Don MacLean’s beautiful song about Vincent Van Gogh, “Starry, Starry Night,” kept running through my head all day in Arles yesterday. Vincent made his home here for a while, trying so hard to figure out what people wanted of him, and how to lead a normal and typical enough life that people would just leave him alone.
Now, of course, people come here to adore him. Then, his was a life of quiet desperation better captured by gloom and rain than by the sun and glowing light that lured him (and us) here.
Unfortunately, I have to add the Fondation Vincent Van Gogh to the long list of places that have been closed when I came to see them. Here I am, disappointed, outside. However, I can also add to the even longer list of unexpected treasures I have chanced on. There was a photo exhibition by Christine Turnauer of faces of people from around the world that rivaled any I have ever seen, and another quirky one in an old mansion with ceiling plaster decorating the floor like snow. Took some photos of Turnauer’s work that I won’t post because I am not clear on intellectual property issues, but strongly recommend you look her up.
Once again, Plan A morphed into no plan at all, but “ca ne fait rien,” which is French (sort of) for just go with the flow.