As I find the thirty-three-year-old version of myself standing in front of one of history’s more well-known paintings -- well known at least to laypeople like myself -- I find my concentration flickering back and forth between my current experience and that of where I was when I first was introduced to this work in grade school.

It feels a different today, more real, the brushstrokes more tactile, more effortlessly displaying their purpose. Each one a timeless bread crumb left by Van Gough himself, allowing us to follow his emotional path, inviting us to feel as if we are standing beside him, staring off into the abyss of the night, with little effort given to where the gaze falls. The eyes by chance landing on the nearby town, one of those trance-like fixations of one’s vision that allows the concept of time to slowly dissolve. The mind offers up a reminder, a whisper to redirect focus or even just to blink, but the body does not respond. Stuck, as if fixated in place by a thick mud, the small beginnings of movement stifled before they can fully manifest, tightening the grip of the moment. Never before having been more present in a singular experience, feeling one with the world, the breath synchronizing with the wind, the distant stars pulsating with one’s own heartbeat. Everything outside of the direct aim of the gaze is now out of focus, blurry, more whimsical, the mind having its fun playing with shapes, lights, the fabric of reality viewed from this window in my mind.

But are my hands on the window’s ledge, feeling the heaviness of the damp evening air, the presence of this transcendental being to my left sharing the same view? Or does that wooden ledge feel dryer all of the sudden? Dry, with that familiar film of dusty residue that was ever-present on the tables of my grade school art studio -- I can still feel it between my thumb and fingers, rubbing them together in a futile effort to remove its presence. Was that palpable scent of paint coming from Van Gough’s canvas, or was it the overflowing cabinet of liter-sized jugs of paint I could spy over my left shoulder. Both rooms dark, but this room of my past had the familiar hum of a projector fan -- click-click -- the familiar voice of my art history teacher speaking over it -- click-click -- I was close enough to feel the heat emanating from the industrial light bulb powering the images being splashed on the wall -- click-click -- as we circulated through the various painting of the impressionist era -- click-click -- there it is! What a wonder to see the difference in these two experiences as my mind again flashes back and forth, traveling effortlessly through time and space, anchored by these two versions of the same piece of art.

Justin Stroud

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