Sitting in the midst of my favourite painting

My favourite painting isn't one you'll probably know. It is, however, by an artist you know well. A lesser known Van Gogh, painted in Arles (also where he painted some of his better known pieces such as The Yellow House, Bedroom in Arles, Self-Portrait, The Night Cafe, Starry Night Over Rhone, Still Life: Vase With Twelve Sunflowers, Cafe Terrace at Night, and Van Gogh's Chair . . . Incidentally, Arles is also where Vincent Van Gogh cut off his ear.

My favourite is called The Poet's Garden (or sometimes Public Park with Weeping Willow). It was painted in 1888, and is a massive oil panting on canvas (you can see it at the Chicago Institute of Art).  The poet's garden series were painted and used to decorate Gauguin's bedroom when he came to visit Van Gogh in Arles. Also, the scene itself reminds me a little of how I feel in my parents' garden at home in New Zealand. The colours are bright and lively, and I just want to lie in that grass with a book and breathe in the scents of all of those leaves and flowers.

Van Gogh wrote about this painting in a letter to his brother, on September 16th 1888.


He wrote:
"There is a square size 30 canvas, a corner of a garden with a weeping tree, grass, round clipped cedar shrubs and an oleander bush. The same corner of the garden, that is, which you have already had a study of in the last parcel. But this one is bigger, there is a citron sky over everything, and also the colours have the richness and intensity of autumn. And besides it is in even heavier paint than the other one, plain and thick. That is picture number one this week."

I decided, in a fit of romanticism, that I wanted to spend my birthday in this painting, take a picnic, and just experience it. So, I headed on the train for Arles. I had differing information as to which park this actually depicted. One source said that it is directly outside of where the Yellow House used to be, in Place Lamartine, the other that it was the main public park in the center of Arles. Place Lamartine has pretty much been destroyed. There's a decrepit Monoprix (France's Walmart), a bank, and a token fountain with a heavily trafficked roundabout. So, whether or not it is actually the main public park (the woman at the tourist office said it was, but I didn't really believe her because she didn't actually know the painting I was asking about), this is the one I ended up at.

The park seemed to have a shrine dedicated to Van Gogh, which seemed promising (however much of the town revolves around either Van Gogh or the beautiful Roman ruins that still exist in Arles).

It was missing the lush grass of my dreams . . .

And there was far too much concrete . . .

And the flowers almost seemed to be forced, like they were attempting to put Van Gogh's bright colours into the world, when really, Van Gogh brought those bright colours out of everyday vegetation. . . 

But when I lay down on the grass, and looked up . . . there was my garden. The darks and the lights, and the beautiful lush green leaves. It was exactly the time of the year that Van Gogh was painting here, too.

Whether or not it was actually his garden, I may never know. But it is nice to know that if I find a patch of grass, and some beautiful trees, I can lie down and imagine my way into my favourite painting anywhere and at anytime.

I love art museums in the springtime.

The Louvre ended up being a bit of a disappointment. Mum, dad and I went one morning, me with too large expectations, I think.

Massive, and full of riches, treasures galore, it should have been amazing. Instead, we found that so many things were shoved into these rooms that we didn't appreciate the individual pieces. I actually enjoyed the building (interior and exterior) of the Louvre, and the cultural experience of people-watching (the tourists there terrified me) more than most of the artworks.

I couldn't bring myself to go into the room with the Mona Lisa, although, that wasn't much of a sacrifice, as it's not really my cup of tea anyway. Despite all this, it was lovely wandering around with my mum talking and commenting about this or that artwork. What a treat to be with my family in Paris.

Compared to the Louvre, I loved L'Orangerie, and Le Musée d'Orsay. Both more my era--I do love the impressionists and post-impressionists--and small enough that the individual works were given the treatment they deserved. Someday maybe I'll learn to paint like an impressionist. One can only hope and try.

