The name of this Van Gogh painting is “Undergrowth With Two Figures”
Some details:
Oil on canvas 50.0 x 100.5 cm. Auvers-sur-Oise: June, 1890 F 773, JH 2041
Cincinnati: The Cincinnati Art Museum
In a letter to his younger brother, Theo, dated June 30, 1890, van Gogh explained the structure and brilliant colors of “Undergrowth with Two Figures”: “The trunks of the violet poplars cross the landscape perpendicularly like columns,” adding “the depth of Sous Bois is blue, and under the big trunks the grass blooms with flowers in white, rose, yellow, and green.” (google Art&Culture)
Well, this really happened. I think writing the story was my way of processing it.
Training
“See that guy?” Rhonda, the senior server, pointed through the circle of glass in the swinging door between the kitchen and dining room.
Genevieve nodded. The lone man, bald and age-spotted, occupied a table in an otherwise empty room filled with faded Victoriana and late autumn sunlight, eating the breakfast Rhonda had just delivered.
“He eats the same thing every time he comes here. Always alone, a couple times a year late in the season. Eggs Benedict. Bring him two sweet rolls and decaf. You’re new, so he won’t trust you, especially after I’m gone. Bring a steak knife with the eggs. Bring a separate dinner plate of kale.”
“To eat?” Genevieve asked, thinking of the tough crunchy stuff between her own teeth.
“Yeah, the whole plate. Gross, huh?”
“And a knife for poached eggs?”
Laughter erupted in the kitchen behind them. Rhonda smirked, drawing out the moment, Genevieve thought.
“Yeah,” Rhonda said. “So he can kill you if you get his order wrong.”
“Shut up. He’s a nice guy. He tips good.” The red-haired server, Kyleigh, wrung out a clean rag by the sink. “Don’t listen to him, Gen, they’re just trying to scare you.”
The sweating breakfast cook, surrounded by boiling pots, said, “Just don’t make him mad, new girl.”
“Don’t marry him and make him mad!” the prep cook shouted.
“They can’t prove anything,” Kyleigh called back, anger in her voice.
Rhonda glanced through the little window again, Genevieve beside her. Their customer read with his folded newspaper propped against the coffee carafe, cutting up kale with a knife and fork.
“Keep it down, you guys,” Rhonda hissed. “Come here, you.” She pulled Genevieve away from the door, to the other side of the room where the table for salad prep stood, littered with diced tomato, onion, and cucumber. Rhythmic chopping filled the air.
“Listen. Last year there was an article in the Globe about him. His wife disappeared. At their house, the police found blood.” She paused again, leaning a little closer to Genevieve. “It was hers.”
The prep cook wiped at his red face with his sleeve. “No body, no crime.”
Genevieve pulled her braid nervously. What would she say to the man if he sat in her station? How could she look him in the eye knowing everyone thought he’d murdered his wife?
“You have to have motive,” the salad prep said. “It’s not like he’ll get her life insurance, not until they find her.”
“Maybe she left.” Kyleigh pulled the toaster crumb tray out from the ancient toaster and wiped it off into the sink.
“Maybe she has dementia and wondered away. My grandma does that all the time.” Genevieve started folding napkins, unsure how she felt about contributing to the conversation. She didn’t like to gossip, but it was hard to avoid here.
Kyleigh brushed crumbs from her hands. “Oh, that’s so sad.”
“Maybe she was wicked sick?” The new dish washer brushed by Genevieve with a rack of steaming hot silverware to sort. “Maybe it was a mercy killing.”
“There would be medical records.” The salad prep popped a head of lettuce onto the sideboard and ripped out its stem. “Dr. Kevorkian he’s not.”
“The cops always suspect the person closest to the victim,” Rhonda said, heading back for the dining room. She stopped short with a gasp.
The door swung open, then fell back. A grunt as the heavy wood landed on the arm wrapped in a gray cashmere sweater, accompanied by a rattle of plates.
The breakfast cook bared his teeth and cocked his head. “Heeere’s Johnny!”
Genevieve didn’t think it was funny anymore.
Rhonda swore and waved her arms. “It’s him.”
Kyleigh said, “He can’t come back here. Stop him, Gen.” She wiped her buttery hands on a cloth with quick movements. “Jesus, never mind. Hey, Mr. W,” she sing-song-ed, putting a sashay into her walk. “You’ve got to give the door a hard kick—if he slips and sues us—Gee, are you looking for a job, we’ve got plenty of work back here for you.”
She held the door for him, then took the plates with expert ease as he peered bashfully around the room. Once she unloaded the plates by the dish pit, she led him back to the door, sweet talking him into the dining room. She threw a glare over her shoulder at them. Nobody spoke. Work had effectively stopped.
“Boy, he’s an old man,” the dishwasher finally said.
My very first novel was set in 12th century Siena. I completed it in 2012 or so, and it was a hot mess, but I got it done. I had only ever completed two short stories before this, and I knew I wanted to write novels and not short stories, so seeing this 100,000 word monster through was important. This particular incarnation won’t see the light of day, but the setting, the story, and the main characters stayed with me, and I’m hoping to get their story reworked and completed one day.
