my hand in the air while I placed my other hand on his shoulder. I followed his lead, letting him slowly sway us to silent music. After a while, I let my hand on his shoulder fall to his waist and I rested my head against his marble chest, watching the skin on his arms shimmer with half-closed eyes. He nuzzled into my hair and I smiled.

I loved these moments with Alec, when we were totally alone and focused entirely on each other. It always felt as if we were the only two people in the whole world.

When the sun dipped below the walls of the castle, we finally went back up to our room. Alec sat on the couch, then drew me down onto his lap. I leaned into him and curled up in his arms. He kissed my forehead.

“My love, there’s something I want to tell you.”

I looked up at him. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Alec assured me. “It’s just something that you should know about me. . . . Have you ever wondered how I became a vampire and joined the Volturi?”

“Of course.”

“I’m going to tell you how it happened,” Alec said, his voice soft and somewhat strained. I glanced up at him. There was a far-away look in his eyes, as if he wasn’t really seeing the room around us and was instead lost in his memories.

“When Jane and I were still humans, we . . . we had these . . . powers.” Alec’s voice was hard, yet quiet and almost detached, as if he was talking about someone else rather than his own life. “We couldn’t outright control our powers, but we must have had some sort of control over them because it always seemed as if bad things would happen to people who were mean to us and good things happened to those who were kind. . . . Aro learned about our powers when we were very young from a nomad who had passed through our village and had seen what we could do. Aro saw potential in us to be incredibly powerful and he wanted us to join the Volturi, but he had to wait until we were older. The Volturi had already made a law against creating immortal children — young children that were turned into vampires.”

Alec fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again, I could hear the rage simmering in his voice.

“The others in our village started to hate us. They accused us of being witches and they shunned me and Jane and our mother. . . . They treated us so horribly. They barely spoke to us and they started to refuse to sell us anything. They would break the fence that surrounded our cottage and steal the crops from our garden. The children and even the adults would taunt us, which would only cause more bad things to happen to them. . . .”

His voice wavered as he said, “One day . . . Jane was concerned by some of the village boys. They . . . they hurt her. Whatever powers she had lashed out at the boys to protect her and they started choking. She ran away from them as soon as she had the chance. She found me and told me what happened. We knew that the village would never forgive us for this, so we decided to leave the village. But when we reached our cottage to get Mother, the villagers were already chasing after us. All five of the boys were dead. The village wanted our blood.

“We tried to escape through the forest that was behind our home, but they caught us. . . . They killed Mother in the woods when she tried to defend us, and then dragged me and Jane to the village square. . . . They accused us of being witches and killed the boys maliciously. . . . We were tied to stakes to be burned alive.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. Tears gathered in my eyes and my heart contracted painfully as I imagined the twins fighting against the villagers, terrified out of their minds and knowing that they were about to die. I fisted my hand in the soft material of his shirt as he kept speaking.

“Jane was screaming and kicking and fighting the men who were trying to tie her to the stake. The villagers were cursing at us and throwing stones at us and holding torches that they were ready to throw down to start our pyre. I was limp, letting them do whatever they wanted. I just kept praying that all the pain and grief I was feeling would simply go away.”

Hesitantly, I looked up at Alec. His face had twisted into a painful expression and his crimson eyes were glassy, as if he was holding back tears.

“I remember . . . I remember watching the fire catch onto the dry wood and kindling piled beneath us. . . . I remember seeing Jane’s shoes burn off her feet. . . . I remember the way she screamed as the flames burned her skin, and then through her flesh. . . . I remember how foul the black smoke smelled and how it choked me as it surrounded me. . . . I finally went numb to everything at the end. I couldn’t breathe through the smoke anymore and my mind felt so slow and fuzzy. . . .

“That was when the Volturi found us. I thought I had died when I saw them. I thought they were demons, with their pale skin and red eyes. . . . I thought that they had been sent to drag me down to hell for having powers that I didn’t understand and couldn’t even control. . . . It certainly felt like I was in hell when Aro bit me. . . . Jane and I burned for five days before we woke up in this life, and I remember every single second of it.”

I buried my face in the crook of his neck, my arms curling tight around his body as I sobbed. Alec’s description of his own murder was so detailed that I felt as if I could see what had happened to him in my mind.

Alec seemed to come back to reality a moment later. He wrapped his arms around me, gently holding me close to his chest. He rubbed my back slowly, whispering that everything was okay, that he was fine now, and that I didn’t have to worry about him.

