“It’s unfortunate about the rain,” I murmured apologetically. “The garden would have been nicer.”
“One appreciates the sun so much more after a bit of rain,” he said as he took a peek out the window.
For a second, I thought I caught him staring at me, his eyes traveling from the lace on my collar down the front placket of my dress.
“How true,” I said and I was unable to prevent a small smile from appearing across my lips. I was happy that he seemed to be taking notice of me. Then, as if suddenly freed from the insecurity that plagued me, I uttered, “An artist sees the beauty in the world, but I suppose a woman often only sees its limitations.”
He looked at me quizzically as if surprised that I had the capacity to speak.
“What a curious thing to say, mademoiselle.” He reached into his pockets. “I suppose the same thing can be said about the impoverished. A day for the poor is full of hardship and limitations, but the rich man and the artist only see its possibilities.”
I smiled. “That is probably the only place they overlap.”
He seemed amused by my answer, and I noticed that he continued to stare as he took off his hat and coat and handed them to me. They were damp from the rain, but they felt nearly weightless in my arms. I thought about Papa’s cloth coat and Paul’s as well—they were both so heavy in comparison, with silk lining and tortoiseshell buttons. Vincent’s, however, seemed like it was made from muslin. As I hung it on one of the wooden pegs near the vestibule, I noticed that I could see my hands through the threadbare cloth.
I was just about to take Vincent into the parlor when Father’s voice interrupted me. “Vincent!” he said, his tone revealing his great enthusiasm. He had heard Vincent’s footsteps and was now rising from his chair and rushing toward him.
“I’m thrilled that you could join us today.” Vincent nodded and thanked him quietly for extending the invitation.
“How are you feeling today?” Papa asked him, while patting him on the back. “Terrible about the weather…I bet it’s been difficult to paint this morning.”
“I began a sketch of an old vineyard this morning,” Vincent replied. “But my mind is still not at ease.”
“You need to paint as much as possible,” Papa reminded him. “It will help keep your head clear.”
“I am restless.” He spoke softly. “You are right, the painting helps…. But when I don’t have a paintbrush in hand, I am filled with anxiety.”
Papa chuckled. “I hear similar complaints from other artists. It is not unusual.”
I could see flashes of Cézanne and Pissarro go through Papa’s mind. A smile crossed his face just to utter those names in passing.
Vincent nodded and glanced down at his fingers. I noticed the skin spotted in paint, the faded patches of pigment—cobalt blue and thin lines of cadmium red. It looked as though he had tried to scrub them raw but, still, traces of the pigment remained.
“You know, Vincent, I have a saying written in Chinese letters by my office and outside on one of the walls on our cave. Translated it says: Work and you will be happy. I believe strongly in that saying. It’s good advice for you.”
“I want to paint—I am painting. It’s just that when I’m in my room at night and my fingers are so tired I can barely lift a comb to my head, I find myself staring at the ceiling and then a flood of fear washes over me…the fear my blackouts might return, the fear of another attack…. There was a time when a glass of absinthe would send my demons away but my doctor in Arles has strictly forbidden it….”
Papa nodded. “This is all completely understandable. You had a terrible time in Arles. But we will keep you away from absinthe, Vincent, and get you stronger so that you produce what you are meant to. Genius needs to be nurtured with clean air, rest, and healthy exercise. I have promised your brother that I will make sure you are well taken
“One appreciates the sun so much more after a bit of rain,” he said as he took a peek out the window.
For a second, I thought I caught him staring at me, his eyes traveling from the lace on my collar down the front placket of my dress.
“How true,” I said and I was unable to prevent a small smile from appearing across my lips. I was happy that he seemed to be taking notice of me. Then, as if suddenly freed from the insecurity that plagued me, I uttered, “An artist sees the beauty in the world, but I suppose a woman often only sees its limitations.”
He looked at me quizzically as if surprised that I had the capacity to speak.
“What a curious thing to say, mademoiselle.” He reached into his pockets. “I suppose the same thing can be said about the impoverished. A day for the poor is full of hardship and limitations, but the rich man and the artist only see its possibilities.”
I smiled. “That is probably the only place they overlap.”
He seemed amused by my answer, and I noticed that he continued to stare as he took off his hat and coat and handed them to me. They were damp from the rain, but they felt nearly weightless in my arms. I thought about Papa’s cloth coat and Paul’s as well—they were both so heavy in comparison, with silk lining and tortoiseshell buttons. Vincent’s, however, seemed like it was made from muslin. As I hung it on one of the wooden pegs near the vestibule, I noticed that I could see my hands through the threadbare cloth.
I was just about to take Vincent into the parlor when Father’s voice interrupted me. “Vincent!” he said, his tone revealing his great enthusiasm. He had heard Vincent’s footsteps and was now rising from his chair and rushing toward him.
“I’m thrilled that you could join us today.” Vincent nodded and thanked him quietly for extending the invitation.
“How are you feeling today?” Papa asked him, while patting him on the back. “Terrible about the weather…I bet it’s been difficult to paint this morning.”
“I began a sketch of an old vineyard this morning,” Vincent replied. “But my mind is still not at ease.”
“You need to paint as much as possible,” Papa reminded him. “It will help keep your head clear.”
“I am restless.” He spoke softly. “You are right, the painting helps…. But when I don’t have a paintbrush in hand, I am filled with anxiety.”
Papa chuckled. “I hear similar complaints from other artists. It is not unusual.”
I could see flashes of Cézanne and Pissarro go through Papa’s mind. A smile crossed his face just to utter those names in passing.
Vincent nodded and glanced down at his fingers. I noticed the skin spotted in paint, the faded patches of pigment—cobalt blue and thin lines of cadmium red. It looked as though he had tried to scrub them raw but, still, traces of the pigment remained.
“You know, Vincent, I have a saying written in Chinese letters by my office and outside on one of the walls on our cave. Translated it says: Work and you will be happy. I believe strongly in that saying. It’s good advice for you.”
“I want to paint—I am painting. It’s just that when I’m in my room at night and my fingers are so tired I can barely lift a comb to my head, I find myself staring at the ceiling and then a flood of fear washes over me…the fear my blackouts might return, the fear of another attack…. There was a time when a glass of absinthe would send my demons away but my doctor in Arles has strictly forbidden it….”
Papa nodded. “This is all completely understandable. You had a terrible time in Arles. But we will keep you away from absinthe, Vincent, and get you stronger so that you produce what you are meant to. Genius needs to be nurtured with clean air, rest, and healthy exercise. I have promised your brother that I will make sure you are well taken
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