The sunflowers are intoxicating, growing from here to forever, as far as my eye can see, as I pack my easel, paints and brushes onto the trusty bike, and head back. The evening chill is a reminder that summer is faltering, the laneway leaves will be starting to fall, offering a new palette to consider, and capture.
Doctor Rey’s smile is as welcoming as ever as I prop his bike against the old stone wall. We share a pipe and watch the sun shimmer into the distant fields before we go inside. He mentions a letter from Theo that is on the small white noticeboard outside my room.
I sit on my bed and open his letter. As ever there are updates on the family’s Paris doings, plans for a holiday to Brabant, to see our ageing parents, little Vincent’s scratched knee, after a fall from the apple tree, the steady recuperation of Johanna after her miscarriage, and the business.
Theo talks excitedly about his move from London to Paris and the new ‘post-impressionist’ devotees who are starting to frequent his art supply, cum gallery shop. Paul Gauguin; Paul Cezanne and the boisterous crew gathering of an evening to drink that throat-scouring Brittany apple concoction, Chou’chen, or Absinthe in the Montmartre cafes. Theo is keen for me to return, enclosing the rail fare and a little extra.
In the quiet of my room, the invitation rolls around my head. I remember the dismal, cold wetness of the cobbles, the dull gloom of my Parisienne days considered against what I find here, the bluest skies, a hot vibrancy, riotous colours, the friendship of Doctor Rey, the reverend Salles and my little room’s security. I long for artistic company, and write, suggesting the painters consider decamping to Arles.
An advisory note from Theo coincidently arrives on the day that Gauguin steps down from the train. Our first argument is about our quarters, then the food, the heat and my bicycle. We paint frantically, obsessively – the cafes, the spivs, the girls, sometimes pressed even to draw breath between our artistic output and argumentative frenzy. He retreats back to Paris.
My nervous attacks continue. I have a ‘shaving’ accident. Dr Rey stitches my wounds.
The sunflowers continue to hold my attention. I sleep at midday beneath them, dreaming of a ‘School’ forming among their yellowy heads. I exhaust the local supplies of Cadmium yellow, Prussian blue, and Chrome orange but Theo resupplies me. I wake and continue capturing the excitement of these fields until the late afternoon light dictates a halt.
A note from Johanna advises of Theo’s increasing miasma. She is told it is a dimension that leaves him at times wondering who, what and where he is. She implores me to come back to Paris. A compromise is achieved as Theo negotiates my lodgings at Auvers sur Oise, just to the north of the city, with a Dr Gachet.
I write a cheery note, describing the laneways and farmlands beside the Oise. I attempt several portraits of the Doctor, even a couple of self-portraits. Theo visits and we share precious days together before his return to Paris.
He is gone, and sadness descends. I am alone. I paint and the Cadmium warms my soul.
But, it is time, I think. I have the means. It is time.