damn you, snooty antique dealers!

Every April there’s a big antiques fair in at Port Vauban (about a 5 minute walk from my apartment).   Over 120 antiques dealers are here from all over Europe and you’ve got to pay 9E just to look at some of their stuff.

It’s one of those changeable weather days, threatening to rain, so I wander on down to the port after a flower run at the Marche Provencal.   I pay my 9E, enter and immediately feel intimidated.   I may be under a big tent, but it feels like a museum in here.   Instead of the locals selling their wares, chatting with the regulars and having their breakfast at the weekly Saturday market in the old town square, these guys are in suits (black) and they’re all on their cellphone or texting very important things.  I’d say it’s the antique/art version of the Cannes Film Festival.

Despite the fact that a lot of the items shown here are a little fussy for my tastes, many are beautiful and I want them.   Like the Asian portraits of the man and woman (see extremely blurry photo on right).   The man in this picture –the human, not the painting–yelled at me for not asking to take the picture.  Since he was scolding me in French and I understood every word, I was inappropriately cheerful (but desole) which seemed to make him want to scold me more.  But why should he give a crap if I take a picture?   Maybe his wares have actually been stolen from some museum and he’s afraid of being exposed.  He’ll be pleased to know the picture turned out like crap.    However,  I won’t be buying his awesome Asian art (which I was totally going to do, sir) because he’s a total dill weed (that would be “connard” in French).

I also want this book with butterflies coming out of it.

And one of the garden gnomes (below right) for my balcony would amuse and please me every time I looked at it.    But I’m afraid to ask how much anything costs.

One woman who has some of the most beautiful Asian art and antiques I’ve ever seen glances at my 3E posies from the marche provencal and says something rude.    Well, I’m pretty sure it’s rude, she’s talking pretty fast.   I storm off in a huff.

My synapses are starting to go crazy.   I don’t know where to look. Too much stuff.  Things that would look amazing in the living room of my new apartment.  Things that would look good in the dining room.   Things that would look good in the bedroom.    Things that make me gasp in awe at their beauty in much the same way I do when I see the alps on a clear day.   I’m starting to get lightheaded from all this gasping and the horrible realization that my life won’t be complete until I can afford to buy these items, which I’m pretty sure will be never.

Must.  Get.  Out.    If I can find the exit.   I’ve tried two doors with little running person icons pointing towards them only to be stopped by security.   I’m lost in a maze of really expensive stuff and clearly, the only way out is to buy everything in my way.   I feel like I’m back in NYC.   Dear lord help me!   I find the exit right before I’m forced to ask the price of the inlaid desk, credit card clutched in my hand at the ready.

I walk home quickly, trying to shake off the tentacles of consumer desire tightening in my gut.  When I get there, I step on the balcony and gasp again.

While I was out, the wind blew off the cloud cover and I can see the alps clearly.   I know there’s a message in this.   Something like:   “Ha, you rude purveyors of gross materialism!   Who needs all your probably ridiculously expensive, too awesome to be photographed stuff?   I’ve got my view of the alps,the blue sky and the Mediterranean practically  at my doorstep.    What the hell more could I want?”

Damn, one of those garden gnomes sure would be great up here.

a day of concern

It’s my birthday. I won’t mention which one, because once the number crosses my lips (in any language), I’m sure I’ll go into some sort of emotional/spiritual decline that will end with me wandering the streets of some city (I hope in Europe) with long unkempt grey hair talking about the royal paradox and why all white possums must be destroyed or we will suffer the wrath of Tutankhamun who will rise from…you get the picture.

My point is, I’m approaching this day as a “Fete de moi”, rather than a birthday to avoid any unnecessary introspection, self-reflection or taking stock of my life. That must be avoided at all cost.