L'Orangerie had two rooms that were designed by Monet to be a "decompression space" between the craziness of Paris and his work. They are edged entirely by paintings of his Water Lillies, and are meant to relax people entering into the museum. However, these seemed slightly gimicky to me (it really is nothing compared to actually spending time in Monet's Garden), but Paul Guillaume's collection below (the bulk of the rest of the museum) was fabulous. Interesting hearing some of the stories behind the pieces. (Caryl Sue and Alison's voices are in my head telling me to write captions beneath these pictures, and yet I think my stubbornness/laziness is winning out). Send me an email if you really want to know the names/artists :)

Le Musée d'Orsay is a converted train station. It took me awhile to get my bearings/figure out a strategy for wandering the rooms of artworks--but that may have been because I didn't find a map to get a general layout of the place. Tut tut. The center is beautiful and airy, and the rooms are organized by artist. The names roll off the tongue . . . van Gogh, Gauguin, Cézanne, Seurat, Renoir, Monet, Manet, Degas, Rodin, all represented. Compared to usual (I tend to breeze past the famous pieces and become enthralled by something entirely different in a corner) I really was wowed by some of these great works. This museum doesn't allow pictures, so you'll have to visit yourself, or see what you can see online.

Day one of bicycling across three countries.

I would characterize my outlook at this point as optimistic. And more than a teensy bit worried. Can you tell?

So, I did what all enterprising people do and I delayed. I packed, I fooled around on the internet, I went to the supermarket, I purchased some different maps. I even went to an exhibit at the Franz Hals Museum in Haarlem (mum had said she wanted to go, so I couldn't leave without having seen it, now could I?). Brief overview... (I think I'm now orchestrating some grand double procrastination by procrastinating describing my first day cycling)... I love the technique/execution of the Dutch Masters, but, in general, I'm not enthused by their subjects. The aristocrats, bible stories, etc. However, the following are a selection that I *did* really like.

This particular painting was fun, because that building, the Town Hall in Haarlem's Market Square, is still there. I've stood in the spot that those people stood in 1671. Bizarre.

 I'm not going to lie, I kind of like this portion of the painting because that flag says "VROOM."

And this still life is so rich, it inspired some of my lunch choices at the supermarket.

Ok. Fine.

This is an essay of a kind every primary school kid has written a million times over. The first day of school. The jitters, the excitement, the preparation. And like the first day of school, the parents are there to send me off, and will be in Paris to receive me when the month is over, holding washing powder, band aids, and presumably enough food for an army--I really am 28, I swear.

After saying goodbye to the parents, I was solo again (fast forward through three hours of procrastination). I started off biking, and all was going well. I was belting out some tunes, or rather, singing the three lines I know of each song that came on from my ipod playlist and ruining the rest with whatever I wanted. I took pictures of fields, of myself, of myself and fields. I attempted to take candid timed photos of myself so that every photograph I take away from this trip isn't a semi-angled shot of aforementioned field or windmill with my face monstrously superimposed on the foreground. And, let's face it, to make it seem like I have some friends.

I cycled into my final destination, having decided on an ultra-leisurely 35 kms to start this trip (I have almost a whole month. Shush. Also, I was worried about actually being able to set up the tent I'd bought and not yet used. And, I'm not a cyclist. Sheesh). I arrived as the sun was getting low, and looked at a couple of campgrounds, not finding the exact one I wanted. Then--panic. I'd forgotten my camera back where I'd had lunch. 12km away (remember tranquil candid photograph? I did). I hopped on my bike, and cycled all the way back (it must be said, I did this same section in about a quarter of the time). It wasn't there. I got to know all of the neighbours of that particular canal frontage. I did some serious knocking, then scoped out the local police station--which was closed--and bunked down a little ways along the road by a canal (I couldn't be bothered biking back to where I'd planned, and it was getting dark). Some nice fishermen had set up there, too, so I was among friends. Albeit new friends. If only I'd had my camera to take a picture of the fact that I had friends. We chatted and watched the swans land for the night. Those things are loud! Especially when their landing is less than perfect.

All night, Michael's fish tripwire alert went off as he got "line swimmers" as he called them. To no success. Jared, you would have liked his fancy setup, I think. I heard later that the next day he caught two quite large carp. Luckily, as sleep is my minor superpower, I just went straight back to sleep each time.

At 5:30am I woke up, bathed in an orange/pink glow. Stumbling out of my tent I swore at myself for losing my camera on one of the most beautiful days I've ever seen. I snapped a couple of ipod shots, but they don't do it justice.

I then had coffee and breakfast with Michael. He fed an agressive swan *his* breakfast, and I got on my way. 12km later (again) I checked in at the camping grounds I'd gone to--just in case--and yes, there was my camera, safe and sound. Happy, but a little embarrassed, I then spent a euro on the best shower I've ever had (that lasted exactly five minutes before it shuts off) at the campground where I retrieved my camera.

