Van Gogh Reborn!

Chapter 224:

Chapter 224:

224

Iris (4)

The concept of the shoot was to explore Arles and share my impressions.

They said I could also ask questions if needed, but I wondered if I could pull it off with the hastily prepared script.

It only had the places to go and the questions to ask, so I felt lost.

“Just talk comfortably like you did yesterday.”

Director Daniel Scott added that there was no need to exaggerate or embellish anything.

“The script is just a guideline, not a rule.”

I nodded at his words, saying he didn’t want to make it artificial.

I liked talking, so I decided to trust the director and speak freely.

I moved my feet, guided by my memories.

I didn’t need to visit the cafe in the Forum Square again, since I had dinner there yesterday.

How about the amphitheater, the background of , where people watched bullfights?

Were they still doing bullfights now?

The Saint-Trophime Church, which I passed by yesterday, was also a good place to reminisce.

But nothing could compare to the yellow house, where I dreamed of an artists’ community.

I planned to walk slowly along the Rhone River, as I used to, and go to where the yellow house used to be.

I entered the alley without paying attention to the camera. The yellow tiles on the pavement caught my eye.

They had black triangles pointing the direction.

The man wearing a straw hat and carrying a load, heading somewhere, looked like a representation of my past self.

“What is this?”

“These are blocks that guide you to places related to Van Gogh.”

“Can I see everything by following them?”

“Not really, they’re just for reference.”

When I turned my head and asked, Director Daniel Scott answered.

I was curious and looked at the direction the signpost pointed. It was the way to the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum.

It was on the way to the Rhone River, so I thought it wouldn’t hurt to stop by.

“I’ll go this way first.”

It didn’t take long to get there. This place, like the others, preserved its old appearance.

It didn’t look as sturdy as an Arabic building, because of the time that had passed.

There was some grass growing on the entrance decoration, and the outer wall was peeling or dark.

It didn’t look like a hospital now.

It was introduced as Espace Van Gogh (Van Gogh’s Place).

I passed the entrance and entered the garden.

Unlike the exterior, the interior seemed to have been repainted, with a white background and bright yellow borders. It looked neat.

I used to find peace in the small garden decorated in the arched corridor.1)

There were no flowers because it was winter, but the flower beds and the pond were the same as before.

The asylum was not a bleak place, and I was allowed to move around freely during the permitted time. I also went out to the second floor terrace and chatted while looking at the garden.

It was like a kind of nursing home.

“There was a flood before I was admitted here.”

I recalled what happened when I was admitted, as I walked around the garden.

“I had been hospitalized several times at the municipal hospital before I came here. I got a lot of help from Rey.”

“Rey?”

“He was a doctor at the municipal hospital. He let me go out during the day so I could paint, even after I was admitted.”

Everyone said I should be locked up, but Rey didn’t take the brush away from me, and I felt a little relieved.

Now that I think about it, the municipal hospital, which was so suffocating, and this Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum, were both places for me.

It was just that I was so sensitive that I couldn’t even accept kindness, and there were many conflicts.

“Thanks to him, I was able to continue working, but there was a flood when my seizures got longer. The Rhone River overflowed and the water reached near the house.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It was terrible. It would have been better if there was heating. The walls were soaked and it was very humid. The works I painted while being treated were all ruined.”

I had done my best for each work, each piece, but when the paintings were damaged by the flood, I lost my spirit.

“I wondered if I had been fighting a losing battle all along, it was so hard.”

I felt like everything in the world wanted me to die, I was so cornered.

“I relied on Theo all the time. My paintings didn’t sell, my relationships were all broken, and I was sick.”

The winter wind came and went through the garden.

“Even in that situation, I worked hard, but when the paintings were ruined, I couldn’t bear it. I got treatment, but I didn’t see any signs of improvement, so I didn’t know what to do.”

Daniel Scott didn’t argue, he just listened to me.

“Ah, maybe it was a hopeless thing from the start. Everything was against me. Maybe it was something I shouldn’t have done in the first place. Then. What am I, who can’t paint? I thought that.”

I had no meaning if I couldn’t paint.

I thought I had no reason to live if I couldn’t paint anymore because of my seizures.

"That’s why I painted irises. And things like The Starry Night or cypress trees."2)

“Cypress trees symbolize death, don’t they?”

Daniel Scott asked me a question and steered the conversation.

“That’s right. They are associated with sad deaths since ancient myths.”

It was a story from Greek and Roman mythology.

Apollo loved Cyparissus, who was best friends with a deer. But Cyparissus accidentally killed the deer with a spear he threw.

Unable to bear his grief, Cyparissus wanted to die too, but Apollo wouldn’t let him.

Cyparissus was frustrated.

If he couldn’t die, he begged Apollo to make him a forever sad being. And Apollo had no choice but to turn him into a cypress tree.