I have important things that must get done today. Especially since yesterday one news source informed its readers in bold red type that today is “a day of concern.” I read the article and the concern wasn’t for my creeping age. Yes, some experts were predicting something really, really terrible happening on this day. It’s got to do with the Islamic calendar and we should all be vigilant. I guess Armageddon could be considered the birthday celebration to end all birthday celebrations. All I know is I better get my derriere to the Musee Marmottan and see all those Monets before it closes permanently, so to speak.

I’m atwitter because I’ve discovered there’s a train from St. Ouen Aumone/Pontoise that takes me straight to the Musee Marmottan neighborhood which is in the 16th arrondisement. That means no time consuming stop at Gare du Nord and transferring to the metro. One hour from door to door. And what a relief to avoid a major train station on this day of ill portent.

I’m not at all familiar with the 16th arrondissement, but when I get above ground at the Boullanvilliers stop, I can see the tip of the Eiffel tower looming above the first tree topped roof. I walk towards where the action appears to be and wind up on Rue de Passy. The streets are lined with wonderful boutiques of both the material and edible kind. I’m pulled in different directions…do I find the point where I can see all of the Eiffel tower right across the Seine. Or go into the shoe store. Or the Asian traiture. I’m not sure whether it’s the wisdom of old age or poverty that propels me to find the view.

palais de chaillot from place du mars

There’s a huge palatial building at the bottom of the small hill and I head towards it. Turns out it’s the Musee/Palais Chaillot. Its terrace has one of Paris’ most spectacular views. The plaza is literally across the river from the Place du Mars, where the Eiffel tower is. But the terrace is on a higher plane, than the base of the Eiffel tower, so I get to look down on about 1/4 of it and up at the rest. I also get to look over Paris. I’m particularly enamored with the gold dome of the Invalides building glistening in the sunlight. I curse my stupidity in rushing out of the house without the camera. We’ll see if Monet can top this.

I spend a few hours with Monet at the Musee Marmottan and emerge culturally sated.   Now I must indulge my shallower urges (it’s my birthday and the world is about to end, dammit!!!).

I find Paris curiously tourist free except on the Champs Elysees, at the Louvre and Galleries Lafayette. The 16th is no exception. But from here, it appears every tourist in the world has assembled on the huge manicured Plaza of the Eiffel tower and is waiting in line to go up. Either that or it’s the armies of good and evil assembling for the final battle. Which reminds me, I’ve got to get my derriere going.

It’s getting late and I’ve got to get back to Auvers because I’m having dinner next door with Carole and Jerome later so I should really try to catch a train before the world ends so I can catch a quick nap (hey, I’m old). But before I go back, I check out the shoe store I’d forsaken earlier for the view. It’s fete de moi, after all. I should be able to indulge myself with a little peek. And heck, if I happen to love something, the world is gonna end later today, so it probably won’t even show up on the credit card bill. But of course, now that I have all the money in the world (as long as the world ends), there’s nothing here I really want.

I return to the Asian traiture and fulfill my earlier desire for a shrimp summer roll and eat it in the park. Then I get a beautiful pink pamplemouse/rose sorbet on the sidewalk on the way back to the metro (how could I resist?). I have now indulged my every whim of the day. I am fulfilled. Armageddon, come and get me.

a few hours with monet

To get to the Marmottan, I walk through yet another one of Paris’s beautifully kept parks. This one even has pony rides. The museum itself is an elegant mansion on the edge of the greenery. It has three floors, each featuring a different collection. There’s the illuminations from middle age religious manuscripts, the collection of art and artifacts collected over centuries from the Marmottan family and the Monet stuff.

The place is practically deserted. I begin to wonder if the end of the world happened and I missed it.   I squelch the urge to find the nearest satellite television and tune into CNN. Instead, I head for the Monets, which just happen to be in the relative safety of the basement, which has been rebuilt into a grand museum space.

This collection was donated by Monet’s son and is quite impressive. Tons of Monet paintings, sketches and even an old palette of his. Also displayed is Monet’s collection of work by his friends and peers, among them, Renoir, Morisot, Rodin, my buddy Pisarro…

Monet as painted by Renoir

I like Monet, but find a lot of his work spotty. There are periods where his work soared and then other periods, not so much. I guess that’s the curse of living a long life.

