all photographs captured on 35mm film

It was quiet. It was still. It was autumn in its highest form. Tucked in the high hills off of the riverside was Auvers-Sur-Oise, the home of Vincent Van Gogh for his final 70 days here on earth.

Auvers-Sur-Oise, Van Gogh, French countryside

One hour by train from Paris’s swarming crowds and queues. Early morning croissants and espresso shots, headphones on… and there we were, two newlyweds (!) overcome with the fizzy feelings post-nuptials. Ready, eager, hungry to experience - together.

I, the planner, knew what goodness awaited us. Luke, the painter and sunflower king of Pennsylvania (you can ask him how he got the title), had not a clue.

Overgrown stone walls. The drooping of pink roses. Bright orange leaves on old, old trees. Green and deep red shudders. Auverse packed on all the charm.

Panels of his art were displayed on every corner. Side-by-side comparisons. The Auberge, the town center, the winding staircases… all muses to the man himself. Vincent, Vincent, Vincent!

How strange and peculiar it was to see these locations in the flesh, after so many viewings of his thick paintbrushes and wild colors on canvas. They were there, really there. The muses of a man thick in his recovery process, reconnecting to himself, to his art.

We saw his field of crows. (Luke’s giddy excitement to see such ordinary birds still makes me smile!) We stood outside of the cathedral. We traipsed through the thick woods. Our feet walked through the many rooms of Dr. Gachet’s home.

We were truly retracing his steps. His daily ritual, his everyday routines. Like we were ghosts attempting to understand another time in which we weren’t invited.

Standing in his tiny room above the auberge, where Vincent drew his final breath, my mind spilled into questions upon questions.

How could genius be so overlooked during his lifetime? How can one man (flawed though he might have been) have gone through his life feeling so defeated, so desperate for peace within his mind?

He laid here. Said his goodbyes to his dear brother here. And not a soul knew him as anything other than the crazy foreign artist from out of town. They would be aghast knowing that the kooky painter in the fields was now one of the world’s most recognized artists, not just of his time, but… ever.

I guess that’s the thing about art.

What we make lives on and who we are matters so little. Our creations are echos, small fragments of our humanity. They reflect who we are into the world, illuminating the light of humanity back onto itself. Whether what we make will hang on wallpapered living rooms or libraries, stored in closets, or hung in museums, they are seen, they are felt so far beyond our short lifetimes.

In his final letters to Theo, before the gunshot wound hit his skin, Vincent showed signs of recovery, of recouping strength of mind and spirit. He painted with ferocity, over one painting a day.

I could see how a person could find Auvers-Sur-Oise as a place of solace. It’s quiet, it’s stillness.

Even I have to thank Auvers-Sur-Oise for the time I got to spend there.