I come here with a heavy heart this week, Reader. Often times, being an artist is quite lonely and isolating. Your work cannot be understood until it is finished — you cannot be understood, either. Not by many, anyway. I know Vincent felt the same way.
And so I offer you some beauty I encountered in Arles, the last of it. After this, there is St. Remy and little more. I see the end in sight of these photos, and I know soon I must bear onwards with full and utter strength, into writing and reflecting further on my experiences and their meaning. I will continue posting about my progress in my work, my discoveries and encounters with Vincent, and I hope you will stay with me, Reader.
For now — a few last jewels of Arles. In truth, I have little to say other than “Look – beauty!” But then, that is what Vincent does for me every time I return to him, it is what keeps me closely tied to him. No matter how dark the path may get, he holds my hand, and whispers in my ear… Look! Beauty! And so maybe that will be enough for you, as it is for me.
Langlois Bridge with Women Washing, 1888
Of course, as usual with Arles, this is only a reconstruction of the bridge, at the location where the bridge once stood. Vincent painted it four times, and many think it reminded him of the bridges in the Netherlands. Despite it being – yet again – a forgery, what I find quite touching is that this is not really in the center of Arles, but a good ten minute drive out. It was built finally, because enough people had come for it, asking, where is the Langlois Bridge?
I like the idea of so many coming, looking for you.
It is not used, it is simply a monument to you. For you. Suffice it to say, I like this one much better than the bust.
The Courtyard at the Hospital at Arles, 1889
Well, yes, it looks quite similar still, doesn’t it? This is the hospital within Arles where Vincent was first brought after his ear had been cut, and he lied all night bleeding in his bed. He was discovered in this condition, since Gauguin had long since abandoned the scene the night before. He stayed in this hospital for one month before he was released and more or less forced into the asylum at St Remy. Still, in this one month, he had the time and force to create a painting.
The place itself, while decoratively (and botanically) restored, retains its architecture, with history seeping in at the seams.
Though these days the location is called L’Espace Van Gogh, it is used mostly for art shows and cultural events that have little to do with you, Vincent.
I wandered the halls that were open to me, and imagined your thoughts here.
Then I wrote for some time in the garden, and there I found you blossoming still…
Could you help but plan a painting of this garden, while you sat here in pain gazing on these flowers?
I imagine, as much as I can help but think of you.
No one is quite sure what brought you to Arles. You wanted to go south, Vincent, away from Paris, and something drew you to this town. Perhaps it was what Michelet wrote about the beauty of the arlesienne, the women of Arles, but that was not what you would encounter here.
Although the walls are now charred from bombings during World War II, you found a pale quiet town some hundred and twenty years ago. But it was here you would find yourself, find your style, find your color, and come into your own. It was also here you would have your fateful encounter with Gauguin.
Signs of your paintings now checker the city that threw you out, marking the spots where you once stood and immortalized Arles.
In the case of your lovely little house, an empty space is all that is left by war.
Here and there we find more, however.
The trees still stand at Les Alyscamps, and brilliantly so in the spattered August light.
The Roman tombs still reside there, too.
And the old mill. I think you would be happy to know it still stands.
And although unadvertised in the tourism brochures, you should know you have a monument here too.
I know, it’s pretty horrific. But what do you expect of the town that gathered to sign a petition to force your leaving?
Your detached head, grimacing and menacing, with only one ear sculpted, speaks more to the memory of Arles, and their guilt of having betrayed such a beautiful soul. They know you only cut off part of your earlobe, and yet perpetuate the myth and the stereotype. It is their only saving grace. For notice, Vincent, that no other place chooses to remember you in this way.
And in the meantime, they need you. Your energy runs through the veins of this place, enriching it with your passion. This is your figure embedded into the streets, directing the fellow traveler to walk with you, following yellow at each turn.
And consistently, you lead towards beauty, towards the stars, towards something greater…
The Rhone, a three minute walk from your house. I sat there for an hour perhaps, imagining your thoughts as you let the waters of the river flow past, and time went on, and on.
I came here every night of my stay in Arles, I believe. It is important to call it Le Café Van Gogh, because that is what it is. It is a restoration of the cafe that you painted, not the original. It is meticulously designed. Yet – it rests in the same location. And so irony, commercialism, and ghosts have all nestled in. History and dreams mix, with the bitter aftertaste of emptiness. No one there could tell me if anything was original. Few there knew much about Van Gogh at all — or maybe they were just too busy serving the customers. They do make a killing, as you might imagine. For what tourist would come to Arles and not eat here?
And so they benefit from you. You have a strange version of the Midas touch, it seems, with a century delay. For you did eat here, drink here, paint here. The townspeople did kick you out of here, that is to say, Arles. In fact, I read that upstairs they have the pool table you painted. And so, I went exploring, into the dark:
A pool table was indeed stored in the very mysterious and abandoned second floor.
I went back to the hotel that night to compare. Indeed, neither of the pool tables here have pockets, and the legs look mighty similar. I discovered Carom, or French billiards: a game played on a table with no pockets, and with only three balls, two white and one red. Though my waiter the next night denied it, I still think it must be the same table.
This brings us to the other side of Le Café La Nuit. While the painting of the terrace outside is beautiful, the painting of the inside is anything but, and this was Vincent’s intention:
“In my painting of the night café I’ve tried to express the idea that the café is a place where you can ruin yourself, go mad, commit crimes. Anyway, I tried with contrasts of delicate pink and blood-red and wine-red. Soft Louis XV and Veronese green contrasting with yellow greens and hard blue greens.” (9 September 1888 to Theo)
This is certainly an aspect of the place the owners would want to make disappear, but I found it.
In the stacks of old paintings inspired by Vincent on the second floor, piled, hiding, in the dark.
In the twisted lines – nothing seemed quite straight.
But there was always this warmth, of what you are…
"..art is something greater and higher than our own skill or knowledge or learning. [Art] is something which, though produced by human hands, is not wrought by hands alone, but wells up from a deeper source, from man's soul..."
Vincent van Gogh, letter from March 1884
Twelve years ago, like many others, I fell in love with Vincent van Gogh. I followed this love, never letting go, reading about him and visiting his paintings all I could, and I am still journeying - I hope you will join me, Reader. This path has led me to you and you to me, and both of us to beauty, to art, to life, to death and to something greater...
