Read Online Leaving Van Gogh by Carol Wallace - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carol Wallace
Ads: Link
into his box in no order at all. Less than an hour later, the canvas was half-covered. I could not see the details, but Vincent’s brush darted at the painting like a hummingbird.
The time for luncheon approached. I had suggested that Madame Chevalier make a soufflé because of Vincent’s ill-fitting teeth, but that also meant we could not be late to the table, lest the soufflé deflate. While our housekeeper was very fierce in protecting our interests, she had a soft spot for the vulnerable. I was playing on this when I told her about Vincent’s pain while eating and his great need to become stronger; his life in Auvers would be more comfortable if Madame Chevalier was one of his allies. Promptness at meals was essential to winning her over, but I was reluctant to interrupt Vincent. He was painting in a furor, and I feared that, if I disrupted it, the picture could not be finished. I expected him to be possessed, in a way. I could not imagine that the spirit that allowed him to slash paint onto the canvas at such a rate could coexist with the mundanities of a soufflé and the necessity to clean the paint off his hands. He was perfectly affable, however. He finished a twirling orange knot of blossom—I was proud of my dahlias, and delighted to see them painted—and willingly put his brush down.
The painting is before me now, as I write. Vincent gave it to me later that week, when it had dried somewhat. I think he meant the gift as an exchange of sorts, a kind of payment for my care of him, like my paintings from Renoir and Monet. I am still startled by the life and vigor bursting off the canvas. I am lucky enough to own some two dozen of his paintings, many of which are more important than this, which he thought of as merely a “sketch.” But I cannot see this one without being reminded of the first time I watched Vincent van Gogh paint.
I will confess to some initial confusion. I had thought I was abreast of the times, accustomed to the new techniques that involved painting spontaneously to capture fleeting visual conditions. By definition, this goal required swift execution. But Vincent van Gogh did not even appear to think about this composition, let alone plan it. It looked as if he merely tossed paint at the canvas. I could not help contrasting his slapdash approach with my own much more painstaking process: sketching, underpainting, blending pigments. I understood the principle of what he was doing; the eye would do the blending. And of course, as I now knew, he was immoderately gifted. That, no doubt, was why I had to work so much harder for results that pleased me much less.
Vincent became a familiar presence in our house over the next few weeks. On the days when I was in Auvers, he would ring the bell at the gate whenever he passed by. He came to the house one morning and made a beautiful painting of Marguerite watering the roses in the garden. Sometimes he came in just to drink something cool, or to drop off a book he had mentioned to me. We would sit in the shade behind the house and talk about what he had seen or painted that day. He never stayed very long, though; Vincent was industrious, and his next project always called out to him.
Once, I persuaded him to go fishing with me. It was a dull day, one of the few that summer, with low clouds that periodically released showers as if they could no longer be bothered to restrain them. For some reason I don’t remember, Paul was not with us. Perhaps it was so early in June that he was still at the lycée in Paris. Marguerite and Madame Chevalier had embarked on some ambitious and noisy housekeeping task. It was one of those days when I was out of sorts and nothing pleased me, so I barked my displeasure when the women came to the door of the salon with their aprons and feather dusters. Marguerite quailed, as she always did when I raised my voice, but Madame Chevalier, a creature of stronger fiber, thumped down her infernal tools, advanced on me, and
The time for luncheon approached. I had suggested that Madame Chevalier make a soufflé because of Vincent’s ill-fitting teeth, but that also meant we could not be late to the table, lest the soufflé deflate. While our housekeeper was very fierce in protecting our interests, she had a soft spot for the vulnerable. I was playing on this when I told her about Vincent’s pain while eating and his great need to become stronger; his life in Auvers would be more comfortable if Madame Chevalier was one of his allies. Promptness at meals was essential to winning her over, but I was reluctant to interrupt Vincent. He was painting in a furor, and I feared that, if I disrupted it, the picture could not be finished. I expected him to be possessed, in a way. I could not imagine that the spirit that allowed him to slash paint onto the canvas at such a rate could coexist with the mundanities of a soufflé and the necessity to clean the paint off his hands. He was perfectly affable, however. He finished a twirling orange knot of blossom—I was proud of my dahlias, and delighted to see them painted—and willingly put his brush down.
The painting is before me now, as I write. Vincent gave it to me later that week, when it had dried somewhat. I think he meant the gift as an exchange of sorts, a kind of payment for my care of him, like my paintings from Renoir and Monet. I am still startled by the life and vigor bursting off the canvas. I am lucky enough to own some two dozen of his paintings, many of which are more important than this, which he thought of as merely a “sketch.” But I cannot see this one without being reminded of the first time I watched Vincent van Gogh paint.
I will confess to some initial confusion. I had thought I was abreast of the times, accustomed to the new techniques that involved painting spontaneously to capture fleeting visual conditions. By definition, this goal required swift execution. But Vincent van Gogh did not even appear to think about this composition, let alone plan it. It looked as if he merely tossed paint at the canvas. I could not help contrasting his slapdash approach with my own much more painstaking process: sketching, underpainting, blending pigments. I understood the principle of what he was doing; the eye would do the blending. And of course, as I now knew, he was immoderately gifted. That, no doubt, was why I had to work so much harder for results that pleased me much less.
Vincent became a familiar presence in our house over the next few weeks. On the days when I was in Auvers, he would ring the bell at the gate whenever he passed by. He came to the house one morning and made a beautiful painting of Marguerite watering the roses in the garden. Sometimes he came in just to drink something cool, or to drop off a book he had mentioned to me. We would sit in the shade behind the house and talk about what he had seen or painted that day. He never stayed very long, though; Vincent was industrious, and his next project always called out to him.
Once, I persuaded him to go fishing with me. It was a dull day, one of the few that summer, with low clouds that periodically released showers as if they could no longer be bothered to restrain them. For some reason I don’t remember, Paul was not with us. Perhaps it was so early in June that he was still at the lycée in Paris. Marguerite and Madame Chevalier had embarked on some ambitious and noisy housekeeping task. It was one of those days when I was out of sorts and nothing pleased me, so I barked my displeasure when the women came to the door of the salon with their aprons and feather dusters. Marguerite quailed, as she always did when I raised my voice, but Madame Chevalier, a creature of stronger fiber, thumped down her infernal tools, advanced on me, and
Similar Books
