Van Gogh Alive

wasmitworten

by wasmitworten

Story

Rarely have I regretted not speaking to someone as much as I did that day. I cannot say for certain that he saw me. I mean, did I catch his eyes locking with me? Yes. But did his mind focus on what he saw, or did it wander?

Mona and I had gotten up early that day. We entered the first room and carefully maneuvered around the many families with kids staring at the pieces of text on the walls. I am not usually a fan of museums that require a lot of reading, but this part of the exhibition describing van Gogh’s life’s stages was digestible. Born and raised in the Netherlands, educated in France, where many years ensued, including a stay at a psychiatric ward towards the end of his life. When we were standing in front of a small depiction of his almond tree, created in honor of his nephew, we overheard one woman whisper to her friend: “Did you know that he didn’t even want his brother to name the kid ‘Vincent’? He thought of himself to be unworthy.” Mona worked up a sad face. “Poor Vinny!”, she said, meaning the increasingly depressed van Gogh at that stage in his life.

We passed the plate describing the circumstances of his death and were eager to finally enter the experience room. The space was made up of various, cinema-sized video screens hanging from the ceiling, covering the walls, plastering the floor. A soft shimmering light came out of the small projectors distributed around, leaving most of the surroundings in darkness. Children were lying on bean bags, looking at the different screens from below. Groups of people were standing in every corner.

The video being projected was accompanied by music that was more than a mere suggestion on how to feel. Vivaldi was playing while fields of sunflowers flew by on the walls. The film continued with a variation of his self portraits, switching to piano tunes. Vincent in black and white, Vincent sad, Vincent looking like Benedict Cumberbatch, Vincent well shaved and smiling, Vincent with a hat. All of those faces looked so dissimilar, as if you could tell by the discrepancies how different the artist must have felt, each time he had sat down to paint himself. And yet, throughout the plentitude of Vincents, his essence remained.

The show had moved on when I suddenly felt that somebody was watching me – and looked into his eyes. There he was, on the other side of the room, in a trenchcoat, with his red beard and green eyes, tall and thin, staring into my direction. “Vincent?”, I thought, before hurryingly looking back at a screen, embarrassed. It had probably just been a mindless move, a man acknowledging his vicinity. And yet, I kept glancing over to him. Clearly he had come alone, which made him stand out. He didn’t seem to move, but instead observe everyone else. His presence lingered on my neck as we were passing through the room. I felt drawn to him, as if he wanted to be spoken to. As if he wanted to be asked what he was doing at his own exhibition. Asked why he was wearing a trenchcoat inside. Asked how he was, really was, that day.

© wasmitworten 2023-02-05

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