The accidental pilgrimage
A France unplanned: Part five
If the first part of the trip was about rest, the second part - in retrospect - was about art.
Geographically, the halfway point between Millau and Aix-en-Provence was Nîmes. The Roman ruins and the amphitheatre were fine sights to wander and stretch the legs. The likelihood of stumbling upon a cosy lunch spot was relatively high. But as I approached the exit for Nîmes, my foot pressed on the gas pedal, and I flew (respecting the speed limits, naturally) past the notion of seeing it that day.
Roadsigns flashed past me, telling me how many kilometers remained until Aix and listing other options further away, notably Marseille, Toulon, and Nice - the biggies. I considered continuing the drive without a break, arriving at my destination using a non-tolled route, the scenic route of scenic France, if you will.
My new travel friend from the Mill, whom I was to meet in Aix, texted to inform me that there would be a delay in the plans and that we'd meet later. That seemed to be the permission I needed to deviate - again - from the plans and stop over in … Arles?
It sounded familiar and was a few car lengths away. At the very least, it would allow me to get out of the hot car and stretch my fingers to the sky to air out my crumpled, sticky self. With the few hours I now had to spend here, I lazily walked on rue Émile Fassin past the beautiful facades of older residential houses, some built in the Grecian motif, others keeping with the stony Provençal exterior, complete with colourful doors and balconies. It was useless trying to look up build dates on these buildings, anywhere between a hundred to old-as-France years old.
Along the road, I saw an unassuming stairway, which could have been entirely missed had it not been for the signage pointing to nearby landmarks and the L'Office de Tourism - Arles Camargue. It was closed - for French reasons - but had enough posters and screens around to tell me, in bright blue, that Espace Vincent van Gogh and Fondation Vincent van Gogh were right around the corner-ish.
Oh heavens! THAT Arles!
I sprinted along the main road, forgetting my intention to visit the Jardin d'été and followed the helpful signage along the old routes in the centre to the Espace. The lineup of artists selling van Gogh replicas and postcards was the final marker.
I walked under an unassuming archway and came face to face with a familiar painting, only in 3D.
Before me was a courtyard housing a small garden divided into segments, with each shrubbery featuring different flowers and plants that subtly and thoughtfully led the eye to the central feature: a blue-tiled fountain at the centre. The courtyard was boxed in by walls defined in bright yellow, which spanned two stories and were lined with doors and windows.
This is the hospital that housed van Gogh, and this was the courtyard he painted during one of his stays. I walked up to the fountain and sat on the edge, wondering if this was where van Gogh's behind rested on a similarly hot Arlesian day. What did he feel walking under these archways and around the halls, up and down the pathways in the garden? Could he imagine that 130 years later, a volunteer would raise her hand towards her ear and then swiftly bring it down in a gesture that mimicked chopping off one's ear, reminding the gathered French crowd that it was here that he came to recover?
On my way out, I wondered what the other patients would have thought watching van Gogh paint and listening to him doubt himself and his talent. Would they have appreciated or condemned the way in which he portrayed the same flowers that they all saw in the garden, he who was only respected and appreciated posthumously?
Hand me the oils
I had just enough time to stop by the Fondation to look at some of his (and others') artwork up close. I didn't take any offence to the security guard who tailed me through the halls, though I questioned the judgement of someone who believed the criminal element could get away with wearing a hot pink linen gingham dress and bright white shoes.
Having driven through the Occitanie countryside into Provence, I felt particularly drawn to the paintings that depicted the rolling golden hills, parks saturated with green trees and offshoots from the Rhône, and vividly-coloured flora springing out between stone walls and descending from the terracotta-coloured roofs. However populated the areas may have become, the French countryside seemed unaltered from the days of Sisley, Monet, Cézanne, and Pissarro.
To my extreme fortune and delight, the Fondation also held a temporary exhibit featuring select works of 20th-century female artists deemed disruptive at the time but lately referred to as overlooked, including Helen Frankenthaler, Lee Krasner, Mercedes Pardo, Barbara Hammer, and others. Here I was, stumbling along a curated collection of groundbreaking work, most of which was unknown to me.
Arles is stunning and, not unlike the female artists exhibited, overlooked - if I were to go by travel rankings in France. There seemed to be a natural harmony between the presence of Roman ruins, what it grew into in the nineteenth century, and the lived-in city of today. Quarters, brimming with this historical feel and temperament, had me convinced that I'd run into a pack of impressionists emerging straight from the 1900s to pause for a drink in one of the cafes.
This Provençal destination had a quiet dignity about it, holding attention without demanding it. The surprisingly low number of people walking around added to its airy feeling, allowing the eyes and ears to rest on new sights and sounds without overwhelm. It communicated its essence with ease, inviting me to return again at a future time for a longer stay.
Oh WOW! Absolutely meant to be. Wonderful. I had chills reading this.