Van Gogh Trail in Reverse: Auvers-sur-Oise

It was a bright Saturday, the sun in its right measure like the perfect icing on a carrot cake. Suggested by a Francophile and artsy senior,  we embarked on a journey to Auvers-sur-Oise, a sleepy town which translates itself into Auvers on the banks of river Oise. More than just the beauty of the country side, Auvers is also the final resting place of the renowned painter, Vincent Van Gogh. With our RATP Navigo Pass letting us travel the entire length of 50 minutes, without any further expense, we had a comfortable travel along the RER C line going to Pontoise, shifting train at Saint-Ouen-l’Aumône, to change for the Transition H line that took us to Gare Auvers-sur-Oise. 

A petite and beautiful railway station welcomed us and the first thing that struck my eye was the elegant Notre Dame Cathedral de l’Assomption standing tall on a hill beckoning us. Excited we exited the station to see a sleepy town, lazing around in the heritage of the (post)impressionist movement. There was this chart that showed the important landmarks here, and we decided to follow the trail. 

As soon as we started walking, we noticed these tiny metal strips with ‘Vincent’ engraved on it. By following the signage, we first entered the cathedral, which from the station itself was calling out to us. In comparison to the elaborateness of Notre Dame cathedral in Paris and Bordeaux, this one was more elegant owing to its simplicity. Also, wedding bells were to ring in an hour of two, and flower girls dressed uniformly and flowers tied to each bench imparted a life to this church. It seemed like this church is still alive, while the others have become monuments of antiquities. 

As we came out, we noticed the church was undergoing renovation and had metal spears in certain areas. That apart, I could see what Van Gogh saw while painting it, in his typical blue and yellow colours. His memories pushed us to take a small path that took us to open fields on both sides, crossing which, we reached the Commonwealth War Graves, where Van Gogh and his brother Theo rest along with many others. 

Cemeteries, I have come to notice is an important part of French culture. It is more beautiful than a garden, with flowers and tablets raised in honour of the dead all over. I suddenly recounted one of my quick visits to Montparnasse cemetery in Paris to see Simone de Beauvoir who enthralled me with her Second Sex and her lover and renowned philosopher Jean Paul Sartre, only to see the beige tombstones covered with the impressions of kisses with dark red lipsticks. It took us quite sometime to locate Van Gogh’s tomb, so we walked around telling each other that we shouldn’t let the other people feel bad or lonely. We spent seconds with everyone finally locating the brothers’ graves covered with green leaves. Van Gogh is said to have shot himself at his rented house in Auvers-sur-Oise , and died a painful death by his brother, Theo’s side, with an agony that lasted for 2 days. Theo couldn’t come to terms with his dear brother’s death and joined him in a few months’ time. It was Theo’s wife who transferred his body next to Van Gogh’s, as the inseparable brothers could stay together in the timelessness of death. We also got reminded that Van Gogh’s body was not allowed in the church, nor were prayers chanted for him due to his ‘double sins’ of being a protestant and for committing the ‘blasphemous’ act of suicide. After a small grouping at Auberge Ravoux - where Van Gogh stayed, he was directly taken to the cemetery. Suddenly my mind flashed back to the florist near my home, who sells wide eyed sunflowers. We regretted not getting one for this painter who in his yellow house, to welcome his friend Paul Gauguin drew an array of sunflowers, madly, in the most fascinating way. 

From there, we then went to a building, hosting Robert Daubigny and his son Karl Daubigny’s paintings, along with many others. The next destination was Auberge Ravoux, Vangogh’s 38th address in 37 years, his final destination before death, where in seventy days of his stay, he created more than 80 paintings and many more sketches. The room he stayed in, a 75 square feet small cloistered space, once with a strong smell of oil and paints and scattered canvasses all around, now stay as a testament of memory of an early death of a painter whose oeuvre of talent had more canvasses to roll out, more paints to dissolve. A roof tile substituted with glass pour in a column of sunlight with dust lining and filling that column. The rest is wood, brown or burgundy, missing its erstwhile royalty and now smelling of death of a dear dweller gone away in the most unfortunate of ways. There are no furnitures in the room, which were all either stolen or destroyed. The room now is barely a shell, but the air has a lot to say, of creations and death, of colours and blood, of art and religion, of immortality and death. 

The death hanging around the room due to Van Gogh’s mental instability according to many is attributed to absinthe, the most coveted drink among his circles. Baudelaire, Manet and Degas worshipped it and Vangogh has infamously cut one half of his ear under its influence and presented it to a prostitute, named Rachel. So it was fitting to have a strange and curious museum on absinthe in Auvers. Also called as the la fée verte or the green fairy, it is supposed to give a high so high where one can see in circles and swivels like the brushstrokes of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Drinking absinthe was a popular culture in Paris. A 5 PM drink with an elaborate ritual, where absinthe was added to a glass with a spoon holding a sugar cube, which can neutralise the extreme taste of the drink itself. This ritual is believed to give birth to the new and chic ‘happy hour’ (l’heure verte). The museum had posters of the dream like absinthe and the jars and equipments with which it was concocted. We left the museum after  clinking my coffee mug with a glass of absinthe in a portrait. Sante! 

Our last destination was the house of Daubigny, a beautiful place, warm, cosy and full of paintings. Th room that attracted me the most was his daughter’s, that Daubigny has carefully painted with his daughter in mind, with flowers and objects that resembled her. The house opens to a large garden which could easily be around 5 times the size of the house or more, that was therapy itself. We sat for a long time in the grass and got into talking with a French lady who narrated her adventures in India when she travelled to India with her girlfriends in her twenties. 

It was time to catch our train back and we thought it would be fitting to see the waters of the river, Oise, before going to the station five minutes away. The river was majestic, with royal swans and humble ducks floating on its waters, while trees looking at themselves in the crystal clear river. A sight of photographic brilliance and tranquility, we sat there on a bench, for a while, with our tired legs, and content hearts.

Retracing the path, home beckoned to a good night’s sleep, under a starry night.