Monet lived to the ripe old age of 87. He did not die impoverished and unappreciated. I guess that’s the benefit of living a long life, if you happen to have any talent. He was making a good living which enabled him to live his final couple of decades in a gorgeous environment of his own creation—his house and gardens at Giverny (add Givererny to my “to go” list). He apparently died bitter and cranky despite the fact that he lived what seemed like a pretty idyllic existence. Of course, he did have advanced cataracts and had been legally blind for at least 10 years, which had to be a real bummer. You can actually see the effect of his cataracts on his later paintings.–they’re practically unrecognizable and there’s a reddish/mauvy cast, which is apparently how cataract sufferers see things.

 

Japanese footbridge, painted 1899

Japanese footbridge, painted 1919

Like Van Gogh, Monet tried to kill himself in his early years. But only once (Van Gogh tried all the time). In Monet’s case, at the time, his girlfriend was pregnant, he was broke and unappreciated and it seemed to be an isolated crisis rather than a way of life or being a drama queen.  He married in 1870, his first wife died in 1879 and he remarried a family friend (Alice Hoschede) who was helping him raise his sons in 1892, a year after her husband died (she died in 1911).   One cool, slightly perverse fact:   Monet’s son from his first marriage married Alice’s daughter from her first marriage.

Judging by the photographs, In his younger years, Monet appears to have been a real hottie. And now he’s single (dead, but single)!   I know all I need to know about Monet.  I must visit Giverny.

Address, hours and reviews of the Musee Marmottan

van gogh’s room

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve been here several months and I still haven’t been to the Auberge Ravoux  to visit the room where Van Gogh lived and died.  It’s practically across the street.

The only real excuse I have is I didn’t want to spend the 5 Euro to get in (his grave is free.)   I guess I just figured, his room will always be here, unlike that tarte myrtille in the patisserie window.

But time is running out and I’d be mad at myself if I didn’t do more than peer into the courtyard and dining room.

auberge ravoux dining room

I read somewhere that just being in Vincent’s room brought someone to tears, the connection was so powerful.

Once when I was visiting one of the Virgin Mary’s supposed death sites near Ephesus, Turkey, a woman who was obviously religious or insane went into convulsions, wept, has weird spasms, and spoke in tongues (of course, it could have been Turkish). Maybe I’ll feel a similar…whatever the hell that was…when I visit Vincent’s chambre du mort.   Maybe then I’ll understand why he shot himself in that field.   Better yet, maybe I’ll start babbling in fluent French.

I make the long journey across the street without mishap and pay the 5 euros to go into a dead guy’s bedroom.   Well, it’s not just his bedroom, it’s a courtyard with plaques with pictures and facts about Van Gogh.   A side door leads to a dark stairwell to tiny, tiny dark rooms.   Van Gogh’s is the worst because there’s no window, only a skylight.

vincent's room

Suddenly, it all becomes very clear to me. This room is tiny. It must be 5×5 ft. with a really low ceiling that slants in certain parts of the room so  you have to hunch over or whack your head. The room he painted in Arles was huge by comparison…hell, the painting of his room in Arles was probably bigger than this room.   I thought NYC apartments were bad! I’d go insane in here. I wonder if poor Vincent was tall. That would just make matters worse. Sure, the fetal position is fine every now and then, but I wouldn’t want to make a lifestyle of it.

I’m beginning to have an inkling of what might have induced Vincent to kill himself. I can totally relate to looking up at my pathetic life after slaving all day on something that nobody may ever see or appreciate and wondering dear God, is this all there is?  I can see how that might cause a more compulsive personality to trudge to up the hill to the field and put a bullet in his stomach ( I probably would have forgotten where I was going about half way up the hill).

