CRUISING THE RHONE RIVER IN FRANCE
Arles and Van Gogh
Van Gogh painted irises while in Arles
Finding the rest of the group in the airport at Nice was an adventure as no-one stood near the information counter and the staff there new nothing of our arrangements, but Australians have that certain look (never mind the accents) so we found several other equally puzzled prospective AmaDagio travellers and eventually our very French guide arrived to collect us and bundle us onto the coach. The itinerary said it would take about an hour and a half, but in fact it was a three hour trip from Nice to Arles. We arrived as most of the passengers were about to go to the captain’s cocktails and safety talk. So, while the early arrivals displayed their finery while drinking champagne and nibbling dainty cocktails, I dashed into the lounge, disheveled and weary, tossed back a glass of bubbly and retreated as soon as possible to dress appropriately.
A sculpture of Van Gogh greets us on the path to the hospital
Next day we visited the hospital, St Paul de Mausole in St Remy, Provence, (still used for the mentally ill) where Van Gogh spent the end of his life. The chapel is quite austere, pretty much as it was when he went there in 1889. Copies of many of his paintings line the walls and particularly the staircase which climbs up to his tiny room.
Courtyard in the hospital
I was particularly taken with the internal courtyard. When I was at boarding school, at St Brigid’s in Lesmurdie, I liked to walk around that courtyard, but at the time didn’t realize its significance. I now suspect that it was supposed to be a place of quiet contemplation, which of course the nuns never got to enjoy with a bunch of noisy girls requiring constant discipline. Perhaps during our holidays they could walk around it, fingering rosary beads and concentrating on holy meditation.
Van Gogh captured the shapes in the arches and the light and shade on the windows,
which I have tried to do with black and white photos. He also painted the famous self-portrait—angrily, or more likely in anguish—staring from an angle which also reveals the damaged state of his skin. Despite his madness, or maybe because of it, his production was prolific while in the south of France. The light gives a golden glow to the stone buildings and everywhere, the colours of Provence,
Irises still grow in the garden
particularly the blues and yellows, beg to be painted (or for those lacking the talent, to be photographed,) Even the weeds, and especially the orange poppies, look artistic; no wonder so many artists have lived there.
That night we had three visitors from the Camargues to play their music, sing and dance, giving us a taste of Flamenco. My feet were going wild, but the woman was careful to only invite a guest who didn’t want to join her. I had to wait until the following night to let the music carry me away.