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.

A month after Vincent recovered from the infamous ear incident in Arles at the end of 1888, the town got together and signed a petition to kick him out of Arles and send him to an asylum. Upon actually reading the petition, we find their accusations for him being mentally unstable are based upon 1) his drinking irresponsibly and 2) touching women in public inappropriately without their permission. There is little doubt of exaggeration  here nor any doubt that the town had whipped itself up into a frenzy.

Of the cutting of the ear itself, there is still to this day no evidence that can prove how such a thing occurred. I personally find it just as likely that Gauguin had severed part of the ear as that Vincent had (note that it is not the whole ear!), especially given that they had a fight, and Gauguin left town abruptly that night. Gauguin also changed his story several times after the fact, adding that Vincent threatened him with a razor in an account written ten years later. But most importantly, no one knows what happened. Everything is speculation.

Saint Paul de Mausole

Now we can move on to my visit to this place. Although nearly all paintings executed during the year Vincent stayed at the asylum (there were over 150!) list their location as Saint Rémy, that is actually the name of the nearby town. Saint Paul de Mausole is the name of the asylum. I am not quite sure what I expected, but the area was exquisitely beautiful. Indescribable, actually.

Immediately, I recognized the groves of olive trees that greeted me. You depicted these trees dozens of times over the course of 1889 in drawings and paintings, Vincent.

Olive Trees, 1889

I remember a friend of mine telling me that this version (at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York) was an example of one of your “ugly” paintings. I smiled. He pointed out the purple in the ground as evidence. I told him that sometimes, shadows are purple. I think you may have smiled too. The olive trees were just as minutely studied by you as the cypresses…

Cypresses, 1889

Upon approaching Saint Paul, it became apparent that once again there were signs marking the spots where Vincent had ventured to paint.  He was allowed, with accompaniment, to walk up to an hour beyond the walls of the asylum. I am sure he never imagined the main road here being named Avenue Vincent van Gogh.

As one of the signs put it:

The fact that van Gogh was allowed to leave Saint Paul to go and paint is a sign of the consideration felt for him by the medical staff and the nuns of Saint Paul de Mausole, particularly his great friend sister Epiphane, at a time when psychiatry was more concerned with restraint than treatment.

My heart warmed to know you had a friend here… And so I followed your footsteps, past the asylum walls.

Often recognizing the shapes of the landscape…

Trees in the Garden of Saint Paul Hospital , 1889

And sensing your spirit…

Near…

And full as ever.

]]> http://www.vincentsyellow.com/2009/12/14/saint-remy/feed/ 1 http://www.vincentsyellow.com/2009/12/11/arles-smells-like/ http://www.vincentsyellow.com/2009/12/11/arles-smells-like/#comments Fri, 11 Dec 2009 18:40:35 +0000 Teresa http://www.vincentsyellow.com/?p=367 Arles. From my hotel window.

Les Alyscamps.

Butterfly in L’Espace Van Gogh sucks up yellow. (I had never really had the privilege to watch a butterfly drink!)

The Langlois Bridge – take a closer look. (I’m sure I’m pronouncing it wrong)