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.

deja vu

I found a ton of old postcards of Auvers, circa 1900 or so from notrefamille.com (link at bottom of page).   I thought it would be fun to compare some of the postcards with pictures of the same location today.

Place de la Marie

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The bridge from Auvers to Mery sur Oise

 

 

 

Clearly, the bridge across the Oise from Mery to Auvers has been updated to accomodate cars.   It even has two lanes!   Fortunately, the huge metal structure that marred the view on the other side has been eliminated.   Now the view is almost totally obscured by greenery.   Those dirty rotten trees!

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Rue du pois

This is my personal favorite because it’s the street where I live and it’s almost unchanged.   The pharmacy has moved down a few doors, and there’s a restaurant where the woman is standing in the doorway (sous le porche, someday I hope to afford to eat there), but it’s amazingly similar, over 100 years later.   FYI the crowds in the postcard are standing in front of where Carole and I live now.

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The main drag

 

 

 

 

Then it was called “Rue du Gare”.   It’s still the Rue du gare, but now the street is called Rue General DeGaulle.

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The steps to to the church

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Rue Daubigny from the church yard

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View of the church from Rue General DeGaulle

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Daubigny’s bust

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Auberge Ravoux

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Here’s the link to all the old postcards of Auvers

 

 

a sign from the gods (or something)

Every now and then life gives you a sign that you’re in the right or wrong place, doing the right or wrong thing. I received such a sign this evening in St. Ouen.

It began inauspiciously after losing track of time in Paris.  I get to Gare du Nord as the sky is turning pink around the edges.   I saunter to the counter du billets. I buy my ticket and the lady tells me to transfer in St. Ouen. I take a leisurely stroll to the correct track, and notice that a train just left.   But the next one towards St. Ouen is in ten minutes. No problems.

I’m on the next train. Ahhh, it’s lovely the way the descending sun sets off the few clouds, and Sacre Coeur glows against the darkening sky. Then it occurs to me that I could soon be facing the thing I fear most (aside from French hair salons).   A rush of disturbing thoughts interupt  my peace.

Would it be better to be stranded in Pontoise or St. Ouen?  Would a cab driver accept an IOU?     It’s been awhile since I hitchhiked. Do people still stick out their thumbs? Is that the international symbol for please give me a ride, I missed my train?  Will I be murdered or raped?   Or hit by a speeding driver on the narrow, poorly lit cobbled roads?    Well, if so, at least they’ve got a decent healthcare system here.  Maybe my injured nearly lifeless body won’t be found for days (after intense suffering), I’ll be taken to a hospital, but it will be too late.   God, who will feed my kitties?    If only I had a cellphone.   I could call someone and ask them to feed the kitties when I’m gone.    Damn, I should have had that Falafel in the Marais.   I hate to die on an empty stomach.

I tell myself to shut up and enjoy the scenery.

Nose against train window, I watch the ugly Paris suburb turn into greenery and old stone houses. Before I know it, I’m in St. Ouen.   I’ve regained my sense of denial, despite the fact that there’s not one train going towards Persan (the direction I’m going) on the overhead schedule and it’s totally dark now.

I wait patiently, knowing it’s going to be okay, because I worried so effectively about it on the train from Paris to St. Ouen.    It doesn’t bother me that I’m the only one on the platform. Or that there’s only one train listed as still running on the monitor.   And it’s going the wrong way.

The distance as the crow flies is only 3.2 miles, but it’s getting dark, the roads are narrow, I’m not all that familiar with the route and I can’t afford a taxi.    I might as well be stranded on a desert island.  But I’m still telling myself that there’s just something wrong with the monitor.

After waiting 15 minutes. a train approaches, but it’s heading towards Pontoise.  I ask the conductor when the train to Auvers arrives. A conversation between the security guy and the conductor reveals, that I’ve missed the last train to Auvers. I’m not sure if I understand their words or their expressions, but I know I’m in trouble.

Calmly, I reply “merde” as my brain descends into a dark, lifeless zone that I’m fairly certain was the same place Bush’s brain was on 9/11 during those 7 minutes he stared blankly while clutching the little goat book.

Fortunately, I have better advisors than Bush. While I sit there like an idiot, they keep talking. In a matter of seconds, I’m on my own private express train to Auvers, riding shotgun next to the engineer.   I’m so relieved and grateful I forget to be afraid of being alone in a train with a stranger who only speaks French.   He tells me he has to take the train to the train garage anyways and is glad to help. He also shows me a picture of his Chevy and complains about the absurdly expensive price of Chevy parts here in France and how he’d like to go to the US and get cheap parts. At least someone is buying American cars.   I tell him maybe we can work out a healthcare/automotive exchange.

So as quick as it took I Dream of Jeannie to blink her way out of a bad situation, so did I. Except unlike Jeannie, I can take no responsibility for whatever magic just occurred. Unless these people decided to help me based on the charming way I said “merde.”

Is it because this train system isn’t run by machines and bureaucrats that it’s possible for an act of human kindness to occur? WTF is going on here? Aren’t the French supposed to be rude and hate Americans? I’m utterly baffled.   Can you in a million years imagine this happening in the US?    In five minutes, I’m in Auvers.

I “merci” the conductor profusely and head back to Rue du Pois and my kitties. I can hear the theme from the Mary Tyler Moore show rising in my head again. (which reminds me, I’ve got to get a beret.)

