Van Gogh on My Mind

Two days ago, I read the New York Times review of "Van Gogh Up Close," an exhibition at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.  Since then, I have had the painter and his paintings on my mind, or to be more accurate, I have had his brush strokes in my eyes.  Everywhere I look, slathered colors undulate in and out of shimmering surfaces, rising like the wake of a wandering boat.

 Once, I worked with a Dutch woman, who taught me how to say how to say Van Gogh and "God damn" (godverdomme) in her own language.  The guttural g and k sounds undulate, too, from throat, waving across tongue, to teeth, and exploding through lips.

This morning, coming upon a tiny iris in Abbo's Alley -- the first I've seen open this year -- with its billowing petals brimming with dew, I exclaimed my little Dutch, hoping that no one could hear me.

Thank you, Vincent, and thank you, spring, for the beauty you both bring.