Van Gogh for Sale at Maastricht

One of Vincent's Auvers canvases, the "Child with an Orange," will be for sale at the upcoming Maastricht art fair for about $30 million, BBC News and the Independent report today. It has been in a Swiss private collection since 1916.

The child is Raoul Levert, the 2-year-old son of Vincent Levert, a carpenter in Auvers-sur-Oise who made frames and stretchers for van Gogh. The painting was done in June 1890, a few weeks after van Gogh arrived in Auvers-sur-Oise and after he had seen his baby nephew (whom he adored) in Paris for the first time. "Child with an Orange" is one of many portraits of children that Vincent made during his career; it testifies both to his love of children and, at this point in his life, his wistful belief that he'd never have a family of his own. As Arifa Akbar, the Independent's Arts Correspondent, points out, little Raoul has rosy pink cheeks and blooms with health. In June 1890, Vincent was urging his brother Theo and sister-in-law Johanna to bring their child to the country for fresh air, believing that Paris was unhealthy for his nephew. In general, Vincent was feeling fairly optimistic about life and about his new home in Auvers-sur-Oise, so the colors here are bright and cheerful, the mood positive.

The "Real" Vincent

I’ve had occasion this week to think (again) about the nature of Vincent’s illness, the effects on his art and personality, and the popular conception of him today. So much about the historical van Gogh has devolved into cliché. Many think of him as some turpentine-swilling, child-scaring, ear-cutting loony-tune, his paintings the result of a mind gone wild.

WRONG.

Yes, he had a mental illness – I’m one of those who believes he had bipolar disorder, aggravated by absinthe consumption, overwork, and self-denial. Yes, that illness governed the last year and a half of his life, as he was plagued by attack after attack and spent a year in the asylum at Saint-Rémy. Yes, during the most dramatic moment of his illness, he engaged in self-mutilation. But Vincent van Gogh, and van Gogh’s art, should not be defined by that illness.

One need only read his letters to see there was so much more to Vincent than the clichés. Yes, he was stubborn as a mule, yes, he could be temperamental and difficult, but the letters also reveal a man who “felt deeply” (as he put it), someone capable of great tenderness, empathy, and spirituality. Someone fluent in many languages, who read so many books you wonder how he had time to paint, who had such tremendous visual recall that he could remember perfectly a painting by another artist he hadn’t seen for years. Someone who wanted to give love to others, who longed for a wife and family of his own, who saw the humanity in folks marginalized by the world at large. In between the attacks, his letters are lucid and self-aware. And before his first breakdown in December 1888, there are times when he is actually happy. In Arles before Gauguin arrives, for instance: Vincent is so enthused about his new yellow house, so pleased with his work, so optimistic about the future, you’d never guess this was a man who in a few months would cut off a piece of his ear.

In short, he was human. Not a “dangerous beast” (as he put it), not some raving lunatic, not some mad genius. Nor was his art the product of his illness; it resulted from years of study and reflection, from experimentation and innovation. He didn’t slap paint on the canvas in fits of delirium—every brushstroke was carefully chosen, and he knew exactly what he was doing. Even that swirling sky of “Starry Night,” while painted in the asylum (between attacks), says more about his creativity then it does about his illness. (It’s also, by the way, a very atypical painting and one he didn’t care about much.)

I’m tired of the clichés. It’s not fair to him. In life, when his art was beginning to get attention from critics, he worried that people would see his illness instead of his art (he was at Saint-Rémy at the time). Unfortunately, too often that’s exactly what happens.

Happy Birthday, Monsieur Renoir!

Ok, so it was yesterday (Feb 25th). I hope he can forgive me.

I'm fairly certain it's not a coincidence that Susan Vreeland's lovely novel "The Luncheon of the Boating Party," about the Renoir painting of the same name, was released in paperback today. If you haven't read it -- read it! I'm a fan of all her books, and this one is her most ambitious yet through its careful interweaving of the stories of Renoir and his models. As always, she blends fact and fiction so seamlessly that you imagine it happened exactly like that. I gobbled it up in a weekend when it came out last year in hardback.

The restaurant in the painting, the Maison Fournaise, was restored a few years back and can be visited just outside central Paris. It's on my list for next trip!

Vincent in Seoul

The Korea Times reports today that 600,000 visitors have attended the exhibition "Van Gogh: Voyage into the Myth" in Seoul since it opened November 24th. The first van Gogh retrospective in Korea, the exhibit includes 45 paintings and 22 drawings from the collections of the Van Gogh Museum and the Kroller-Muller Museum. "The Yellow House" and "The Sower" are just two of the notable works in the show. (So yes, visitors to Holland will be missing them!) The exhibit remains on view until March 16th. For more information, see vangoghseoul.com.

I met a woman from Seoul, about my age, last summer, when we were the only two passengers traveling from Arles on the public bus to Saint-Remy, both on the same van Gogh trail. She told me how popular Vincent is in Korea, and I'm sure she's been to see the exhibit at least once! On the way back to Arles later in the day we shared our experiences, then in one of those great coincidences, I ran into her in a restaurant later that night and we chatted more over supper. She was traveling alone too (in her case, a last voyage before getting married), and we both agreed that traveling alone is a terrific way to immerse yourself in a foreign culture and meet new people. Meeting her made me reflect about the power of Vincent's art, that he'd brought a gal from Korea and a gal from Florida all the way to Provence in search of his spirit.