In the 12th century, Florence and Siena were rivals, divided by many things over the decades. This is the era of Dante, before he was exiled, when he was a young man mooning over Beatrice. There is a famous battle, painted on the walls in a municipal building in Siena’s Campo depicting the battle of Montaperti in 1260.
Siena, like so many towns in Italy, is built on a hill and dates back to Roman times, so it was originally a fort. It’s famous for the horse race, the Palio, that sends bareback riders zooming around the Campo, an ancient tradition.
The military nature of medieval Tuscany is why Siena is divided into contrade, neighborhoods with specific insignia and traditions and intertwining families. When the alarm bells rang, the men of the neighborhoods would go to the warehouse nearby where they kept the weapons. The contrade each also train and race the horses, with colors and emblems centuries old. Each contrade has a church and museum. Tourists don’t go in them. Siena and the Sienese are not interested in tourists or the tourist economy. Sienese see through tourists. It’s very strange compared to other destinations, but I knew about it before we took this trip. The people and the town are very insular, but I’ve read some interesting books about outsiders adopted by a contrada. If you’re interested, Seven Seasons In Siena by Robert Rodi is a book I highly recommend.
Tourists usually only go for day trips to Siena, but we stayed a week. It’s tiny but charming and we walked through all the contrade and from gate to gate to gate. Lots of very steep hills to get the cardio going. I was already in love with the Siena in my head, and I’m dying to go back.
I’m posting some pictures showing the contrade symbols and colors so you can get an idea. They don’t represent any ideals, and I’m not sure what their origins are. There are abolished contrade, too, from before a massive consolidation in the 18th century.
Also, keep in mind this is where the original Romeo and Juliet story came from. A book about this, fiction, is Juliet by Anne Fortier, highly recommended. Writing about them makes me want to read them all over again!
A little hand-drawn love for the Forest…
The black and white flag, if I remember correctly, is the Wolf contrada. Lupa refers to the she-wolf, of Remus and Romulus fame, and the legendary founders of Siena, Senius and Aschius, Remus’s sons.
Onda, the wave. All the contrade also have allies and enemies in the other contrade.
Valley of the Ram. I love all the little embellishments, and they mark the boundaries.
There are 17 contrade. And this post was quite a rabbit hole!
The thing about posting the pictures is that I get to relive those moments again. Porto, Portugal is the first place we traveled to post Covid in 2022. In 2019 we were in Granada, but the beloved’s mom, The Lovely Linda, was ill and it was a bittersweet trip, because we knew it was the end, and she was gone the next month. She’s the one who gave us the means, when we were younger, to travel, as she had the wanderlust. The next year, on the eve of the pandemic, we were at her memorial in Baltimore, Maryland, and that’s the last place we visited before the shut downs started.
So Porto was meant to be extra special, and as it turns out, one of the most magical places we’ve visited. The people in general were absolutely sweet and the streets along the Douro River were filled with music and vendors. A party atmosphere pervaded; I think we weren’t the only ones relieved to be out and about and still standing. It was September, and the weather was much like ours was back home, hot and humid, and some days it rained, but that was okay. We weren’t there for the beach.
I can’t recall who the artist is, but it’s an homage to the wives of the fishermen who used to be away for months at a time fishing cod…
“The 30-foot-tall Maman spider sculpture crawls along the river’s edge just outside the Guggenheim. One of French-American artist Louise Bourgeois’ most ambitious works, the arachnid is cast of bronze and stainless steel, with marble eggs. Crafted as a tribute to her mother, a weaver, it was installed in 1999.” Joshua Mellin
The Guggenheim, built to look like the sails of a ship…
I started knitting hats for myself (see A is for Alopecia) but realized, once I watched videos over and over and my fingers and brain made the connection, that I really loved it. I donated over 80 knitted hats at the end of last year to a local shelter and the large national charitable distributor Warm Up America (https://warmupamerica.org/). Since the end of last year, I’ve got over 40 hats completed, and started crocheting blanket squares to donate. Also little soap sacks make from cotton yarn for S.A.C.K., Supporting A Community with Kindness (https://www.soapsacks.com/)
I have a hard time reading a pattern, so I usually just re-write them so I can understand them. Mostly it’s watching videos. Tunisian crochet looked interesting too, so I got some ultra long crochet hooks and some yarn on sale at Joann’s and off I went.
I’ve done nothing fancy yet, just your basic knit 1 purl 2 but I hope to soon. I have yet to accomplish a granny square–I keep giving up over the hopeless mess it becomes, but I’ll get there, lol.
I guess I don’t have enough to do, so I promised a neighbor I would make some jewelry to contribute to her charity drive for the local children’s hospital at Christmas. She doesn’t want knitted or crocheted things because apparently everyone wants to knit for her, and she can’t sell it all. I’m hoping by making such a commitment, it will force me to sit and bead with purpose and focus. In the past, I gave up too easily in frustration with crafts, but recent success with knitting and crocheting has made me believe I can take this on, too.
Coffee And Ink 
You must be logged in to post a comment.