Am I going mad? A vast, blinding flare in my face, lighting canary-yellow sunflowers behind, and yet I cannot determine whether it is sunset or sunrise! Sometimes my head wants to explode!
My shadow splays out in front of me, but is it to the east or to the west? As the minutes march, is it getting lighter or darker? I must keep painting, drawing, using knife and brush to translate the constant movement, to capture the play of light on the trees, the swirling afternoon winds sweeping in from the west.
As his patient, Doctor Gachet allows me to borrow his bicycle. I find it leaning against the Asylum wall. I load my gear and head towards and through Arles, into the yellowing farmlands of late summer. Crows caw as they lazily drift, the bumbling bees hum among the flowerheads. I unpack and challenge my demons. They are not going to spoil my day!
I have my easel, and a new canvas set up to capture the moment, but uncertainties are at every turn. I paint these sunflowers often and am timing this outing specifically to catch the early light. But darkness might approach, ensnare and, and – no, it is definitely morning, I see the grassy moisture.
I sit for a few moments and consider my position. I have the security of the hospital’s support, guiding me through the dark times, encouraging me forward. No matter the missing ear! My dear, dear brother, so far away but still my constant companion. And the village folk, at the Tabac, at the Boulangerie, in the fields, ever ready with their “Salut, Vincent” as I pass. I recognise they probably see me as odd, … harmless, but odd!
So, it is morning, not more than an hour after sunrise. Theo has sent me more materials, including several palette knives and a rich assortment of the new yellow pigments gaining popularity in the north. His accompanying letter advises of the birth of their son, that they are naming after me! Is that wise? Mmm, what might I offer this young, unmet Vincent, to guide him safely through the future?
I play deliciously with the combination of cadmium and lemon, my brush swirling playfully in concert with the nodding flower heads. Chrome yellow reflects the distant wheat fields, and snaking blue-black inserts the poplars, defining the laneways. I revel in the unquestioning freedom given me from the landscape, its uncomplicated acceptance. The sun is high overhead, hot and baking as I attach my signature, at the bottom, left.
What am I to do? I peddle furiously back through the Village to my monastic, medical sanctuary. Another self-portrait suggests itself. Visions of a young nephew, Theo, Doctor Gachet, my spurned lover swirl, briefly, before my brush begets my tormented face, a mostly shaved head, eyes staring, unseeing, but inwards towards a tortured soul.
The old pistol, found on a distant hillside, months ago, now lies on the floor beside my bed.
Ooh, Theeooo …