Vincent

Late 2022, we were visited by the Speigeltent, which brought the immersive Van Gogh exhibition. I knew a few of his works like Starry Night and Irises and others I didn’t know the names of. It was amazing. An hour or so of colour and sound and the tragic story of a talented man, unrecognised in his lifetime.

I join the pilgrimage of worshippers, who have come to glimpse the images of the images you brought to life. In your lifetime, you could not know the power of your brush, the stories come to life in your mind. Now the rabble who you would have been so comfortable with, can only see copies. Your works are held preciously by those who can afford them, but this display is vast and immersive, and technology allows what you might think impossible.

You with the eye, with the brush; you watch, you stare, you absorb. The colours are soaked up by your eyes and imprinted on your mind. Your mind registers the complexities of all you have seen and adjusts the view to suit your mood. Sharp lines and stark light become faint scratches of charcoal, then softened with hues of yellow and dark blue, starkly contrasting each other but in synchronicity. One means nothing without the other.

Architecture is meaningless without people to make them useful. The buildings speak to you. Distant light emanating from thin windows, whispers secrets of those still hiding in their apartments. On such a beautiful night, why are they hiding? I imagine the worst; you imagine laughing children sharing their evening meal with proud parents; perhaps they will emerge from their homes to walk off the feast and take in the beauty of the night.

The bright lights of the café glowing boldly, showering its patrons in gold, served by a saint tending his followers. You see people, sipping their wine, feasting on gourmet temptations. Will you join them?

Lovers gliding on cobbled streets, the stones like little wavelets on a glistening lake, strolling down the avenue enjoying what life lays before them. Do they see you?

You are a ghost who patiently haunts these darkened streets, looking to record the time, the place, the moment. Photographs record a moment in time, you give it meaning, soul. Do you leave a piece of your soul in your paintings?

You pick out the colours as someone might pick the ripest apple from the basket. You use your ripe colours to attract my eye to a spot on the canvas, and before I have understood everything you are telling me, my eyes are drawn to another place, hiding at the back, shadows at the end of the street. What is happening in the shadows? Have you shrouded a dark reality with your dark paint? Are the shadows where you like to exist to see the colours better?

The stars have an aura and sit glowing from the deep blue heavens. They are flowers scattered carelessly across the night field after the parade has passed. The night sky jealously stands watch over its realm unable to play a part in the scene it covers, but it is the perfect blanket for this place, which loses much of its beauty in the harsh light of day.

We know you struggled, but from your inner battle came beauty. So often others profit from suffering fools, and how they profited from you.

I came to experience you, like so many other weary souls, I wanted to understand how a mere human could create such beauty. I came to see all you did, to see all the beauty you brought to the world, but the little street in a place I’ll never visit from a time before I was born has me spellbound. I want to be there, not now, but then.