The room is crowded. It is a bit after nine in the morning and I am at a Van Gogh exhibition. I catch myself staring at titles. Unable to read explanatory texts. My glasses are steaming up because I have been rushing to get here in time. My nose is detecting smells: shampoo, perfume, some sweat. And I hope that isn’t me. I do glance at the paintings as I stand in a room full of excited and knowledgeable voices. I find myself next to The Public Garden, Arles. I hear people commenting on the trees. Another smell passes by. People love the trees. Someone is reminded of the trees in Massachusetts. Leaf peepers, my memory conjures up. Sweat is trickling down my spine.
I wipe my face with my hand. I notice a solitary figure on a bench in the painting. I rest with her. Then I spot a group of three people on a bench in the left corner. I feel crowded again. Well-modulated voices all around me, plus a burr and loud laughter. I enjoy picking out phrases. But of course as I start listening out for them, none jump out. “Yeah.” Voices rising and falling. I look at my screen. I listen. But so far I am not looking at the paintings much. I love the enthusiasm behind me. I stand still in front of Undergrowth. This I love. Background blending with trees. Big blobs of paint. A straight line contrasting with the curliness of mosses. Light tones among dark. More dark than light. Bright and promising green in the distance.
The woman who welcomed me liked my scarf. I told her about it perking me up. And that I hoped the exhibition would do this too. What to say when asked how I am? I said I had a recent bereavement. I move to the next painting instinctively, but have not looked at it yet. So I said I had a bereavement and had to shield myself from the compassionate look in her eyes. What to say to someone you know professionally when your husband died less than three weeks ago. I said: “I won’t say much about it, otherwise,” and here I point with both hands at my face. Mimicking tears streaming down. She nods kindly. I am facing the Garden of the Asylum at Saint-Rémy. Here I see an empty bench. Vincent, I relate. A tentative path, neatly marked rows of grass. Bright yellow on the facade of a building. The sun hitting the grass and the blossom on the trees. I shuffle along. I nearly walk into someone. She doesn’t notice. I am on the move again, noticing I am in room two already. How incredibly prolific he must have been while staying at that asylum of Saint-Rémy. Somebody says jolly good next to my right ear. I end up in another corner, next to a doorway and The Weeping Tree. Dark. Moody. Yet, beautiful, driven and dedicated. Now I get interested in looking. My body temperature has balanced out. Some space has opened up. A bit later my heart and spirit lift. And I meet The Sower.