By Kim Heung-sookThe first week of the Year of the Rat was like a morning with a hangover. In my warm head still recovering from weeks of cold, teeny-weeny elves were buzzing around, reminding me of my numerous failings last year. With a desperate wish to lighten up, I went out and caught the first bus passing by. As I mounted the steps of the blue 708, I realized that I was heading, without planning, for a Vincent van Gogh exhibition at a downtown museum. Great artworks are like serious illnesses in that they make you distinguish important things from frivolities and concentrate on the former. I heard a disturbing sound as my pass touched the pay screen, but I was too excited to care.After taking a seat, however, I began to be bothered by the high-pitched wailing apparently coming from the pay machine. My ears are achingly sensitive to noise, probably to make up for my extreme nearsightedness. Particularly annoying are repetitive mechanical sounds and the one I was hearing on the bus couldn’t be worse. I was really feeling frustrated and was wondering if I should get off and transfer to another bus. But then, there was the driver. He was doing his work despite the noise, which must have been louder to him as he was sitting next to its source. If he was upset by the sound, he didn’t show. Impressed as I was, I decided to stay on. When there is something you don’t want to see, you close your eyes. When you don’t want to hear a thing, you have to close your ears, I was telling myself. Since ears don’t have lids, I tried to divert attention from the stressful sound to some other subject.I began to think of Van Gogh. Why did he cut his left ear lobe? Did he want to remove his ear to stop tinnitus? Did he do so because he was afraid Paul Gauguin would desert him? Or, is it true that Gauguin cut off Gogh’s ear lobe during their fight, as some people say? What about the theory that Van Gogh, a failed minister, wanted to ascertain the love of Jesus by following the example of Malchus? Being one of the high priest’s servants, Malchus is said to have lost his right ear to Peter when he came to arraign Jesus who nevertheless forgave him. Thoughts sealed my ears and I could forget the unpleasant sound until I stood up to disembark. As I walked through the nightly air toward the museum, a stream of people came from the opposite direction, talking and laughing loudly.I didn’t want to curse people on my way to Van Gogh, who loved people so much. I turned away and looked up at the sky, but couldn’t find the stars. The halls were teeming with spectators, but I had no time to complain. I was choked with happiness upon seeing my favorite “The Potato Eaters,” “Irises” and other beautiful works at such a close range. The earthy yellow vase that holds a large bunch of irises had the image of my mother, a little woman who had been carrying out all her life’s demands without a flinch. Even greater joys came from the less familiar paintings. Before “Sheaves of Wheat,” I fantasized mischievous children crawling out of the sheaves. From the black claws of “A Crab on Its Back,” I could observe death encroaching. The “Peach Tree in Blossom,” studded with yellowish flowers looked like twins of the persimmon trees in my neighborhood. “Ears of Wheat” seemed to be warning: “Don’t say a word. The big ears are listening!” In the “Old Man Drinking Coffee,” I met my alter ego.Outside the museum, a black, stone-paneled road led to the City Hall Plaza ablaze with luminal art that outshone the stars. People were in twos and threes, but I wasn’t lonely. I recalled what Van Gogh had written to his brother, Theo, in 1878: “How rich art is, if one can only remember what one has seen, one is never empty of thoughts or truly lonely, never alone.”Shortly after I reached the bus stop, a blue 708 pulled in with a seat on which I could keep on thinking about Van Gogh in comfort. In 1887, he wrote to his sister, Wilhelmina: “For me … it is a relief to do a painting, and without that I should be more miserable than I am.” I had to admit that I, too, had work that made me less miserable. Then suddenly I could understand the nonchalance of the driver of the noisy bus. Perhaps, driving was to him what painting was to Van Gogh.kimsook@hotmail.com