Once upon a time we lived near Washington, DC. Like clockwork, each spring it becomes a fairyland of monumental and magical proportions. From the depths of gray, cold, humid winter a wondrous wand spins magic. Thousands upon thousands of people, young and old stroll this fairyland of flowering archways, porticos and vistas. Sweetly fragrant blossoms form a continuous arbor past the granite monuments, lake, bridges and parks. Delicate dancing petals, a kaleidoscope of colors: abalone pink, blush, pearl, ivory, dazzle against the aquamarine sky. Problems, worries, concerns are given respite as one walks one of nature’s loveliest of fairy paths. It is pure enchantment.
In the month of February, 1888, van Gogh arrived in Provence, eager to commence his vision of a brotherly society of artists. It was still wintery, windy and bitter cold. The skeleton fruit trees were dormant, empty, and barren. This was no fairyland. He questioned what he was doing, had he made a good decision to move here, and painfully he vacillated back and forth.
Investigating his new surroundings with his ever present eye for detail, he noticed small, tender swellings on an almond tree preparing to bud. Gently he broke off a small sprig, placing it in a glass of water. Through the remnant dark days of winter, slowly emerged the miracle of growth. To Vincent this bursting forth of new life was exactly what he hoped would happen with his art: a blooming and resurrection of something radically new.
In those waning days of winter, van Gogh painted two small canvases, each a small portrait of branches emerging into bloom. One was a gift to his brother, Theo and his wife, celebrating the birth of their son. For Vincent this was the ultimate miracle, birth.
Years earlier he had written to Theo, “It is not the language of painters but the language of nature which one should listen to.” July 1882
In late March he wrote, “I am up to my ears in work, for the trees are in blossom and I want to paint a Provencal orchard of astonishing gaiety.”
He did just that. Spring arrived and with this a renewal, a resurrection of spirit and hope. Gauguin joined him in Arles. Side by side, with a determined furor, they painted the myriads of blossoming trees. Vincent completed more than twenty paintings before the trees dropped their blossoms.
I no longer live near Washington, DC but the enchantment follows me. The street that I live on, at this very moment as I am writing, is a fairyland of flowering cherry trees. Outside my window, the pale pink petals dance and flirt with the sunlight. It feels so good. Vincent was correct when he said, “I want to paint a Provencal orchard of astonishing gaiety.” And I did just that.