It still doesn’t explain why he shot himself in the stomach (not the place I’d aim for if I wanted to die).   Some theorize that the force of the shot made the gun move from the heart to the stomach.   My favorite explanation is Carole and Jerome’s:   “he was very creative”

Is it possible he wasn’t trying to end his life?    Maybe He just wanted to go to a hospital where he’d have a bigger room.

***

Auberge Ravoux website

utah students deem van gogh’s “starry night” magically delicious

Who says the arts are dying in the US?

Doyle Geddes, a Utah high school teacher had a dream.   He wanted to connect his students to art in a meaningful way, by recreating the world’s largest reproduction of  a Van Gogh’s masterpiece in cereal on the school gym floor.

A donation from Malt o meal allowed him to fulfill his dream.   Geddes said they chose to recreate “Starry Night” because of its beauty and recognition. To accompany the display of “Starry Night,” there were also 28 smaller Van Gogh recreations that students made with cereal.   The project took a grueling 4 hours.

The public viewing was from 1 to 5pm last Saturday before the masterpiece was fed to local pigs.

Geddes feels the experience has already impacted his students’ appreciation of Van Gogh’s sugary goodness.

Personally, I’m appalled.   Cereal might be fine for the muted tones of a Rembrandt, but to authentically recreate a Van Gogh, one must use jelly beans.  I’m sure art experts would agree.

Read the original article.

In the realm of non-foodstuffs, Legos seem to work quite well.

Click here to go to the original Lego Starry Night website (www.brillig.com) with step by step directions.

 

bringing van gogh to prime time

Van Gogh’s life story has everything we American viewers love:  sex, drugs, violence, mystery and intrigue.   The best part is, since it’s historic and educational, it’s guilt free viewing.  We’re talking ratings winner!

I’ve come up with several versions targeted towards different networks.  Each one tailors the basic facts of Van Gogh’s life a little differently in order to appeal to the specific network’s audience.   Please forgive the wonky spacing.   WordPress seems to be acting up.

HBO

An intelligent, well-shot bio-pic that chronicles Van Gogh’s life and death.   It will delve into his health issues, addictions, relationships with women, Theo, Gauguin and Dr. Gachet and the world in general.   It will be based on fact, well written to create a complex character who we can empathize with, sometimes like and sometimes hate.    My casting choice would be Hugh Laurie because he looks like Van Gogh only much, much hotter.    He’s also an actor capable of evoking deep, primal emotions such as love, sympathy, contempt,  laughter and a raging desire to jump his bones.

 

Showtime

This rendition of Van Gogh’s life examines the close, almost unnatural bond between  Vincent and his brother Theo.    We’ll delve into the psycho-sexual traumas they shared that drove Van Gogh and his brother Theo to acts of depravity that led to syphilis, insanity and ultimately, further acts of depravity.   While Theo was able to recover in the sense he had a wife and child and a “normal” life,  their shared demons drove them to an early grave within six months of each other.   Vincent could be played by Michael C. Hall and Theo by David Duchovny.   Not recommended for viewers under the age of 18.

NBC, ABC, The CW

We know that Van Gogh was a tortured artist.   We know he killed himself.   But we don’t know why.   Here, the mystery is revealed.   Van Gogh was a vampire.   After 30+ years of intransigence and savagely (but ambivalently)  feeding on human blood,  Vincent settles in Auvers sur-Oise where he falls in love with a mortal (Dr. Gachet’s daughter, Marguerite).   Knowing the only way to fulfill his tragic love is to bite her and doom her to an eternity of guilt and shame, he shoots himself in a field, which doesn’t kill him, because he’s a vampire.   It’s Dr. Gachet  who drives the final stake through his heart back at the Auberge Ravoux.   Casting suggestion:   Robert Pattinson, or some other young hottie with piercing eyes.