“Do you think Van Gogh thought about death?”

I nodded at Daniel Scott’s question.

“I think he did.”

I spoke and paused for a moment.

If I said it like this, people would mistake me for a kid who thinks he is Vincent van Gogh.

“I think he could have, because he was really lonely and miserable.”

Daniel Scott nodded and told me to continue the story.

“But painting cypress trees wasn’t just about despair, sadness, or death.”

“What else did it mean?”

“For Vincent, painting was a process of finding answers. He could have expressed his immediate emotions, but he thought that was just expression, not meaningful.”

It wasn’t that immediate emotional expression was bad or low-quality.

He just wanted to go further with his painting.

“There’s no point in dwelling on despair. But when you paint while reflecting on yourself, your mind becomes calm.”

“Like The Starry Night?”

“Yes.”

We left the Espace Van Gogh, which was now used as a cultural center.

We walked towards the Rhone River and continued the conversation.

“In The Starry Night, Vincent emphasized the cypress tree by painting it in the front and making it big. You could see it as a sign of death, but.”

I looked at the camera.

“But it looks like the tree touches the sky, right? Like a path to the beautiful stars. Maybe he thought not to be too sad.”

Daniel Scott and the production team listened seriously.

“I think so.”

Dying is never a good thing.

He did it to himself, but he would have avoided it if he could.

When he painted The Starry Night, it felt like everything in the world was telling him to die.

He painted the cypress tree that touched the night sky to cope with his anxiety.

If he couldn’t avoid it, he wanted to be ready.

We hurried our steps as we listened to the classical music playing in the square.

Soon the Rhone River came into view.

The road was well built so that we could walk along the river.

We walked while looking at the Rhone River that reflected the sky.

Daniel Scott didn’t ask me any questions even when I didn’t speak. He waited while capturing the atmosphere of the Rhone River with his camera.

I didn’t mean much by filming the documentary.

But when I came to Arles, it was different from when I found Ober-sur-Oise.

It was a place I visited when I had dreams and courage, so unlike Ober-sur-Oise where I faced death, I had many memories.

I felt like crying just by walking along the Rhone River and remembering the paintings I painted here.

While filming the documentary, I wanted to unfold my dreams that I had suppressed.

A place where I can paint freely and be with others.

I thought about it yesterday when I talked to Jansen, but what I really want is not to sell my paintings for a high price.

I want to paint the pictures I want to paint peacefully, and mingle with people.

The process of showing what I thought and knowing how he was.

I want to find such a place in Paris as soon as possible.

I also need to find people to join me, but I don’t know many people.

I will always be with my grandfather.

He’s so busy that he might not be able to join the group, but I hope Jang Mi-rae or Henri Marso will come by sometimes.

I don’t know if he will keep painting, but Cha Si-hyun is always welcome.

Blanche Fabre seems like a good friend, but I don’t know what she thinks, so I have to ask her. And it would be a bit lonely without Ferdinand Gonzalez.

I should leave some candy for him.

“…”

But I have to make money for that.

No, I don’t.

It doesn’t matter if we meet in a fancy building or not.

As long as we share the same vision, we can have fun even in a small and shabby place.

Maybe I should look for a job ad when I go back to Paris.

I thought as I walked, and soon I reached the spot where the yellow house was.

Daniel Scott, who came back after seeing off Ko Hun, checked the footage he had filmed for two days over and over.

“Did you start already?”

Martin Jansen asked him, offering him a coffee, if he had begun editing.

“No, I have something to think about.”

Daniel Scott paused the video and blew on the hot coffee.

He took a careful sip and opened his mouth.

“He said that drawing was a process of finding answers.”

“He did say that.”

Martin Jansen agreed.

“That must be Ko Hun’s artistic view.”

“Hmm.”

“People have different opinions on what art is, don’t they? … I liked what he said.”

“Me too.”

“Some say you have to criticize social issues, some say you have to explore the original beauty, some say you have to express yourself, and so on. But his words encompass them all.”

“True.”

“To Van Gogh or Ko Hun, painting is not just painting. I feel like cheering for them when I think that way.”

Maybe it was because their struggle to survive was similar to ours.

That’s what Daniel Scott thought.

“And it also gives me courage to try it myself.”

“That’s why they are loved by people.”

Daniel Scott nodded.

He took another sip of coffee and thought.

He didn’t think Ko Hun’s words at the end of the documentary, that he wanted to build a yellow house and form a painter’s community with his grandfather, Jang Mi-rae, Henri Marso, Blanche Fabre, and other painters, were like a child’s dream.

It felt like it was going to happen soon.

Garden of the Hospital in Arles, Vincent van Gogh, 1889, oil on canvas

The Starry Night, Vincent van Gogh, 1889, oil on canvas