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But the exhibition was wonderful! First, the art was displayed with music. I recognised Danse Macabre by Camille Saint-Saens and, I think, one of Satie’s Gymnopedie pieces. Why don’t all art galleries put music on? It would so enhance the viewing experience for potentially minimal expense.
But the genius was the art, of course. VG’s great works were screened onto huge canvases which were clustered around the room. The viewer sat (on painfully uncomfortable low benches, or on the floor) and watched what was in effect a powerpoint display. Minimal information was given (periods of VG’s life). The paintings were so huge you could see the brushstrokes. Moreover, at any one time there were several different ones. Some of them were animated: smoke rose, a train passed, crows flew, reflections of water shimmered. The pictures were displayed and then vanished in accordance with the music. Towards the end there was a marvellous moment when, as they were displaying pictures of a landscape with crows, there was a gunshot (we all jumped) and the crows flew off. This, of course, marked the moment when VG shot himself.
He did an awful lot of paintings using short quasi-rectangular blobs of colour whose sometimes clashing orientations made the pictures look angry or tormented. I wondered how to translate this sort of idea into writing. Perhaps what VG showed is not to write for realism, showing the surface of things, but to write for passion, showing emotion. This made me think of authors such as Kerouac and Burroughs; where are they today?
Apart from the awful seating arrangements, it was wonderful. So immersive.
I’ve never seen an art exhibition like this. I hope I see more.
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