“I’m so sorry,” I cried. “I’m so, so sorry, Alec.”

“Don’t apologize,” Alec said, gently yet firm. “Don’t ever apologize for them.”

“I’m not,” I mumbled. I sniffled. “I just . . . I wish that you didn’t have to go through any of that. You and Jane . . . you both deserved so much better.”

Alec pulled back just enough to lift my chin up so he could look into my red-rimmed eyes. He brushed away my tears as he said softly, “We have had better for centuries, my love. . . . And now that I have found you, I have everything that I’ve ever wanted.”

I blushed and Alec smiled. He rested his hand lightly on my cheek. I leaned into his gentle touch, even as his frozen skin sent a shiver through my body. Alec rubbed his thumb along my cheekbone as we stared into each other’s eyes. I tilted my head up and kissed him.

Our lips moved together slowly. I pressed closer to his body, moving to straddle his lap as my hands came up to card through his loose, dark curls. Alec kept his hand on my cheek, though his other arm wrapped around my waist and kept me pressed against his chest until we finally broke apart.

I took a deep breath, soothing my aching lungs that had been deprived of air for too long. Alec simply chuckled and shook his head at me. I rolled my eyes. He smirked and pressed feather-light kisses across my cheeks and nose as an apology.

“Your transformation is tomorrow,” Alec murmured quietly. He pressed another kiss to my cheek. “Are you nervous?”

“A little,” I admitted. “But I know that you’ll be there with me the whole time, and that makes me feel a little calmer.”

“Everything will be okay, sweet girl. I promise.”

[song-writer-melo-wrath]

Silly Game Time: Would you rather spend the day at an art museum or a history museum or a science museum? Ever been to one that really impressed you?

You know, I was taken to a lot of museums as a kid. And I was usually bored with them-

-because I had undiagnosed ADHD and autism, and was, y'know, a KID. Also because a lot of the times I visited museums were during summer, so I was too distracted by “it is so so so hot out there” to really enjoy things. I hadn't yet taken the art classes that would make me appreciate art for what it is. Poetry and music were more my jam-

-that said, there were a few exceptions.

The Smithsonian American Art Museum

The Laika exhibit at the Portland Art Museum

The Smithsonian Museum of Natural History

OMSI

There were also some tours that I can't quite remember the names of, but knew I enjoyed. One was a salmon farm and dam area, another displayed minerals, another was focused on things like tsunamis and whirlpools. It may give some context that I live in the Pacific Northwest.

OMSI in particular is very memorable since a lot of my visits were just me n my Dad. They had a videogame-themed exhibit once that made my Dad go, “oh, Athy has to see this”. Another time was with my bestie @octopus-in-disguise , so yeah, good times all around.

As for what I'd want to visit now though, hmmm. I think as long as it's not one I've seen before, art museum would be my choice. Especially if it displays Van Gogh's work. His art has always spoken to me. Maybe it's the colours and atmosphere of it, maybe it's knowing his story and feeling inherently bittersweet about “your life ended before you could know how deeply your work would be loved” when it comes to him. Shout out to that one Doctor Who episode.

[stassiemontgomery]

" Oh, I'm sorry, sorry that you love me (ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha) Change my mind up like it's origami "

leaving   lipstick   stains   on   collars,   popping   champagne   over   conversations   in  foreign   languages,   and   early   sunday   mornings   sneaking   out   of   stranger’s   beds   to   get   to   get   barre   class ...

►GENERAL INFORMATION

FULL NAME: Anastasia Victorie Montgomery NICKNAME(S): Ana, Stassie LABEL: The Ice Princess AGE: 25 DATE OF BIRTH: July 10, 1999 ZODIAC: Cancer Sun, Virgo Rising, Leo Moon GENDER & PRONOUNS: Female; She/Her HERITAGE: English, Russian SPOKEN LANGUAGE(S): English, French, Russian OCCUPATION: Olympic Figure Skater / Professional Dancer SEXUALITY & ROMANCE: Bisexual; Biromantic { female preference }

► APPEARANCE

FACE CLAIM: Jessica Alexander HEIGHT: 5'6" WEIGHT: 121 lbs. DOMINANT HAND: Right HAIR COLOR: Strawberry Blonde EYE COLOR: Blue SCARS: None. TATTOOS: None.

