Free Leaving Van Gogh by Carol Wallace

wondered about other subjects. “When Cézanne was here, he painted apples over and over again.”
    “Because he could find nothing better to paint?” Vincent asked.
    “No, we put bouquets together and painted those, and he went out into the village as well. He was experimenting with rendering volume, I believe.”
    “That seems to be all he ever does. I understand that this is his primary concern, and I can imagine that he must find it interesting, but the results are quite dull. The colors are always the same, have you noticed?”
    “Not always. You’ve seen my flower pieces—he uses clearer tones there.”
    “True, but the landscapes are most monotonous. Always the same dreary green.” He pointed at his fish. “Now, you see, if I had my paints, I could make something beautiful with that gleaming skin, something Cézanne would never think of. I would have liked to do that. A kind of silvery olive, shaded with pink. Can I take him with me?”
    “Of course,” I said, “but you’d better give him to Ravoux to cook for your dinner. The skin will dull very quickly, and then he will start to smell.”
    “Yes, that’s true,” Vincent said with a frown and returned to his sketch. “I painted some sardines once, but even though I work quickly, I could not tolerate their smell for very long. It was a while before I could eat sardines again after that.”
    He ended up not painting that fish but eating it, which made me even happier. He came back to the house with me, and Madame Chevalier sautéed his catch and mine with almonds and fresh parsley. I saw him eyeing the skeleton on his plate when he had finished, as if he would have liked to draw it, but he let Madame Chevalier remove the plate without any protest.
    If Vincent came to the house on the way to Ravoux’s at the end of the day, he liked to show me what he had painted. Soon we were accustomed to his speed, to the élan with which he covered even large canvases with paint. Once Paul finished his school term, and returned home for the summer, he would often clean up after our new friend; you could always tell where in Auvers Vincent had been working, and often what colors he had used. Paul sometimes came home from his wanderings around the village with one of Vincent’s paint tubes or abandoned brushes, tossed aside when the bristles failed. As I knew, Theo kept him supplied with materials; the shipments from Paris must have been prodigious.
    It was the first sign Paul showed of having any artistic inclination, despite my numerous previous attempts to share my interests with him. I told myself that this was because Vincent was a younger man, closer to Paul in age than I was. Certainly Vincent made no attempt to win Paul over, though my son followed him around like a puppy. Paul sometimes tried to strike up a conversation, but Vincent rarely responded beyond mere courtesy. This did not seem to discourage Paul, though. He was always persistent when he wanted something. To this day I wonder what he hoped for from Vincent. Some kind of approval or acknowledgment, I suppose.
    The paintings accumulated quickly. I was slightly concerned about Vincent’s almost feverish pace, lest he wear himself out. Yet he seemed to be delighted rather than anxious. This ardor was one of his most compelling traits. Each time I returned from my customary four-day stint in Paris, he was eager to show me what he had done in my absence. It was as if he were discovering the world I lived in with eyes that unveiled a new splendor. It appeared that he could not be deterred by discomfort or fatigue or discouragement. When a painting did not please him, he thought of another way to approach the subject. He was always thinking about the next thing he wanted to paint. His speed reflected a kind of hunger to make the beauty all around him his own. I found this both fascinating and inspiring.
    Vincent was using a kind of shed at Ravoux’s as storage, and by early June, it was beginning to