CBS — CSI Val d’Oise

It’s never a mistake to latch on to an already successful franchise.   So in the CBS version of Van Gogh’s life,  the original CSI agents travel back in time to solve the death of Vincent Van Gogh which they suspect was not by his own hand.   The prime suspect is Dr. Paul Gachet, Van Gogh’s doctor and “friend.”   The evidence includes the sketch Gachet drew of Van Gogh at his deathbed (shouldn’t he have been administering?), the fact that Gachet immediately removed all of Van Gogh’s art from his room when Vincent expired, and suspicions that the artist had an illicit affair with Marguerite, Dr. Gachet’s daughter.   Vincent’s past lovers, other artists, his brother Theo are also investigated and questioned.   In a surprise twist, the murderer is Dr. Gachet’s son, Paul, an aspiring artist and greedy, talentless little turd who is jealous of Van Gogh’s gift.

The Lifetime Network

This version is told from the point of view of Rachel, the syphlitic prostitute to whom Van Gogh gave his ear.   It takes place a few years after his death.   We open on a portrait of Rachel Van Gogh painted.   We pull back to reveal Rachel who lapses into reverie.    She relives her abusive relationship with Van Gogh, how she tried to help him, loved him and put up with his “moods.”    She recounts how finally, after years of torment and anguish, the ear incident was the final straw and she broke free.   She goes on to become a successful independent business woman.   Her reminiscences are interupted by a child toddling in to show her the painting he did which is as brightly colored and splashy as a Van Gogh.   Coincidentally,  the child has red hair.   We are left to wonder if Van Gogh’s only legacy was his art.   Casting suggestion:   Melissa Gilbert as the prostitute and David Caruso plays Van Gogh in flashbacks.

Comedy Central

A pair of wacky, absinthe quaffing, aspiring artists with very different personalities move in together in a pastoral French village and attempt an artistic revolution.   Masterpieces and hilarity ensue.   In this version, Van Gogh doesn’t really die.   They just pretend he’s dead for the insurance money.   Suggested casting:   Seth Rogen as Van Gogh and James Franco as Gauguin.   Alec Baldwin occasionally shows up as the wizened and cranky Monet.  Will Ferrell plays a side-splittingly inept Dr. Gachet.

Bravo:   The Real Artists of Auvers

Since this is Bravo, it will probably have to be shot as an extension of the Real Housewives franchise.    Slade Smiley as Van Gogh leads a cast of unknown reality stars as we  follow the day to day lives of the artists who lived in the Val d’Oise.       We follow the turbulent love/hate relationship between Gauguin and Van Gogh (similar to Vicki and Tamra, Jill and Bethany, NeNe and Kim in the real housewives series).  We’ll watch Cezanne and Pissarro passive aggressively snipe at one another leading to a scene where Cezanne uncharacteristically flips a table and shouts incoherent obscenities at Pissarro.    We’ll also get an inside look at them promoting their careers with grand Salon openings and shows (think “she by sheree”).     We’ll see them struggle with poverty and homelessness.  The only real difference between this show and the actual Real Housewives on Bravo is that in this show, the main characters actually accomplish something in their lives.

FOX entertainment

Combining the successful elements of their major hits (American Idol and The Simpsons), this will be an animated version of American Idol for painters.   Cartoon versions of Van Gogh, Gauguin, Cezanne, Pissarro, Monet, Lautrec and other artists from the commune will compete.   Each week, they’ll have to paint a different genre, but in their own inimitable style..   One week it’s a landscape, next a still life, next a studio portrait.   They may even have to dabble in other media, such as sculpting and photography to prove their diversity.   Judges will be cartoons of Rembrandt, Leonardo Da Vinci and Andy Warhol (he’s the crazy one).

Spike TV

A classic buddy movie that despite the action, is ultimately about the relationship between Van Gogh and Gauguin.   The main characters, played by Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn spend their days painting and their nights whoring and fighting.   But together they revolutionize the art world.   They’re the Butch and Sundance of Impressionism   And they’re definitely NOT gay.  Not that there’s anything wrong with it.

CBN (Christian Broadcast Network)

This adaptation focuses on Van Gogh’s early calling and career as a preacher.  Here the focus is on how when he abandoned God to become a painter, he lost the grace of the Almighty, which ultimately led to his tragic downfall.   Kirk Cameron can play Van Gogh.

