Vincent's Yellow

a[n] [auto]biography and a love story.


I just want to say, I went to Nuenen, where Vincent stayed with his parents for two years and painted much of his work from his early, dark period.

I walked for three hours in the pouring rain, with a lousy umbrella and thin poncho and a cheeky grin.

When I arrived at his father’s church, where he saw him preach many times, the bells started to ring right then. Many things happened to me in those hours – I wish I could articulate them now, I took many photos but still cannot upload them…

The rain was a challenge – to me, from him. How far would I go? I kept going. I did not quicken my pace. I did not resent it. I was happy to do something I’m sure he did many times – on the very same dirt.

I took a muddy back road by the weaver’s house he would visit in order to paint him, and four horses in a meadow¬†froze, stared at me, then galloped about twenty feet, then turned around and waited for me. They were exquisite. It was a present.

I was the only person walking there today. I shouted to the storm “I LOVE YOU!”

He heard me.

Wed, August 12 2009 » Personal

2 Responses

  1. Kathryn August 13 2009 @ 09:30

    (mute, exceptionally mute, but understanding…I think)

  2. Teresa August 13 2009 @ 15:18

    Thanks, K.

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