It is snowing outside, several inches have accumulated. I can hear the furnace kicking in and out. Jeremy is busy in the kitchen cooking us oatmeal. I'm enjoying blogging from the living room where I can both watch the flakes swirl on the front step and catch a glimpse of J as he moves about.
It's a good life.
This week as an art project, we did a reproduction in oil pastels of van Gogh's Road with Cypresses, c.1890. They turned out amazingly, especially when displayed as a collection. It was moving to see the kids so into it, mixing color, smudging, creating.
I've had a lot of interest in van Gogh for a while now. Reading the letters that he sent to his brother Theo is such a personal way to get to know a self. I miss that no one writes letters anymore. I know, email... but it lacks the romance of letter writing. Not only did Vincent write many letters and paint a lot of pictures, he also walked countless miles. In his letters he details the ordinary beauty of the many country groves and city streets he made his way through. I bring this knowledge to his work when I view it. Brings out the reality in the impressionism.
Next summer when I go travelling, I'm allowing books I've read to help guide me. For instance, my interest in van Gogh is pushing me toward spending a week in Amsterdam where an entire museum is dedicated to his work. Just imagining it is warming me to the core on this wintry day.
Drawings have always been the P.S. part of van Gogh's work, ...
Yet he was a letter writer, a guy with a pen in his hand.