►PERSONALITY

POSITIVE TRAITS: Adroit, Romantic, Loyal, Brave, Compassionate, Passionate, Ambitious, Benevolent, Athletic. NEGATIVE TRAITS: Enigmatic, Guarded, Sensitive, Stubborn, Easily Bored, Perfectionistic, Detached. LIKES: Cafes, the sound of records playing, the smell of a new book and the smell of rain, astronomy, nature, cable-knit sweaters, the city lights, messy buns, old drive-ins, traveling, art museums, Shakespeare, Van Gogh, deep conversations, road trips, poetry, midnight runs. DISLIKES: Being told what to do, being the first to show up, being the last to show up, not being taken seriously, someone underestimating her, the cold, feeling rushed, the sensation of being crowded, being called ‘selfish’ or 'ungrateful', restriction of freedom, close-minded people, being talked over, people who sell out, those without passion.

►MENTALITY

PHOBIAS: Atychiphobia DISORDERS: OCD ALLERGIES: Seasonal (Pollen)

►BACKGROUND

HOMETOWN: Manhattan, NYC CURRENT RESIDENCE: Beverly Park, Los Angeles, CA EDUCATION LEVEL: BA in Mass Communications FAMILIAL CONNECTIONS: -Aurelia Montgomery - 54, Mother -Victor Montgomery - 50, Father

►FAVORITES

FOOD: Chocolate-covered strawberries DRINK: London Fog MOVIE: Black Swan / Marie Antoinette TV SHOW: The L Word, Sex Lives of College Girls, Bridgerton ARTIST/BAND: Tate McRae, The 1975, FLETCHER, Renee Rapp SONG: exes - Tate McRae

► EXTRA INFORMATION

JUNG TYPE: ENFP ENNEAGRAM: The Pathfinder (7w6) TEMPERAMENT: Sanguine MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral Good SIN: Pride VIRTUE: Diligence ELEMENT: Fire CHARACTER PLAYLIST

"I'm a wild ride that never stops. I'm a hard case they can't unlock."

► BIOGRAPHY

TW; family dysfunction

When Anastasia was born, her name was given as a path of life. Her mother having had been one of the most famous ballerinas for the Russian Ballet, it only made sense to give her daughter the name of one of the most sought-after roles for dancers. At the time, her parents had no idea just how big of a force she was going to be in the ballet realm. As others took steps, Anastasia took leaps. She was quickly the favorite in every studio she walked into, and she also managed to be the top of her class in academics as well. Even when making the switch from a public school to a prestigious performing arts school when she was in middle school, Anastasia never faltered in the changes in her life. From Clara in The Nutcracker, to Odette and Odile in Swan Lake, her talent well proceeded her and her mother gracefully handed on the baton of the ballet legacy when she retired. Though, Anastasia loved ballet; the discipline and well as the freedom, she also began to struggle when her mother retired. It was then, that she wasn't dancing for herself anymore, but living a life her mother could live vicariously through. At least she still had figure skating. Figure skating was something that was fully Anastasia's. Even when she was first competing, she loved the adrenaline rush that came from being on the ice. After the induction into the NYC Ballet, after touring headlining shows and juggling a social life and her figure skating, Anastasia told her mother that she wanted to pursue a higher education in mass communications. She received a full-ride scholarship (though she didn't need it) for an accelerated program in journalism and mass communications because of her GPA and outstanding SAT scores to NYU. Her father was the one who wouldn't let her pass it up. Suddenly, Anastasia's name is plastered all over the papers when her competition broke their ankle. Now having to compete in a placement that was given to her on a technicality, Anastasia is battling the negative headlines whilst trying to clean her family name. Ana is currently residing in Beverly Park try to get some of the pressure from the press off of her.

► DEEP DIVE

Anastasia is a force to be reckoned with; She's not afraid to speak her mind, and competition runs in her veins. If she wants something, she goes and gets it, and may no one get stuck in her path. Though she can be intense in these ways, she also has a warmth to her that draws people in. Elegant, soft, and almost whimsical - Anastasia can never truly fit in anywhere. If anything, she sticks out like a sore thumb. This aspect about her either makes her well-loved or disliked (some may write her off as pretentious or snobby), depending on the person. She loves art history due to her father being an art historian and growing up listening to all sorts of foreign fairytales and mythology. She's a hopeless romantic, but tends to self sabotage relationships. She enjoys dancing in the rain and making life cinematic at any and every opportunity. She's genuinely kind, and at the end of the day she'll make anyone laugh without knowing she's being funny. She's just drawn as a villian but has such a soft girl vibe.She's just guarded to a default due to coming from old money on her father's side and experiencing people trying to use her/them to get to the fortune.