Roy Lichtenstein’s The Sower, 1985.

Lichtenstein is a rather famous pop artist, whose most well-known work was often based on images from cartoons that he altered and enlarged. I found his take on Vincent fascinating… Lichtenstein gives just enough to evoke the major colors and movements of the original.

Vincent van Gogh’s The Sower, 1888.

This is one of my all time favorite paintings by Vincent, so I was pretty impressed that Lichtenstein’s version was still exciting to me. Then again, I’ve always liked Lichtenstein…

Louis Le Brocquy’s Images of Vincent, 1987.

This was my favorite at the museum because of the energy it captures; it almost feels like Vincent’s spirit touched the page. The Irish artist’s quote on the plaque nearby was additionally evocative. He said he liked to paint the heads of great artists, imagining it as “the magic box which holds consciousness.” He says that these artists are

…great instances of human awareness who have dared to push that awareness beyond its known horizon, who have courageously – heroically – extended the continent of our thought. Such an artist was Vincent van Gogh.

Vincent van Gogh’s Self-Portraits, 1887.

Lastly, at the highest part of the museum, nestled away in the stairs and totally unlabeled, was a model of the famous Yellow House where Vincent lived and worked, where he dreamed of setting up an artists’ commune, where Gauguin came to stay. It was also based quite discreetly on Vincent’s paintings (The Street and The Bedroom) and letters describing how he had set up his lovely house, and decorated it. It was incredible to see the details already familiar to me come to life:

Vincent’s room is on the right, and that’s Gauguin’s room on the left — the sunflower paintings were meant to decorate his room. Vincent wanted to flood the room with yellow. To share a little secret: that room should have been mine instead. I’m convinced everyone would have been better off.

Below is the first floor, kitchen and studio.

Soon after this visit, it was (unbelievably) time to start heading home.

Trains took me North -

– and to my surprise, I was seated facing backwards on every train. I was also retracing my steps… and yours, too, Vincent.

Back at the Gare du Nord, with little time between trains, I ate across the street and watched the Parisian traffic. I stared at the station that took you to and from Arles, just as it did for me. On the way to Amsterdam, I was speeding back-first again, my eyes on the land I was leaving. I felt like a spring coiling back up, yarn being rewound into a ball, and I wondered if maybe I was moving backwards in time, too.

I arrived in Amsterdam after our train finally got through an incredible storm. I spent the slow minutes praying to you, Vincent, that the summer storm might follow us. The city greeted me with low lights and incredible clouds. I had one day left to be near you, Vincent… After an entire day of trains, I collapsed early. In the morning, I made it here:

Kee Vos’s doorstep – the woman you were so incredibly in love with, you held your hand in the flame of a candle until she would come out to see you. You loved no one like you loved her. I imagined how much time you spent in front of the building, debating, building up confidence… There was no marker there, despite the emotions you felt in this spot. I found myself similarly unsure of what to do, until I saw that the soles of my shoes were a bit wet.

A careful (if temporary) print for you, love. I stood there, and knew you. Maybe you knew me too.

As I walked to the Van Gogh Museum to enjoy my last visit, the sky opened up to me, and my dark Arlesienne sunglasses let me see the sun, your star, your source, as I never had before.

I found myself taking photo after photo of the sky, of the sun and clouds; it was something I had never done before.

Overcome by the beauty, by my walk, I sat on the grass of the Museumplein for an hour writing in my journal about how accompanied I had felt during my entire trip, how I was never alone. How I knew you were with me, had shown me things, had taken care of me, Vincent. Nothing had really went wrong in my trip; I had taken an enormous leap — and you caught me.

I let the museum wash over me. I let myself float around, breathe you in with deep, deep breaths. That night I had dinner with my contact at the museum’s library whom I had met in person three weeks earlier, though it felt like a lifetime had passed. In fact… it had.

The next morning, incredulous, I climbed on a plane and headed back home. When I had to declare the total value of all goods acquired abroad, I smiled at the little form. 140 pages of writing? Over a thousand photos? The ability to time-travel?

Oh, and that night I arrived in Amsterdam — it rained so hard strangers huddled together in the crevices. Water returned to slap the roof of my hostel on my last night too, and I knew you had brought it for me.

There were beautiful moments of course, but the most important part of my visit – Vincent’s acute and undeniable presence – well, Reader, I’m afraid I must keep a few things closer to my heart, at least for now. However, there are a few odds and ends from Paris I’d love to share with all of you today…

Namely two works of art that I find of incredible importance, both in the Musée Rodin. One is Vincent’s portrait of Père Tanguy (pronounced tahn-gee), his paint dealer.

Le Père Tanguy, 1887-1888.

Tanguy was one of Vincent’s closest friends, and one of the few who loved his work from the beginning.  In general, Tanguy dealt with the post-impressionists before most other dealers, and with Vincent he traded paint for paintings. It worked out nicely for both of them.

Tanguy was just as interested in Japonisme (Japanese art pieces) as Vincent, and so they cover the background of this portrait. The soft smile on Tanguy’s lips is one you can really only behold in person, but I tried my best to capture it here.

I find the colors here simply extraordinary. That yellow fingernail kills me… This is particularly advanced (in my opinion) given that Vincent painted this while still in Paris, before he headed South and fully embraced his own style. As the story goes, Tanguy was so happy with this memorial, he put the price at 5,000 francs — far too high for anyone to ever purchase it from him. No one ever did in his lifetime, but the painting eventually became Rodin’s, and it now sits happily in the beautiful Rodin Museum in Paris.

Head of St. John the Baptist on a platter, 1887, by Auguste Rodin.

This sculpture also has an interesting link to Vincent that thankfully I had read about before I visited the museum. Apparently, when Theo (Vincent’s brother) first saw this bust, he said it looked exactly like Vincent.

Fascinatingly, after both Vincent and Theo’s death, Theo’s wife Jo saw the piece. She swore it must have been modeled after Theo. Not only does this attest to the brothers looking alike, but I believe it must say something about the expression, and about love. I imagine that Theo and Jo saw Vincent and Theo (respectively) as men of suffering…

Perhaps most chilling to me was that I recognized you, Vincent. After seeing so much of your work – and particularly after seeing the actual places and things you painted – I had begun to understand your vision. I could, in a way, see through your eyes; I could look at your paintings and begin to imagine the reality you were capturing. This also permitted me to truly see you, through you.

The curve of the nose right at the horizon of your eyes, the high cheekbones especially accentuated in your years of hunger… I did not need to look at a label to find you in that room.

Self-Portrait, 1887.

Self-Portrait, 1887.

Self-Portrait dedicated to Paul Gauguin, 1888.

Self-Portrait, 1889.

As I wrote in my journal the following day, it is interesting that only now – this week, even – that I know your face.

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.