The shadowy room in the inn

It was Saturday, 29 July 2017. On that day, it was exactly 127 years since Vincent van Gogh had breathed his last in the Auberge Ravoux in Auvers-sur-Oise. What more fitting tribute could there be than to visit Van Gogh’s final place of residence on this very day? At around half past nine, IJsbrand and I arrived at the Gare du Nord to take the special Impressionist train to Auvers.*
I had feared that the train — especially on such a commemorative day — would be unbearably crowded, but to my great surprise it was remarkably quiet. Apart from us, only a small handful of tourists from Japan and two Americans boarded the train. Little more than half an hour after departing Paris, the train pulled into the tiny station of Auvers, and at first glance it was clear that very little had changed in the village since Van Gogh’s stay there.
As the train departed behind me towards its next destination, I immediately caught sight of the first landmark familiar from Van Gogh’s paintings: rising above the rooftops stood the tower of the Notre-Dame of Auvers. The sight of that tower sent a shock through me. It was almost comparable to a teenage girl meeting her idol. I had seen the tower so many times before — in the painting at the Musée d’Orsay, in books, and in reproductions — yet none of it compared to actually standing in that very place.
Throughout the entire day in Auvers I experienced moments like these: in the oppressive heat of the wheat fields where Van Gogh found the inspiration for his Wheatfield with Crows; in the house of Dr Gachet, where Marguerite’s piano still stands in the corner; but above all in the Auberge Ravoux, opposite the picturesque town hall.

It was in this inn that Van Gogh spent the final seventy days of his life. Since 1993, the inn has been renamed the “Maison Van Gogh” — not so much a museum as a memorial. There is not a single work by Van Gogh on display, and yet every day it draws admirers of the artist from all over. Those who come here are not called tourists, but pilgrims, in search of Van Gogh’s silence. The Maison Van Gogh itself describes it as follows: “Rien à voir … mais tout à ressentir.” Nothing to see, yet everything to feel. In all its austerity, the room possesses something magical. Because of its limited size — barely seven square metres — only a small number of people are admitted at any one time.
Before entering the actual room, visitors (or rather, pilgrims) wait in a reception area that also conveniently serves as the museum shop. With a faint sense of nervous anticipation, I stayed close to the door that would eventually grant access to room number five, where Vincent had spent the last hours of his life. When the moment finally arrived and the guide swung open the door, I was the first of our small group of six to climb the stairs to the room.
It was rather dark inside and, compared to the heat outdoors, surprisingly cool. With goosebumps running over my skin, I climbed the staircase and entered the small, dusky room. The only daylight filtered in through a tiny skylight above. For one brief moment I stood there alone, and it was absolutely true: there was nothing to see, yet so much to feel. One could vividly imagine Theo sitting beside the bed of his beloved brother Vincent, who was dying from a gunshot wound — in all likelihood self-inflicted.

There are very few spaces capable of conveying emotion so powerfully. I barely heard what the guide was saying — though she told the story well — because my thoughts drifted to everything that had unfolded in this room and in Auvers 127 years earlier. The optimism with which Vincent van Gogh began his time in Auvers, his many visits to Dr Gachet, whose house stood about half an hour’s walk from the inn, the shimmering and perhaps even maddening heat of the wheat fields, and finally his funeral near those very same fields.
Still somewhat dazed by all these impressions, I descended the stairs again some twenty minutes later. By then, the door to the inn’s dining room had also been opened. Here too, it felt as though time had stood still. Through the lace curtains one could make out the faint outlines of the town hall, and inside the same reverential silence prevailed. The scent of herbs filled the entire room, revealing that the space was still — or once again — being used as a dining room.
It was here, on 30 July 1890, that the coffin containing the body of Vincent van Gogh was laid out, surrounded by sunflowers and his own paintings. An official funeral service in the Notre-Dame of Auvers — something Theo had dearly wished for his brother — was refused because of Vincent’s self-inflicted death and his Protestant faith. From here, the procession of artist friends from Paris departed for the short walk to the cemetery. Along the way, they passed the town hall, the church, and the wheat fields: places in Auvers that Van Gogh would ultimately make world-famous.

Reproduction used:
The Church at Auvers. 1890L’Église d’Auvers-sur-Oise
Oil on canvas. 74 × 94 cmMusée d’Orsay, Paris(inv. RF 1951 42)

Link to the original article by Diana Kostman: https://www.artemisomnibus.nl/blog/de-schemerachtige-kamer-in-de-herberg

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