Except that maybe it was worth the wait.
Today I saw, really saw- witnessed, studied, carefully calculated- a piece called "The Yellow House."
It is the kind of image that stays with you.
At least with me.
Today Van Gogh was added to that list- for the mysticism of this homestead.
There is something about this piece, something so utterly captivating to me. I keep a journal of every place that I travel- a literal scrap book of receipts, business cards, brochures, buttons- things I find on the street, things I know will remind me years and years later of the (mis)adventure's I've had. It's a little silly and a little time consuming, but it's worth it for the future remembrances. Anyway, I've been made fun of more than a few times over these journals, but every now and again I write something, some snippet of an experience, that I cannot replicate anywhere else:
I fell madly in love with one piece in particular: "The Yellow house" or "The Street." It's so beautiful and haunting... like the image of a place I never knew I wanted to visit or live- a place in my memory that I've never been to or seen before today. I want to see that place for real. I want to stand where Van Gogh stood as he saw the house on the street corner and desired it. I desire this place.And even though it's nothing now (the house suffered during World War II and was later demolished because it was so inhabitable), it's still something. I look at this painting and the saturation in the yellow and blue of it engage me; the density of the brush strokes enliven me. I look at this painting and will myself to disappear inside of it- so that I can breathe in the mustiness of an old French building; so that I can smell the fresh air and coffee and bread made by hand; so I can run my fingers along soft wooden tables and chairs; so that my memory can match my imagination.
And though I am heartbroken that I will never get to go there, it soothes me to know that it was there, for a time. And forever, in that painting.