It hurts even more. Reflections on my first time in New England (since I don’t have time or money to go to actual England this fall).
This one was a tough pill to swallow. But I swore off pretending many years ago and I’m not about to stop just because I cried in the cafeteria of the Boston MFA and in the café at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. And on the way there and back. Oh well. At least I learned how much more terrible my handwriting is when I have tears in my eyes.
I’m in Boston, and I must admit I am quite sad. We had a fight last night, and I only just got here. Came all the way here from New York just to see him, just because I missed my best friend. I’m not sure he is my best friend anymore. If I’m completely honest with myself, I’m not sure he ever was.
I need to be completely honest with myself more often.
I can’t imagine what this realization would mean for us if I do end up moving here for graduate school. Big if, but I have a feeling. And I hardly miss.
I came to the Museum of Fine Arts, and there’s a big Van Gogh exhibition. It’s on his portraits of the Roulin family. It’s a successful exhibition in terms of its commercial turnout. It’s mid-day on a Friday, and this place is full (and annoying). I can’t imagine how much more crowded it must get on the weekend. Artwise, the exhibition is successful in two ways, in my personal humble opinion. Firstly, the works themselves are magnificent, that is undeniable. Though I usually don’t mind Van Gogh due to how commercial the presentation of his oeuvre has become, when I come face to face with one of his portraits, I can’t help but swoon. I fear his essence as an artist and, based on his letters, probably as a person too, was likely similar to mine. A little bit mad but ultimately passionate in a way that, sometimes, makes up for the crazy. Walking through these galleries is making me want to reconnect with him. Perhaps I will.
The other way this exhibition is good is in bringing together so many Van Goghs usually held in collections all around the world. Not an easy feat, I’ll give it to them. And the curators managed to choose a topic that is both for everyone (a crowd-pleaser, if you may) and with art-historical significance to the artist’s life. Beyond that, so far, there’s nothing too outstanding that draws my attention. The exhibition lacks depth. The curatorial narrative is mediocre at best. It’s sequentially and topically logical, yes, but shallow. And if you know me you know I hate shallow.
The works are masterly, and maybe that in and of itself makes it worth a visit. It just leaves something to be desired. They have a section with letters from the postman (frankly, I think this room was too personal and separate from the art, with no real tie-in between the two). I have seen similar attempts done better at other exhibitions; it’s nothing new to bring in correspondence or memorabilia of the artist into an art show, yet it was lacking here in terms of execution. But I can live with that. The audio accompanying the letters, however… The letter fragments are read aloud in English, but someone with a very thick French accent does the voice over. That encapsulates my impression of the show as a whole, in terms of its merits as an exhibition.
I’m thinking of the first time I ever saw a Van Gogh in person. It was at the Art Institute of Chicago when I was 12. But the first time I really remember seeing one was at 17 in Paris, at the Musée d’Orsay. I don’t think I will ever forget that day. I think that might have been my first solo art experience ever, as I didn’t have the privilege of growing up around art museums or traveling extensively, and whenever I did engage with either I was never alone. I think that morning might be one of the fondest memories of my entire life. I desperately need to go back to the Orsay. I remember Armando, Mariana and I took off from our school group’s hotel in the business district of Paris (La Défense?) and had to rush to see it before our group left the hotel to go to the airport and head home. We arrived together at the museum but split up at the entrance so we could all get to see what we wanted to see in the short time that we had.
There’s a couple, the wife in a wheelchair and his husband pushing her around the show. He makes sure she gets the best view of every painting, for every painting, despite the crowd and its disorganized moving flow across the galleries. I hope to someday have someone who will do that for me in my old age.
Looking at the self-portrait in the last room, I realize E kind of looked like Van Gogh. Ha. That’s neither good nor bad, just a curious observation. I do wonder what he would say if I told him that.
Okay. I will admit the end of the exhibition is good. Very good. The portrait of Marcelle Roulin that Van Gogh sent to his brother, next to a photograph of Marcelle a little before she died in 1980. The last Roulin the world knew, in the very last wall of the Roulin portrait show. I can’t articulate it, but the way it was presented sent a subtle shiver down my spine. If you know me at all, you know that I love when art sends a shiver down my spine.
I’m ovulating, so I shouldn’t be sad. That’s how you know I’m really, really sad.
–
It’s always painful when it’s time to pay a visit to the graveyard of best friends past. A place rarely visited by many, it seems to be one I frequent more often than I should.
Losing a best friend is a peculiar occurrence.
Losing a best friend comes with a funeral that is sometimes silent, sometimes loud and chaotic. It is sometimes brief, a mere moment, but sometimes extensive, drawing on and on way before the death of the relationship comes knocking on the door.
Sometimes it’s like one of those fires that burn down houses dramatically in a matter of minutes and leave no remains behind, with nothing to wish for because it’s hopeless, destroyed, all gone.
But sometimes it’s like a candle that you burn and burn and burn, and you see the height of the wax decreasing in the container. And suddenly it’s all liquid, and you knew this was going to happen. The wick has been hanging out in liquid for days on end, but you stubbornly keep trying to light it every evening around dinnertime and every evening at dinnertime until the wick burns out. And you have the candle, but you don’t really. It’s not really even a candle anymore. But it was your favorite candle, and it’s kept you warm for so long. But it’s time to toss out the candle. It’s just taking up space on the counter. And looking at it is a daily reminder of how you love to keep empty candles. But an empty candle is no use no matter how many times you flicker the lighter.
I’ve run out of match boxes and broken so many lighters trying to light my old favorite candle. I should learn how to make fire with my hands instead.
I think of my new year’s resolution. “Whatever happens I’m letting it.” But boy, with this in particular, I should’ve let it a long, long time ago.
It’s sad when you realize something is lingering, but not because it’s running out of time, but because you are the only one holding on to it. You are the one who stubbornly tries to light a candle that’s not only burned all the way but burned you in the process.
–
If you know me at all, you know I’ve been a Romantic since birth, but really only in my head and heart. Not in practice. Ever since I was little and increasingly so since becoming not-so-little, friendship has been the only type of intimacy that feels safe for me. Friendships, at least on my end, have always been the purest and most genuine parts of my life. With romantic attraction, I feel like there are always other things at play beyond my feelings and care for the other person–sex, thoughts around self-worth, trauma in an immediate way, and issues of validation and attachment. But with my friends, it’s only love. Pure, unadulterated love and care. I suppose that is why this trip to the graveyard hurts so much.
I don’t know if flowers are in order. It’s probably not worth my time.
The best friends past are dead, long live the best friends past.
Yours truly y con mucho amor
(and maybe some tears in my eyes this time),
Debbie
Art and Anticrises 
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