While France live moments of high political tension and social, a visit to the country that houses the remains of Van Gogh (a Rome in recent weeks which dedicates a major exhibition) can teach a sense of proportion. It was in 1993.
The country church immortalized by Flemish painter in the last glimpses of his troubled career of a man stands in the modest farming, so similar yet so different to the painting, almost not real copy. Power of art power of imagination! Reluctantly I climb the four steps of the parish materials, which now appears to me disfigured in its architectural simplicity of the usual paraphernalia of care: make political ads rosaries books magazines.
Imagine being able to meet in an old neo-Gothic vaults priest helpless or illusions that warms my heart, as in Emmaus, I listen to calm and loving, as well of Samaria, which I understand acute and merciful, as the angel of the empty tomb, reproaching me with a dramatic "Do you love me more than these?". There are days like that. The priest is seriously, but young and dynamic, agile as a grasshopper, worried that everything runs smoothly for the ceremony which will begin here shortly. I am not worthy of a look of course. Better that way. Better to emigrate from this church, today for some reason without the Blessed Sacrament. Who knows where they have hidden, as if you were ashamed of his presence.
days are blue like the sky that surrounds the arches of the schizoid crowd of Antwerp, crazy for love. Behind the church, over a meadow of buttercups drunk, lie the graves of the brothers Van Gogh, Vincent and Theo, tied up in life, united in the same burial ground. Elsewhere, people dashing in the footsteps of the man who blinded his lifetime did not sell anything, Van Gogh Museum, MOMA, and Musée d'Orsay Héremitage overflowing with people hungry to see, swallow and digest a few minutes in his brush strokes of genius. Without much success, tomorrow a Cezanne or a Michelangelo advertised will take the place of the Flemish art in a confuzione supermarket.
Auvers-sur-Oise has instead peace of mind. What they are worth the ashes of a painter, even the best? Dust. Van Gogh, a eunuch of life. But his ashes are encased by a thick pad ivy silent. A masterpiece of divine simplicity, that Vincent would certainly have approved.
Van Gogh experienced the eternal absurdity of reconciling the world to his God has started a hundred times. The centunesima was fatal. But I am sure, in agony, he wanted to start over again. The blood of black gunpowder stopped him.
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