We went to Arles yesterday. That is serious Vincent territory.
This is where the cafe is.
This is where the Vincent Van Gogh foundation is. Of course it is closed. For a month. The place he bought his art supplies in Paris was closed too. Random acts of closure.
Impossible to get a park in the centre of the city. So we ate our lunch in the car park of a pharmacy and sort of stole a ride on a bus to the town centre. We thought it was a tourist hop on hop off for free bus....but later we found out is wasn't.
We walked around in ever increasing circles to find the cafe. They sort of all look alike, until the real one appeared bright yellow and with a sign. Unchanged they say and we believe them.
Richard the mad artist set up his stand and flustered and fiddled under tourist gaze to be the artist to paint the cafe. The roadie took pics and guarded gear and checked for approval of other cafe owner.
A quick likeness and pack up for later finishing. The gazers on, nodded sagely when identity established of course he was not French, they never are these artists. Canadian, Belgian, Italian, but never French, he nodded or shook his head as he muddled away.
Bussing back legally after a hot and tiring day, with tempers frayed and a lot of work and not much fun, the children pushed and shoved, while Richard protected the wet painting between his legs, a precious cargo.
Car still there. An hour to get back home. The scenic route. Bliss.
Except he dropped his glasses near the brambles where the car was parked. Too late realised. And no fit mood to travel back.
It was all a crazy. These artists must have a little of the touched about them to do what they must do. Their work has the smell of inspiration and divine. Their call to inform and glory.
The call answered in Arles.
This is where the cafe is.
This is where the Vincent Van Gogh foundation is. Of course it is closed. For a month. The place he bought his art supplies in Paris was closed too. Random acts of closure.
Impossible to get a park in the centre of the city. So we ate our lunch in the car park of a pharmacy and sort of stole a ride on a bus to the town centre. We thought it was a tourist hop on hop off for free bus....but later we found out is wasn't.
We walked around in ever increasing circles to find the cafe. They sort of all look alike, until the real one appeared bright yellow and with a sign. Unchanged they say and we believe them.
Richard the mad artist set up his stand and flustered and fiddled under tourist gaze to be the artist to paint the cafe. The roadie took pics and guarded gear and checked for approval of other cafe owner.
A quick likeness and pack up for later finishing. The gazers on, nodded sagely when identity established of course he was not French, they never are these artists. Canadian, Belgian, Italian, but never French, he nodded or shook his head as he muddled away.
Bussing back legally after a hot and tiring day, with tempers frayed and a lot of work and not much fun, the children pushed and shoved, while Richard protected the wet painting between his legs, a precious cargo.
Car still there. An hour to get back home. The scenic route. Bliss.
Except he dropped his glasses near the brambles where the car was parked. Too late realised. And no fit mood to travel back.
It was all a crazy. These artists must have a little of the touched about them to do what they must do. Their work has the smell of inspiration and divine. Their call to inform and glory.
The call answered in Arles.
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