Although I love history everywhere, it of course sang quite fully that day in Auvers as I imagined Vincent walking through this place one hundred and nineteen years ago, choosing subjects to paint. Whether it be the town…

…or the plateau.

And have I mentioned how much I love the big old wooden shutters?

As I was finally leaving this exquisite place, there was one last gem in store for me. I had missed it on the way into town, and I had not read about it in any of the pamphlets. But as I walked back to the train station, I noticed a small, walled off park. There was an entrance, and as I peered inside from across the street, I saw it –

And my heart stopped.

And you strode forth into the yellow light of dusk,
Skin and clothing etched by the wooden wrinkles of Time,

And your branches were reaching up and up,
And your thirst was unquenchable as ever,

Your presence

subtly pervasive,

Your spirit

rooted deep into the ground,

And it seemed your path went on forever…

In fact

I knew it did.

The path from the room where you died to your tomb is the same walk the few people present for your funeral made. Since Auvers-sur-oise sits on the side of a hill, it is an uphill walk. Only six people were present that day – Theo and friends who all loved you fiercely – and who were all devastated by their lonely task. It was a very hot day in July 1890, and in August 2009 I let the heat fill my body, and imagined the weight of your casket.

We climbed past the church you painted, past the church that would hold no funeral for you since you were a suicide. We went up past all the houses, and suddenly found ourselves on an incredible plateau –

I recognized the wide expanse from your last paintings here, of fields going on forever and ever…

I spotted the gate to your cemetery. I began to feel a bit dizzy. Both my desire and my fear of entering was overwhelming. Your bones are there. The headstones I had seen in photos a dozen times. Both you and Theo.

Reader, I cannot tell you precisely what transpired inside these gates. Once faced with his grave, I realized how alive he is for me… I was struck down with enormous grief. I had so many thanks to give him, and so many apologies on behalf of all who turned him away. I took no photos, but I will tell you that green, green vines thrive in a bed over his grave – planted there by Dr. Gachet. I was happy to know that nature continues to thrive in your presence, Vincent; you have become its sustenance, as it once was for you.

Eventually, I had to force myself to leave. Once I had knelt at your feet, the idea of leaving seemed quite absurd. I could not leave Auvers. Not yet.

There were a few benches in the shade by the church, and I sat there, finally letting my emotions run their course. I knew I did not sit alone. After a long time, I considered perhaps it was finally time to leave.

However, a distant sliver of twilight beckoned me back towards the front of the church, close to the road to the cemetery. Once I got closer (to take a better photo), I saw something I had noticed on the way to the cemetery, but ignored:

Bathed in sunlight, a tunnel of green darkness leading… to light. I immediately decided to take a video of the walk, so I could remember, so you could remember, so you – Reader – could feel and see…  The video is a bit lengthy, but I think it’s worth it.

I did not know there was another sign of your painting left in town. I did not know that these would be the wheat fields where you shot yourself. But of course, of course. And to think I almost left town without coming here.

You would have liked to die here, among the wheat you felt you sowed and reaped, surrounded by nothing but nature.

And new wheat grows, new wheat grows.

Thank you for bringing me here, Vincent.

A block from the train stop, things look familiar.

The town hall.

Ghosts greet me.

The Auberge Ravoux, where you stayed, and my goodness that crystal light and blue, blue sky – clear as a bell.

This building has become a little chapel to you, the restaurant and facade restored and preserved as much as possible, down to the menu.

The back yard now has plaques full of your biography, and yes — your room is open to the public. They allow us to enter in small groups; it is a startlingly small space. Here you lived, here you piled up your paintings, here you stumbled back to after shooting yourself in the field, here you died with your brother holding your hand two days later.

Apparently after that it was deemed “the suicide room” and no one would stay there. The room was never altered or redecorated. It is the same today as the day you died.

It remains quite full.

The entrance to the room:

I touched this. You touched this. I let my fingers run over the door knob, the lock, the handle on the window. I wondered if the cracks in the walls had formed since your death, or were there to begin with. I breathed in.

A friend I had made the day before captured the below images. Many thanks to him for taking them, and allowing me to share them with you now.

Affected is not a strong enough word.