Paul Signac
I was a guest, an old friend of Vincent’s from Paris.
That day he wore his famous bandage and a fur cap.
I visited him at the hospital in Arles
after he had cut off his ear’s lobe.
He was lucid, and an intern allowed me
to spend time with him outside.
He took me to his house, to see his work.
That was where for the first time
I saw the brilliant greens and oranges
in La Berceuse and Les Alyscamps.
Vincent talked of art and literature
but then paused, exhausted, his face distraught.
How much, he wondered,
could he ask of his brother?
Hadn't Theo earned the right to happiness,
to a wife? Yet how could he go on
without Theo's finances? Among his brushes
on a shelf along his whitewashed walls
was a bottle of turpentine.
Vincent lunged for it, quickly
lifting it, tilting his head back.
I didn’t think. I just thrust my hand
between him and the bottle. “Vincent,
think of the work you have to do,
the orchards waiting for you,
their branches weighted
in light."
Paul Signac
Re: Paul Signac
This is so touching, real, and fabulous, the whole poem; and the end is to die for.
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Re: Paul Signac
Thank you, Billy. Much appreciated