The Last Van Gogh by Alyson Richman Page B

arduous task…he must always fight against the gap between his vision and his canvas.“
    “Yes, Papa.”
    “If your brush fights against you, you are helpless. You are always at the mercy of your brush!” He was shaking a stem of skullcap at me and I could see the tiny seedpods fluttering to the floor.
    I remembered seeing Vincent painting in our garden the other day. He had painted so vigorously, with one spare brush sticking out of his mouth, and the other wielded with an outstretched arm. I watched him as he applied one color over another on his canvas. I could see the traces of where his brush swept the pigment across, how he sometimes took his palette knife and carved away the paint to reveal an underwash of another shade. Watching him, I was hypnotized.
    I looked at Papa as he began removing the stigmas and anthers from the passionflower. His hands were deeply lined, the knuckles large and chafed. But still, he was nimble. He worked carefully but briskly. Within a matter of minutes he had a pile of pristine, carmine-colored petals in a jar.
    “I was watching Monsieur Van Gogh painting in our garden,” I said. “I wonder, do you think what he paints resembles the images in his head?”
    “I suspect it does,” Father said rather absently. He was now stirring the mixture of the herbs and alcohol.
    “What colors he sees, then….” I sighed. “Lapis blue and tangerine…“My mind was spinning.
    Papa raised an eyebrow. My comment had obviously disturbed him. He looked at me quizzically. “Why are you thinking such thoughts, Marguerite?” he asked. “You have little experience with the complexity of an artist’s mind.” He lifted his finger and waved it at me cautiously.
    “Papa, I meant nothing by it—it’s only—” I stopped myself midsentence.
    He looked at me carefully, as if trying to gauge the root of my curiosity. Then he spoke with a soft voice, but one full of warning. “Marguerite, you must realize I am in a unique position and one that requires tremendous sensitivity. Artists come to me because they know I will understand them. I may not have succeeded in my own painting career but I have great compassion for them.” He paused and straightened his back. “I have great empathy .”
    “Yes, Papa.” I managed to get the words out. My bottom lip was trembling.
    Father placed the tinctures on a tray. “Vincent is not well, Marguerite. You should realize that. Before he came to me, he was in an asylum in Saint-Rémy.”
    I looked at Father blankly, trying hard to disguise my disbelief.
    “He is under my care now. Let it be just that. He is a great painter, and I want to see him fulfill his potential. His brother Theo believes he is a genius, and I am beginning to suspect he is right.” Father took a deep breath. “Regardless, you must accept that a man such as Vincent does not see the world like most people do.”
    I nodded and bowed my head.
    There were pockets of time when I did see the world as Vincent’s paintings portrayed—stitches of bright colors, voracious strokes of malachite green and peacock blue. I might be lonely in my solitude but my garden afforded me a palette of crimson and pale yellow in the summer and it made me appreciate the changing colors of the outdoors. Even after my rosebushes were cut back and our hedges trimmed for fall, I still rejoiced at the October foliage, when our chestnut trees turned copper and our tall oak trees swayed with red and gold leaves.
    It was at the thought of November, however, that I could no longer share his vibrant vision. The wet stones of winter, the naked, shivering boughs weighed heavily on me. Our house became even darker, the walls even damper, and the lack of access to the outside world seemed even more intolerable.
    I was curious how Vincent painted the winter. Did he continue to paint in colorful hues? Did he forsake his reds and greens, trading them in for a palette of the palest shade of blue and marble white? And how did he