Van Gogh | Jodi Hills

Time was about to change from Central to Mountain, and we, along with our GPS, were hovering somewhere in between. It was 2:08pm. We had 58 miles to go to our next destination, and were expected to arrive at 2:07pm. Our Toyota had turned into a Time Machine.

It was the smallest of towns. They didn’t have a Main Street, but they had a loop. The first directional sign said simply, Van Gogh. We looked at each other. It was spelled the same, but certainly they couldn’t have one. And we had been fooled once before — in Mississippi they have an O’Keefe Art Museum. Excited I didn’t notice the missing “f” as Georgia O’Keeffe spelled it. No, it was not Georgia, but the lesser known Jerry.

Not wanting to be Jerried again, we followed the sign with low expectations. Looking around, Dominique said, “Well, where is it????” Looking up I said, “Oh there it is,” pointing to the massive replica of Sunflowers on an 80 foot steel easel. Of course it wasn’t an actual Van Gogh, but it was real in the sense that it was actually there, all 40,000 pounds of it.

Now some may have been disappointed. And having stood in front of his paintings at face level, marveling, you’d think I’d be one of them. But I wasn’t disappointed. I chose to think that maybe our Toyota really was a Time Machine, and here we stood, back in time. And loving Van Gogh as I do, this scale felt just about right.

I suppose everything is how we choose to see it. And sometimes, you just have to look up.

I can’t say it was the most comfortable lap, my grandfather’s. If you wanted something soft, you went to my grandma. Her lap was pillowed with sugary treats, and as soft as the toasted marshmallows she loved to eat from Jerry’s Jack and Jill grocery store. You could easily get lost in her folds of love. So what was it that my grandfather had? First of all, I rarely saw him seated. He was skinny. The farm saw to that. He smelled of earth and pipe tobacco. And just where my head would reach, between his chest and shoulders, were the hooks and buttons of his overall straps. The real comfort came, I suppose, straight from the heart. To be let in, this was the magic. To be offered these rare moments of respite. Between the field and the plate wiped clean with a sheet of bread. To be given the time, when time was currency. This was pure love. Perhaps it’s not visible to the naked eye, but I know the button imprint remains on my cheek, and somewhere deep in my heart.

People often ask me, “Do you come from a long line of artists?” My first thought is the quote from Vincent Van Gogh — “There is nothing more artistic than to love people.” My grandmother’s quilts still keep me warm across the sea. The portraits I painted of my grandfather keep me safe. Protected. My mother’s blouses wrap me in a love that will never die. I was loved. I am loved. Still. I walk daily within this gallery given. So, YES! The answer is always yes! I come from a long line of artists. Today, in my most humble of ways, on canvas and paper, I attempt to pass on the line. To pass on the love.