She buys the suit she will dive in.

She chooses one that will move well, that will move well with her, one that is best suited. In this case, the color was inevitable. It must be functional though, and it must be right. When she saw it she thought of the peasants, your peasants, Vincent, and she knew it was right.

After all, she is a worker, a reaper of beauty.

I am gathering together my creative team. I am within a week, probably, of posting an audition notice and getting my business cards printed (finally!) and soon I will be looking at possible performance spaces. Diving boards. They must be the right size and made of the right material. The rest is details.

I also bought my first set piece. The space will look like an artist’s studio when the audience enters; there will be painter’s materials scattered. They will make our theatrical building blocks. Some of those things include paintbrushes and little bottles used to hold pigment. In the Van Gogh Museum I saw the little bottles you would have, Vincent –

Photography by Timothy Caldwell

So when I saw these bottles from an old chemistry set on sale, I knew they were perfect, and I bought them.

I will be in a mode of preparation until rehearsals begin at the end of May. May through July will be the time to practice. And then, the jump, the perfect dive, will happen 18 times between July 27th and August 31st. That is really how I see it, deep down.

I am very excited to be commencing with preparation. I’ll still be studying and planning, the script is not done, there is in fact much to do still with the script, but I am taking this moment to step back. I’ve been writing and editing non-stop for about six weeks. The juices need to marinate. I read through the script, from beginning to end, for the first time the other week. It was exciting, terrifying, disappointing, and inflaming. There is a lot of work ahead.

I take a moment, catch my breath, see the whole. It will be great, but boy oh boy I will sweat a lot between now and August.

I welcome the storm, the journey, the work, with grinning teeth.

And mostly, I remind myself over and over where I’ve come from, and where I’ve been.

“For the great doesn’t happen through impulse alone, and is a succession of little things that are brought together.”

Vincent, 22 October 1882, letter to Theo

Vincent, could you have imagined?

Thanks to heatherleys.blogspot.com

Self-Portrait, 1889

Thanks to vggallery.com

Self-Portrait (Dedicated to Paul Gauguin), 1888.

Thanks to vggallery.com

I was forwarded a link to this blog which explained the work:

When asked about this project [John] Dean explained he originally set out to make a single monochrome bust. He says he was intrigued by an enigmatic self-portrait painted in Arles in September 1888 which Vincent intended to send to Paul Gauguin. ‘Van Gogh’s distinctive draughtsmanship and his technique of applying thick pigment to the canvas was almost sculptural. The image seemed to be yearning to be liberated from the two dimensional surface restraining it. I wanted to find out what might happen if it were released’ said Dean.

Thanks to heatherleys.blogspot.com

Self-Portrait, 1888.

Thanks to vggallery.com

Self-Portrait with Grey Felt Hat, 1887-1888.

Thanks to vggallery.com

I have always found Vincent’s work sculptural, but these busts seem to heighten the intensity of his gaze — and certainly the fact that they are all life-sized would add a very unique element when standing in front of them. One of these busts has been incorporated into the London exhibit of his letters (click to see several wonderful scans of his letters, with sketches).

Thanks to heatherleys.blogspot.com

Self-Portrait with Straw Hat, 1887.

Thanks to vggallery.com

Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear and Pipe, 1889.

Thanks to vggallery.com

Even the artist’s expression seems  to divulge a kind of joyous marveling at the outcome of his work, as though he could never have dreamed the power of what he produced. From the same blog:

Once the head was made however, Dean knew that to complete it he had to incorporate the artist’s brush strokes and the striking use of colour, including yellow, turquoise and purple, from the original portrait. ‘It is unusual for a sculpture to be painted as the effect is generally merely decorative. In this case though, I realised the colours and brushwork had to be included as they were integral and essential to the work.’

I thoroughly enjoy the translation of Vincent’s impasto, or thickly laid paint, into the textural surface of these busts. I’m also a little envious of the idea of molding his face, digging my fingers into the crevices of his brushwork, and feeling and re-creating his rhythm and his facial features with my hands. It would be very close to sensation of touching his face, or perhaps touching his dream of his face…

Seeing this work reminded me of a dance I choreographed over a year ago now – it was an early experiment that proved pretty successful. One of my greatest desires with my theater piece is to translate the passion of Vincent’s methods, the speed and depth of his brushwork, the daring of his colors, into movement. As John Dean said, Vincent’s paint and images almost burst out of their frames; I think what makes people fall for Vincent’s work is that they reach toward the viewer, as opposed to other paintings that invite the viewer to look in, as though through a window. Just as Dean sought to liberate the images from their two dimensions, I seek to launch them out of their impassivity.

So today, I offer a look at one of my early forays into dances for Vincent. Three women and I worked collaboratively for three hours, and created this piece. I stayed on the outside so I could shape it, but I will be performing in my own play this summer. It was inspired by the last ten paintings Vincent created.

Reader, Vincent… enjoy. :)

(Oh, and I finished my second draft of my play last friday! Woohoo!)

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.