Arles

non-subject: a dream of Paris
aww ~ 11/12/13

*****

Oh how I fell in love in high school with Van Gogh's paintings, particularly the paintings of Arles. Van Gogh's work seemed to move and flow. The curves and the swirls became alive for me, like the paintings themselves were movement.

In tenth grade, using oil pastels, I created my own replication of Van Gogh's A Cornfield of Cypresses. I matted the piece but never framed it, at least that I recall. I gave the oil pastel to my then-boyfriend, Ron also known as Fatman. He hung the piece on his bedroom wall. I don't know where it landed after Ron and I broke up.

In my home now, a gold-framed 42-by-30-inch reproduction of Van Gogh's Irises hangs on my den wall. I spied it years ago in a local department store, passing it by, dismissing it. But it whispered to me until I bought it, even though I bought it from a department store. I didn't care that it was a reproduction. I liked that it wasn't a print; but rather that someone's hands had painted it.

Over the decades as I watch landscapes while walking or riding my bike or driving in the car, I regularly think of Van Gogh - his paintings and the little bits I have read about his life. The feeling of being foreign in this world, of not quite fitting anywhere, of being a part of but not a part of it all. Anguish and beauty.

When night falls and I gaze up at the stars with wonder, my rendition of Don McLean's song Vincent will run through my mind.

"Starry, starry night.
Paint your pallet blue and gray.
Look out on a summer's day.
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
...Now I understand
What you tried to say to me...
How you suffered for your sanity...
How you tried to set me free...
They would not listen; they did not know how...
Perhaps they'll listen now."

*****

Vincent by Don McLean

Starry
starry night
paint your palette blue and grey

look out on a summer's day
with eyes that know the
darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills
sketch the trees and the daffodils

catch the breeze and the winter chills

in colors on the snowy linen land.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me

how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
they did not know how

perhaps they'll listen now.

Starry
starry night
flaming flo'rs that brightly blaze

swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in
Vincent's eyes of China blue.
Colors changing hue
morning fields of amber grain

weathered faces lined in pain
are soothed beneath the artist's
loving hand.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me

how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
perhaps they'll listen now.

For they could not love you
but still your love was true

and when no hope was left in sight on that starry
starry night.
You took your life
as lovers often do;
But I could have told you
Vincent
this world was never
meant for one
as beautiful as you.

Starry
starry night
portraits hung in empty halls

frameless heads on nameless walls
with eyes
that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the stranger that you've met

the ragged men in ragged clothes

the silver thorn of bloddy rose
lie crushed and broken
on the virgin snow.
And now I think I know what you tried to say to me

how you suffered for your sanity

how you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
they're not
list'ning still
perhaps they never will.

*****