For the first time in a long, long time, I’ve beaten Murphy’s law. Sure, what could go wrong, did go wrong. And it still turned out all right. More than all right, in fact. Excellent.

As someone who tries to find a reason for everything, I take this turn of events as a sign. Maybe that I’m supposed to be here. Or that everything is going to be okay. Or to remind me there are still nice people in the world (at least in France).   I’m not sure what exactly, but it has to mean something deep and profound.   Maybe I should just trust the universe.   Give in to the will of nature or god or whatever.   Just relax and know that the thing I fear most isn’t so frightening.

Or it could be a sign of the Apocalypse.

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

stalking monsieur right

It’s a lovely day, I’m walking back from Shopi (the Auvers grocery store), taking what I call the ugly route (not because the route is ugly, but because I usually take it when I’m feeling ugly and don’t want anyone to see me).

Ahead is a man, somewhere in his 40’s strolling with a boy, around 10, who is walking his bike. I don’t pay attention until I get closer and notice the guy is looking at me and smiling, More importantly, he looks like Mel Gibson only better because he’s not Mel Gibson.

I love wearing sunglasses because you can stare without being obvious. (and they hide a multitude of sins which is particularly important, being on the ugly route and all). Fortunately, these are prescription sunglasses so I can actually see him while staring at him. The closer I get the better he looks. Especially when I see he isn’t wearing a wedding ring (yeah, I know that means nothing, but don’t burst my bubble).

They obviously live around here. The boy has his bike. People passing through don’t bring their bikes, unless they’re wearing spandex. Fortunately (and unfortunately), they’re not. Also, visitors and tourists take the main drag, not the ugly route which is better for a kid to ride a bike on. They seem to take this route often.

This is all the information I need to construct his entire background and fall in madly love with him. And I’m sure I can do it in the amount of time it will take for our paths to actually intersect. I’d say 30 seconds.

He’s smart, down to earth, funny, sweet but not a pushover and successful and talented at his chosen profession. His wife died tragically about five years ago. After she died, they moved to Paris for a year or so but moved here because it’s a better place for the boy to grow up and my husband likes living out here but having the city so close.

He’s been so busy raising my stepson and doing his lucrative yet creative job that he doesn’t have the time or inclination to bother with the dating scene. He figures if it happens, it happens. He’s well off but not wealthy and owns a really nice old stone house with blue shutters and a nice yard up the hill a little bit. There’s a perfect empty spot in his house for my armoire. He’s really good in bed.  And he loves cats.   It’s amazing how much you can learn about a person in such a short amount of time when you don’t actually speak to them.

We smile and say bonjour to each other and both continue on our ways. Oh yeah baby. I love him. But even in the throws of passion (which is a cross of a my little goat moment with the endorphin rush of a chocolate macaron), I have the presence of mind to notice that they’re turning into an apartment building nearby.

Hmmmm. I would have preferred my husband own a house, or at least a maison de ville, but I’m willing to overlook that (did I mention he looks like Mel Gibson?). But it does change the scenario a bit.

Unfortunately, his wife isn’t dead. It was a messy divorce (her fault, of course) and she got the house. He lives in an apartment building and gets his son for a month in the summer during his vacation. Okay, I can work with that.

It would also appear that he’s not as rich as I’d like. If he were, he’d have his own house, even if he did sink a lot of money into the one his wife got. It’s possible he’s not working in the highly lucrative creative field I’d like. Realistically he could be a carpenter or plumber. Well…that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, I suppose. The kitchen sink is a little clogged. Yeah, maybe that’s what I need, a man who can fix things. Forget this creative, lucrative stuff. He’s French, he doesn’t need it. Anyways, he’s a really talented plumber. And he’s still really good in bed. And smart and funny and all that other crap.

And based on the way he said “bonjour”, I know he loves me too.

Needless to say, I’m on cloud neuf. I can’t belief I found him. I’m already making plans. Tomorrow, instead of going to Chantilly and Senlis, I’m going to hang out in the parking lot near the ugly route. I have to move quickly if I expect our relationship to be advanced enough so when I have to return to the US we’ll have one of those dramatic teary scenes at the airport where he’ll beg me not to go and to stay here with him and his son, Jean Luc.

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Okay, It’s been three days and now I’m getting a little pissed. He must have some sort of intimacy issues, because I have not seen him once since that first magical moment on the ugly route. Doesn’t he know I’ve got a schedule?

I’ve never taken so many walks. Or made so many separate trips to the grocery store/boucherie/boulangerie. I may be eating more because of him, but I’m definitely walking it off. I’ve even resorted to walking to the train station to stare at the schedules. I’ll probably be arrested for loitering.  I’m starting to think my fiancé is taking me for granted. I was hoping that wouldn’t happen until after the wedding. Or at least until after he knew me.

It breaks my heart, but I’m thinking about ending it with him. I don’t really need a good looking guy. I can just take off my glasses and won’t know the difference. And given my needs, perhaps I’m better off finding a really, really old man with some property in Auvers.

I’m still hopeful that we can work things out. I know he’s a little gun shy after the divorce and what his wench ex-wife put him through, but it’s been five years for godsakes. He’s got to move on. If not, I’ll just have to assume he’s an emotional cripple incapable of commitment. And that’ll just make me love him more.

I’m trying to decide how to act next time I see him. Shall I act angry? Indifferent?   Maybe I’ll just act like nothing happened.