Morals of the story? I'm really not sure. I had one of the best nights/mornings ever. Look after your belongings, don't let yourself get too cocky/excited, and embrace the unexpected, I guess.

Dunedin Reunion!

On the second day of hanging out with mum and dad, we got to meet up with our lovely family friend, Rita, who happens to live just north of Haarlem in Driehuis. We decided to have a leisurely brunch and then get in more bike riding so as to ease me in to this whole exercise thing that I've not really been doing so much of lately. This in mind, we went for a trip through the dunes to the west of Haarlem and even got in a wee walk along the shore of the North Sea. The area is blustery, beautiful, and filled with people celebrating the end of another winter. Just to clarify... while the long brown pants may have been dad's clothing of choice regardless, he *had* had his suitcase lost on the flight over, and at this point hadn't received it from the airline. I just feel like he and his attire need a little defending :)

Along the way there were Highland Cattle. On the flat coast of the Netherlands? What? Apparently these have been introduced to keep down an invasive species of plants. I hope that this is the one and only time this practice has actually worked, and that these creatures aren't going to multiply uncontrollably or undermine this particular ecosystem à la the cane toads. Oh the cane toads. Jo Galletly, I thought you'd appreciate this one. No, I didn't get to ride one (the highland cattle, not the cane toads--although I don't think it's possible to ride one of those).

We wished Andrew and Hester could be with us to complete the family fun. Hmmm... time to plan where that reunion could be...

Timing is everything!

Due to an early warm patch throughout Europe, springtime came early to the Netherlands. I missed <giant sad face> the big fields of tulips grown commercially for bulbs. There were remnants here and there, but that only served to reinforce my desire to see them someday. Luckily, there are many more opportunities for this, and it's good to have these things to look forward to. The following are the patches I saw here and there. Most had already been decapitated (when growing for bulbs, the flower is beheaded early on so the bulb will get more nutrients).

However, some gardens were still in bloom, and the parents (we overlapped here for two days as we travelled in different directions--so nice!) and I rode our bikes 40km round trip to see some of the best. I still got to use my tulip wow-face. The ride itself was beautiful (especially on the way there as we followed canal paths).

The gardens we visited are called Kukenhof, and are full of tulips. They also had amazing azaleas that were blooming perfectly for us.

I like this last picture, because I think that the people look like tulips popping up out of the ground. Beautiful.

Introducing Petunia Hedgiflora non punctuata

Nope, not a rare flower, my bicycle. Lovely Mr. Andrew Crooks was good enough to take two trips to the giant big box store in Berlin with me. He, unluckily, had to do all of the talking. But in the end, thanks to him, I have this beautiful bike--Hedgiflora. We even took it for a few test runs.

Tricked out with panniers and all sorts of bells and whistles it was time to leave Berlin :( I had a lovely time visiting Andrew and his flatmates were the pinnacle of welcoming.


So, I said goodbye to Andrew and hopped the train to Amsterdam, from where the biking adventures would begin. The train system was so easy, and adding a bike to my ticket only cost an extra ten euros. Fantastic. Seemed only a little bit strange to start out the journey by putting my transportation onto a train. But, however, that's how it all worked out.

Historical wanderings

Andrew and I took a trip to Potsdam, southwest of Berlin, and started at Schloss Cecilienhof, the site of the Postdam Conference. We went there with a new friend, Dorothea, who we met at an Easter brunch. Cecilienhof is a palace. It was built in English Tudor style, and is still decorated as it would have been during the Postdam Conference. The table is the one the big three, Churchill (later Atlee), Stalin, and Truman sat at July 17–August 2 1945 as they divided up Europe, declared terms of surrender for Japan, and made strategies for Germany's future (disclaimer: I'm so not a political historian). The flowers arranged in a red star were to the tastes of Stalin (and other decorations reflected the tastes of the other leaders).

We then went to a local building that had been restored since the area was reunited with West Germany. Dorothea had been to it when it was covered in Cyrillic writing, and was completely derelict. She talked a lot about the changes in this area since the wall went down. It was really interesting to have someone around who had been there and seen it all happen. There was a fascinating video on the reconstruction process, and there were even some restorers still working on some paint/tile work on ceilings.

 We had a lovely lunch of soup, visited by a Peking duck (yes I do love the creatures) fortuitously sitting out a storm inside after watching the clouds roll in.

Afterward we went to Sanssouci grounds, the site of a palace for the Prussian royal family, and walked through the grassy fields looking at different beautiful buildings and sculptures.