Van Gogh's Ghost

I am a writer. I write long, involved novels that no agent will look at and no one wants to publish. These days I mostly write blogs. I’ve had an unusual life, and friends urge me to write my autobiography. Others ask me to write down stories about my travels. Maybe some of my blogs can be assembled into an autobiography or a travel book. For a journal I keep brief entries in the engagement calendar I buy each year from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I save these year after year, not because the journal notes are significant, but because of the beautiful art accompanying each week’s calendar. This year’s book is called “Seasons of Impressionism” featuring full-color art next to each week’s calendar – 52 gorgeous pictures.

This blog is about a travel adventure recalled by the painting reproduced opposite the March 1 to 7 blank spaces. A gardener put down his spade, knelt down, and stretched out his arms towards his baby, just ready to take first steps away from the mother’s arms. The Met curator explains:
In the hope of cheering up his brother at the asylum at Saint-Remy,
Theo van Gogh sent Vincent art supplies and black-and-white
reproductions of drawings by Jean-Francois Millet. . . .
This painting is Vincent van Gogh’s colorful interpretation
of one of those images.

Saint-Remy was one of the “out-of-the-way” places I visited in 1983. The town was hosting a car show in the town square; when I drove in at the wheel of my new BMW, the French thought I had come to join the party! I found a small hotel, very French, very elegant, and very self-indulgent for me, as the cost was ‘way above my budget. My room had a bed with floral chintz bedspread and carved headboard. A Louis XV chair with needlepoint seat. I stayed for two nights, further indulging in fresh orange juice for breakfast and two excellent dinners.

For two days I went sight-seeing in this small town. Beside the road I was awed by a triumphal arch raised by the Roman legion stationed there when this part of France, called Provence, was a province of the Roman Empire. Monuments like this inspired Napoleon to erect the more famous Arc de Triumph in Paris.

Next to the arch was a tall column surmounted by statues of two boys, the Emperor Augustus’s grandsons. Years before, watching “I, Claudius” on PBS, saw these youth portrayed by actors. Their wicked step-grandmother had them murdered so that her own son could inherit the title of emperor. Some loving family!

Across the road archeologists are uncovering on a hillside a Roman town buried for almost 2,000 years in mud from an overflowing stream. Only part of it has been unearthed, but I was able to walk on the ancient stones and go into the remains of shops and little houses, as I was later to do at Pompeii and Ephesus. Also at the Chaco Canyon ruins in New Mexico. For a few moments I transported myself back to the 1st Century. It was a mirage. There is nothing left but stones.

After hours with the Romans I moved up to the 19th Century and Vincent van Gogh. Next door to the archeological site was the gateway to the asylum. I drove through the gates and up the long drive to park my car next to the cedar trees in front of the building. I once had a poster of a painting van Gogh made on this very spot. The big double doors were unlocked. I walked right into the stone passage which lead to the courtyard, an open space surrounded by a covered n arcade, like a Medieval cloister. Yes, Van Gogh painted that, too. As I stood there, light from the arched openings marking scallops on the stone floor, along the passage two figures slowly walked towards me, a nurse holding the arm of a child. Van Gogh’s assylum is still a hospital for treating ill and disturbed children. As these very real people came near me, I truly felt the presence of Vincent van Gogh. Crazy man and a great genius. Gifts of the gods, who give and take at the same time. Who would care if he/she were crazy, to be endowed with such talent?