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For background on the main characters click here.

and you thought tiger woods’ life was dramatic…

Below you’ll find a riveting tale of passion, heartache, genius, madness, self-mutilation, addiction, prostitutes, gun-play and death.

No, I’m not talking about the latest Real Housewives of Orange County, a Lifetime movie or True Hollywood stories.   I’m referring to a documentary on Van Gogh by Simon Schama.   It’s a part of his  “The Power of Art” series for BBC in which he takes an in depth look at the lives, times and states of mind of famous artists when they were in the midst of creating a masterpiece.   The masterpiece in this case is “Wheatfield with Crows” which was painted in Auvers days before Van Gogh shot himself.

Thanks to the miracle of the internets, you can watch it here in its entirety.   It’s about an hour, in six ten minute installments, so grab some popcorn (or chouquettes) scroll down and click on the arrow.

a slightly bitchy assessment of van gogh’s dr. gachet (the person, not the painting)

This is the Dr. Gachet you’re probably familiar with.   He’s at the Musee d’Orsay, wearing what Van Gogh described as “the heartbroken expression of our time.”

Dr. Gachet by Vincent Van Gogh, 1890

If you were really paying attention, you might have noticed Dr. Gachet hanging out in other famous museums, looking entirely different.

Dr. Paul Ferdinand Gachet was no ordinary artists’ model.   Nor was he an ordinary doctor.   His specialty was melancholy, professionally and personally.   Van Gogh was under his care during the last 80 days of his life (and proclaimed the doctor “sicker than I am” in a letter to Theo).

Gachet was friends with and treated Pissarro, Renoir, Manet and Cezanne just to name a few. He had amassed one of the largest impressionist art collections in Europe before he died in 1909.   Oddly, the information out there on him is pretty sketchy.

A little backstory:   He was born to a well to do manufacturing family in Lille in 1828.   He became interested in art as a teenager, but went on to study medicine in Paris.   In addition to earning his medical degree in Paris (his thesis was a study of melancholy), he became friends with some of the more revolutionary minds in Paris who acquainted him with the modern art scene brewing in the city.  He was hooked.

As he grew his coterie of artist friends (and his art collection), Gachet also married Blanche Castets in 1868.   He was said to be passionately in love with her, although I’ve yet to find a photo or evidence of her existence, except their two children, Marguerite and Paul fils (jr).   More on them later.  Here are some portraits of Gachet by his friends and patients.

Paul Gachet, portrait by Ambroise Detrez (1850/52)

 

Gachet in uniform, Regiments der Jäger zu Pferd (1849)

Paul Ferdinand Gachet by Armand Gautier

Dr. Paul Gachet by Armand Guillaumin, 1972 (or so)

The painting below is Van Gogh’s second painting of Gachet.  It’s been missing since the 90′s when it was purchased by a Japanese industrialist.   Shortly after that, he went broke and died.   Nobody knows where the painting is.   He may have sold it off when he went broke, but there were also rumors that he was buried with it (which would be pretty selfish of him). 

Shrouding the painting in more mystery, is the theory that it’s actually a copy made by one of the Gachets from the blue one (both Dr. Gachet and his son were notorious copiers of art in their possession).   But before we jump to forgery conclusions (which I’d love to do), I should mention that Van Gogh mentioned painting this one as well as the blue one in letters to Theo.    Also, copying art was a learning technique of the day and practiced by other painters and teachers.

The missing Dr. Gachet by Van Gogh

 

Etching of Dr. Gachet by Van Gogh, 1890

 

Paul Gachet, by Norbert Goeneutte, 1891 (also in the Musee d'Orsay)

Here’s a photo of Dr. Gachet for comparison.

