Van Gogh and Toulouse-Lautrec on the Way to Pere Tanguy's

Floyd Skloot

From behind they look like father and son
hurrying down a wintry Paris street.

The one on the right speeds up as the one
on the left doffs his Homburg, stops to greet
all the women, then shambles to rejoin
his lanky partner who casts suspicious
glances left and right. Henri takes a coin
from his pocket; Vincent hurls a vicious
look at the beggar reaching out for it.

He believes the poor need a different kind
of help, something to arouse the spirit.
It has not been long since he tried to find
the light inside a pauper’s home himself.

He rubs a hand over the red stubble
of his beard and hair, singing to himself
a crude song he recalls from the rubble
of last night at the swanky cabaret
Henri favors. When the little man sleeps
is anyone’s guess. Vincent wants to say
come along, wants to ask why Henri keeps
wasting time if he was in such a rush
to get there. They both need paints and Vincent
hopes old Tanguy will throw in a new brush
or two, and canvas, perhaps some solvent.

After all, Tanguy has seven Van Gogh’s
stashed here and there. He would be a damn fool
to cut Vincent off now. Everyone knows
that though Tanguy is soft, he is no fool.

Hissing through his teeth, Vincent turns to see
a flash of sunlight off Henri’s pince-nez.
Such a flabby face. He can see Henri’s
bulging eyes even from this far away.

Poor man. Then Vincent notices his friend
has burst into crimson and yellow flame!
Nothing he can do. This must be the end
of Paris, a message from God. The same
thing happened outside Eindhoven a year
ago, friends erupting in fire that lit
a broad stand of cypresses. It was clear
to him then and he made the requisite
move in three days. Still, he will need supplies
if he is to capture what he has seen:

Out of fire, a dwarf comes stumbling with cries
of joy on his moist lips, with blue and green
streaks weighing down his cheeks. Good Lord, the man
is odd looking. Suddenly Vincent hears
what this demon is shouting and he can
hardly believe it. Devil! Those are tears,
fading as he nears, and that is laughter
coming from his lips as he gasps you are
looking wild, my friend. Is someone after
you? and takes Vincent’s arm. It is not fair,
it is the same thing all over again.

He mutters in English, then French, then Dutch,
thinking he must be near flowers, not men,
he must have peace, is that asking too much?

First there must be color, which is the same
thing Henri thinks as he looks up and knows
he must paint Van Gogh’s portrait, all the pain
there, the vast hunger, all the rage that shows
itself in planes and shapes that never rest,
that are in motion as he vows to paint
a portrait of his friend Toulouse-Lautrec.

Looking down, Vincent knows he has been seen.
All the folds of Henri’s face disappear
and rosy petals blossom from his head,
so delicate in this light, so sheer.
Vincent smiles. Tanguy’s shop is just ahead.

Visit Floyd Skloot at Image Artist of the Month for February '05

Issue #27 • Summer 2000