marco dadone - realized with SIGMA fp and 40 mm Art -
with the sun rays pervading the dark green of the olive trees
turning into gold the yellow blades
full of millions of white little snails,
were painted by a solitary man during his walks before the daylight
Between dried poppies
and strange creatures from the hotness of summer,
Vincent Van Gogh came here
at first hardly able to talk,
a heart full of sorrow and a soul full of visions,
stayed one year and slowly began,
to unravel the essence of things
to see the unseen
He spent there 53 week from the 8th of May, 1889, and painted 150 works of art
every two or three days.
“the emotions that take hold on me in the face of nature go as far as fainting,
and then the result is a fortnight during which I am incapable of working”
(from a letter to Albert Aurier, 9 february 1890)
And at the end of his provencal time he would write to his sister:
“I worked like a madman”.
Once he began again to paint
he couldn't stop anymore:
life, grief, pain, joy, was all in there.
It's coming there at the end of July
- as I did -
that You can feel the heart of Vincent Van Gogh beating
outside Saint Rémy de Provence,
where the fields begin in front of the peaks of the Alpilles.
That’s where Vincent is still walking
brush in one hand
canvas on this shoulders
swept on his forehead
infinity in his eyes
He worked so deeply that now,
everything seems real just and only to the extent that it reflects his paintings.
And it’s so strange to wait for the sun to appear through the trees…
You’d expect that it could come out just made of oil paint,
to place itself amongst the rapid brushstrokes of the trees and the sky.
I discovered that it's here that under the tears of a wind called mistral,
the leaves of the sycamore trees are shaken
in the absolute blue,
as in a dream
and the cicades sing endlessy
on the branches and stems
like a mantra from other dimensions
I discovered that it’s here that the sight turns more intimate
and slides through shapes and time:
there’s a road
into the nowherelands of the golden fields,
where all paths bring elsewhere
and the unnaturally enhanced colors take men hostage
in their territories.
I went there.
and in the middle of the wheat field
I paced my easel
and tried to paint,
until the sun pervaded my senses,
my longtime friend the crow.
That was until I realize that this is the land where men become their paintings.
So, without a sound, I turned
It had been easy then,
as a blue and black bird
through the corridors of the sky
to begin again my search,
first in the tiny streets of Saint-Remy, between sun and shadows
then into the old monastery of Saint Paul de Mausole and its asylum.
Well the main door was locked,
but crows know other ways.
I went inside from a tiny window
and stopped on the floor
where Vincent himself walked on while going out in the fields,
like an early morning thief,
to steal the eternity on a canvas
and in a vertigo fever,
searching for more shadow relief for my shining new feathers
I entered the little church.
I saw the chair there,
behind the corner
the single one submerged in yellow light
a little apart from the others
where Vincent used to pray,
and still does from time to time
I knew that to see beyond
is a strange gift
it can make a soul explode.
But as Provence in summer is something between a place and a vision,
use that chance,
try to find a little of those sparks and
dream, Your own way, always,
and more than ever, if Your heart bleeds.
One last thing:
take a stroll along the asylum,
towards the lavender little field and then
until You'll meet the half-dried sunflower,
which seems like it’s about to speak... he is,
and that is what he would tell You:
“in every shade
behind the simple shapes
around a reflection
beside those shadows
whenever You see something more
that is Van Gogh’s garden”.
And, dont' shoot at the crows.
Shot in Saint Rémy de Provence, end of July 2020
SIGMA 40 mm f1.4 Art.
by marco dadone
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