 

Dr. Paul Ferdinand Gachet

 

After a brief stint as a front line doctor during the Prussian seige of Paris in 1870, Gachet moved his family and ailing wife to Auvers-sur-oise, where he became friends with Pissarro, Cezanne and Guillaumin (clearly the dude was an artist groupie).   His wife died in 1875.   His home, garden and daughter became a frequent subject for painters.

House of Dr. Gachet by Cezanne, 1972

Dr. Gachet’s garden by Van Gogh, 1890

The following two paintings were done when Marguerite Gachet was 19 years old.   The novel “The Last Van Gogh” is based on the premise that Van Gogh and Marguerite were having an ill fated, secret affair.   There’s no evidence of this, but it’s a good story.   Marguerite was rather mysterious, never married and rarely left her father’s house in Auvers until she died in 1949.   Van Gogh did have a habit of falling for the first available female in the room, even if they happened to be his own relative (he was heartbroken by a cousin who rejected his marriage proposal when he was a young man).   The author, Alyson Richman Berkley, says she was inspired by Van Gogh’s portrait of her at the piano

Marguerite Gachet in Garden, by Van Gogh, 1890

Marguerite Gachet at Piano by Van Gogh, 1890

Here a a couple of photos of the subject, Ms. Gachet:

Marguerite Gachet at piano, clearly taken when she was older

Marguerite Gachet, date unknown

Dr. Gachet was more than a mediocre doctor.  He fancied himself an artist and engraver.   He practiced his art under the nom de plume (or is that nom de peintre?), Paul van Ryssel.     His most famous work is a sketch of Van Gogh on his death bed..   In my book, it makes him more like paparazzi than a doctor.   Michael Jackson’s final doctor (Dr. Conrad Murray) comes to mind.

Van Gogh on his deathbed by P van Ryssel (aka Dr. Gachet)

Here are some other examples of Gachet’s art that  I’ve found:

Cholera ward, by Dr. Gachet (signed P van Ryssel)

Gachet’s version of Cezanne’s “A Modern Olympia”

See the original by Cezanne.

"les pommes" by P van Ryssel

Snow on the route to Auvers by P van Ryssel (aka Gachet)

Unlike his artist friends, Gachet had enough money to buy a press and copper etching plates.   He shared it with his good friends Pissarro, Guillaumin and Paul Cezanne.   One blog I read claims that the artists had such similar approaches, they each adopted an emblem to distinguish their work from one another.   Pissarro was a flower, Guillaumin was a cat, Cezanne was a hanged man and Gachet was a duck.   The stamps on some of the following prints don’t quite jibe with this theory.

An engraving by Dr. Gachet “Le chemix creux d’Auvers” 1972

A study of Van Gogh’s “Les vaches” done by Gachet

See Van Gogh’s original

by Paul van Ryssel (aka Dr. Gachet)

Paul Gachet fils (son of Dr. Gachet) was an art dealer, which makes perfect sense for someone who inherited hundreds original works art and no discernible talent or skill.     Like his father, Paul Gachet fils  dabbled in creating mediocre art.   He painted under the name Louis van Ryssel (L. van Ryssel).    He was born in 1873 and died in 1962.  A couple of samples here.

Copy of Dr. Gachet's sketch of Van Gogh on his deathbed by L van Ryssel

By L van Ryssel (aka Paul Gachet fils)

Gachet’s house and garden today:

Dr. Gachet's house from the street, today

overhead view of Gachet's house

Dr. Gachet’s homeopathic garden today

Gachet grew his own herbs and made his own extracts and sold them to patients to cure what ailed them.   Can you say “snake oil salesman?”

Dr. Gachet's homeopathic medicine kit

Dr. Paul Ferdinand Gachet died in 1909 at the ripe old age of 80.  He’s buried at Pere Lachaise in Paris.   Even in the afterlife he’s mingling with people more talented than himself.   I’m sure he’d like that.

Some good articles on the subject:

“Dr. Gachet, Friend to the Painters,” New York Times 1999

“No Cachet in a Gachet”, The Independent 1999

“Van Gogh’s Vanishing Act,” US News and World Report, 2000