photography by Shannon O'Neil

I jumped – high and far, and twirling.

Vincent’s Yellow opened in Chicago, IL last Thursday, on the 120th anniversary of Vincent van Gogh’s death.

I performed — my cast and I performed — this thing that has been so intimately tucked between my blood vessels, that has been continuously beating quietly alongside my heart for three years, whether or not anyone heard it. This project, this man who saved me from beyond the grave, who changed my life so significantly I turned my own life upside down for him, for whom I made personal and financial sacrifices… but who has always guided me truly, and rightly. (That is, right back to doing what I was meant to do, and thus myself.)

photography by Shannon O'Neil

Performing in this work is as natural as breathing… or perhaps climbing a mountain is a better metaphor (or I suppose a high dive was the original metaphor I chose). It is not easy, it is exhausting and utterly challenging; it is two hours filled with wonder and vitality. It is a constant, driven force, focused by fierce passion and precision. I have used (I believe) every talent I have to make this show what it is, and I have demanded no less than real Truth, real Beauty, and total commitment.

photography by Shannon O'Neil

The piece is also highly demanding of my actors. Yet my wonderful, amazing ensemble meets the challenges I set them with incredible grace and perseverance. They impress me constantly, bringing 19th century words to vibrating life, becoming paint through dance, and making sweet music and even sweeter love for those that have come to visit.

Opening weekend was a waterfall. I will be chewing over the past week for a long time to come. A critic came opening night and told me she was dazzled. I’ll leave the rest of what she told me for her to put in her review, but needless to say, I was very, very pleased. I have gotten a few responses to my show that were overflowing with gratitude.

I, for one, feel most grateful to have this opportunity, to truly show what I have to give, and to sing and dance and breathe and speak to Vincent for the rest of this month. Last year at this time, I was packing my bags for my YellowEurope trip, for Amsterdam, and for all the rest that would await me (all I could never have imagined). I would spend a month tracking you, Vincent. Now I get to spend a month loving you. Completely and utterly.

This is all I can truly grasp right now. Until soon, readers…

Don’t forget to buy your tickets if you can attend; I have a feeling once the review comes out tickets may begin disappearing quickly…

I will end with a quote of his to which I keep returning:

Thus about my work, thus about my person.
– Vincent van Gogh, August 18, 1885

I couldn’t agree more.

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…

Constantly cutting through the darkness.