Art Melancholy

When it comes to art, I've never been able to get past the French Impressionists and post-impressionists.  If it were fashion, this is the equivalent of still wearing bloomers under a full skirt, I guess : ) Which I don't, in case you were wondering.

I am sure that it informs how I see color, my ideas on life and romance, my spirit and escapism.  My art icon is Vincent van Gogh, correctly he is Dutch, but spent his signature art years and life in France's various towns and cities.  There is a quiet village, Auvers-sur-Oise, where there is a wheat field in which he shot himself.  When you stand there now, you can imagine the crows scattering into the sky the moment his pistol shattered the still air.  On a small plot by the field, is his tombstone where he lays beside his beloved brother Theo, both encased in an ivy duvet.

Where had he spent his last summer, his last few days?  He dragged himself, with his open gun-wound back to his tiny room at the Auberge Ravoux.  Where he bled to his death; a quiet death in a lonely room.  The room is cut out of the attic of the auberge, with grey washed walls, and only a pocket skyline window to cast in light.  He lost his mind in this room.

A corner for Dr Gachet and his homeopath hands in another

 

Leaning his heavy head on an elbowed arm

With furrowed brows falling on sullen blue eyes

Falling all over his foxgloves and falling still from last summer's events

And tumbling tears for his friend Vincent

Etsy original oil on canvas:

rum

boots 

jug

glass-bottles