Return of the Green Fairy

In a few weeks, absinthe will be legal here in Florida, available for purchase in restaurants and liquor stores. It's already available in other parts of the US; apparently stores and restaurants in California have been regularly running out since it became legal there in January. In Florida the brand "Lucid" will be the first to appear and will sell for about $60 a bottle. There's been a lot of buzz about the re-legalization of absinthe in the US since it happened on paper in May 2007, the mystique of the drink and its association with 19th-century artistic bohemia being a huge part of that. The absinthe available now, however, is not the same as the version known in 19th-century Paris; it has a lower percentage of thujone (wormwood). At 50-70% alcohol, though, "Lucid" and the other brands will still have you singing the soundtrack to "Moulin Rouge" in no time. I've not tried absinthe myself, although it was available in France the last time I was there, but I hear if you like ouzo or pastis, you might like it. Absinthe has an anise-licorice type of flavor. You mix the modern version with water like in the old days--artists loved the transformation of color in the drink, what's called the "louche"--and for pete's sake, don't set it on fire like they do on "Moulin Rouge," because that's not 19th-century at all!

Poor Vincent, he's been mentioned in most articles I've read about the reintroduction of absinthe, sometimes with the kind of cracks about his ear that really tick me off. (Mental illness is never funny--you will never catch me making jokes about his ear on this blog or anywhere.) He may well have been under the influence of absinthe on 23 December 1888, and he certainly struggled with addiction to the drink, especially during his time in Paris. He admits in a letter after coming to Arles that he had become "nearly an alcoholic" in Paris, and presumably the cheap and easily accessible absinthe was the problem. He painted glasses of absinthe while there, and in the pastel drawing of Vincent done by his pal Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (shown), Vincent sketches in front of an absinthe glass. In Arles he seems to have tried to limit his consumption of absinthe, although Paul Gauguin mentions Vincent's drinking it in his autobiography--and throwing glasses of it at him. (Perhaps living with Gauguin drove him back to the green fairy.)

I can't see myself partaking of absinthe when it comes to Florida; it costs too much and I'm not a fan of licorice flavors or hard liquor. I do like the shape of the traditional absinthe glasses, though, and the old-fashioned slotted absinthe spoons are neat-looking objects. I wouldn't mind having one for the heck of it. Incidentally, the Van Gogh Museum giftshop had absinthe glass/spoon sets for sale last year, and I have to say, I debated the tackiness of that in my head at the time. Even if Vincent did paint them.

Arrival in Arles

120 years ago this week, Vincent van Gogh left his brother Theo and Paris life behind to head south, arriving in Arles on 20 February 1888. He'd had enough of Paris, of bickering artists and cold weather, and he worried about his health. Why he picked Arles we still don't know, but that's where he got off the train, and that's where he stayed until May 1889. He was disappointed to arrive in a freak snowfall and chilly weather but saw the beauty of the landscape just the same -- the landscape and the women too, as he commented to Theo in his second letter from Arles ("the women here are beautiful, no humbug about that"). Once the snow melted and the orchards started to bloom, Vincent spent day after day painting canvases of almond and peach trees (pictured: a blossoming peach tree painted in honor of Dutch artist Anton Mauve and sent to his wife).

Arriving in Arles today is a different experience. World War II bombings took their toll on the area around the train station, so you don't see the same things Vincent saw in your first moments. Last summer, my first stop was the tourist office at the train station, where I asked in my American-taught-by-a-Parisian-accented French if I needed to take a bus or taxi to my hotel in the centre de ville. The kind mademoiselle responded in her lilting Southern accent that I should walk, it was easy and not far. I set off from the station, backpack on back, wheeling my bag. Down the street to the end of the block, looking around to get my bearings, I realized I was standing a few feet away from the site of the yellow house. My first little prickle of recognition! With high spirits I crossed the Place Lamartine through the old medieval gateway and continued in search of my hotel. "The brothel district was over there," I thought, "Vincent's first lodgings were on this street"--I was mapping 1888 Arles in my head the whole way. Then I learned "easy walk" is a relative term: Arles is not flat, and my hotel was on the other side of the hill hosting the Roman amphitheater. I got some looks from the locals, amused at the pasty-skinned redheaded gal huffing and puffing her way to the Hotel Le Cloitre. (The population of pasty-skinned redheads has not exactly grown since 1888.) Like Vincent must have felt, I too was overwhelmed at this new place, the new people, and all the thoughts zooming through my head. At least it wasn't snowing!

The Hotel Le Cloitre, by the way, is a delightful place to stay in Arles. The owners are friendly and hospitable, the building is a charmingly renovated thirteenth-century structure that used to be part of the Saint-Trophime monastery complex, and the location can't be beat. Because I was staying a while, Madame gave me a room on the top floor with a lovely view to the Saint-Trophime belltower and into the cloister. The bells marked time for me as I drifted from 2007 to 1888 and back again.

Recovered!

The van Gogh and Monet stolen from the Buehrle Collection in Zurich last week have been recovered. A parking lot attendant at a Zurich psychiatric hospital spotted the paintings yesterday in an abandoned white car, the same car reported from the theft. The Cezanne and Degas were not in the car. Museum officials report that the two paintings are absolutely the originals, and that there is no damage.

An interesting tidbit: according to the Associated Press, the police spokesman said in the press conference that he did not know whether a ransom had been paid for the paintings, but the museum director said, "I can't give any information on that." Were the thieves paid to abandon the paintings? Or were they amateurs who realized they couldn't unload the paintings as easily as they hoped? Did the intense media attention spook them?

And where are the Cezanne and Degas?