the threatened swan

My goodness, how this painting gives me chills! Jan Asselijn's The Threatened Swan is such a beautiful example of the power that a strong use of value, colour, and composition can give a painting. Over the next few days, I'm going to begin unloading the Rijksmuseum upon you, home to some of the most important works of art in Western Art History— think Rembrandt, Vermeer, Israëls, and of course, my dear Van Gogh!

blue to black

beer, soup, and war potatoes

After all that swooning in the Van Gogh Museum, we needed a little something in our bellies. Going out for a beer in Rabat is not as simple as we had imagined, and though neither of us are habitual drinkers, the idea of sitting in a pub and having a chat over a cold glass of beer seemed heavenly.



We found a nice place with old rugby memorabilia plastered over its tobacco-stained walls, and ordered two beers of the day with soups— tomato for me, and broccoli for Pedro. Our lunch was intentionally on the light side, because there was something else I had in mind that was an absolute necessity...



Patatje oorlog, "war potatoes", is a heap of frites loaded with mayo, peanut sauce, and fresh onions. Though I am a firm believer that the Belgians have the world's best fries (OK, the Dutch are equally amazing with fried potatoes), that peanut sauce-onion-mayo combination is out of this world. Pedro was not so convinced, but I tell you, it's amazing.

Who needs ketchup?

dear vincent

A lot has changed in twenty-one years, but one thing has remained ever constant— my love for Vincent Van Gogh. I still remember that day as though it were this moment, and though the little details of insignificant things have long since vanished, I remember with great clarity looking upon The Potato Eaters for the very first time. I remember the burnt umber, the brushstrokes, the face of the woman who I needed to sketch into my book beside the ticket stub. I remember the display of canvases that had been painted on both sides, I remember the vivid yellow of the sunflowers.

The night before Pedro and I visited the Van Gogh Museum, I couldn't sleep from the pounding in my chest. The excitement of a reunion was too much, and I wondered what I would feel when enveloped in all those colours and thick paint. I wanted to rush my breakfast, and hit the streets in a sprint.

We arrived just before 9:00 am, and there was already a long line winding outside the entrance to the museum. Anticipating this, I had bought our tickets online to avoid the queue, and when the doors finally opened, joy!



We were the second people to enter the Munch : Van Gogh exhibit that day— this for some reason, gave me tremendous satisfaction. Though I was so very thrilled to see the work of two great artists displayed side-by-side in such an elegant and thoughtful way (truly, the Van Gogh Museum is unparalleled), I was only really there for one thing— one person.



This is my pilgrimage; his palette and letters holy relics, and his artwork, oh his artwork! There is nothing like his artwork. Nothing like the dappled forest floors or weathered faces, or the invisible wind that shakes leaves and wheat— Naples yellow, ultramarine, ochre— nothing. I imagine the movement of his hands, the way he stood, the way he saw. I peer into each painting, my eyes getting wet.



And then, there it was, so much smaller than I remembered it— that wheat field. It had swallowed me whole and I got lost in all the movement. At fifteen, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life, and at thirty-six, I was still overcome. The memory of that day and this has entwined into something so marvellous.



So my dear Vincent, thank you.
Thank you for giving us all that such an eccentric has in his heart.

All photos were taken at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam.

three names

Last weekend I flew to Amsterdam with three names in mind: Vincent Van Gogh. This year is the 125th anniversary of his death, and the Van Gogh Museum is hosting a magnificent exhibition of his work beside the paintings and prints of Edvard Munch. With a long weekend and relatively cheap flights out of Casablanca, how could I pass this up?



We arrived late in the afternoon to a light drizzle and a pale sky. I hadn't been back to Amsterdam in twenty-one years— twenty-one years! I was fifteen, sketchbook in hand, flannel shirts and combat boots that I had painted the Greek gods and goddesses on.

And I was meeting Vincent Van Gogh again.

hello, amsterdam