In which I stand in front of Van Gogh’s sunflower painting for much longer than is socially appropriate

Amsterdam has about a million museums. Tulip museum. Purse museum. Cheese. Pancake. Rembrandt.  Alas, we don’t have time or money to see them all, but the two that made our must-see-whilst-in-Amsterdam cut were 1) Van Gogh and 2) Anne Frank.

 

Drinking coffee and watching the weird Amsterdam weather (sleet to rain to sunshine all in about 2 minutes)

I’ve always loved Van Gogh. As a human being—fascinating. As an artist—brilliant, but in a very human way, if that makes sense. And as a lover of sunflowers, I’m predisposed to adore. One of the coolest things about the museum exhibit we saw (Van Gogh at Work) is that it follows his career from its earliest stages. You get to watch his technique evolve, see him figure out perspective and color combinations as he studies under and admires the work of others. If you looked at his landscapes closely, you could see grains of sand, sometimes a bit of grass, stuck in the thick dabs of paint. I love that he immersed himself so much in the world he painted that it literally became part of the piece. I think the most powerful writing is done in much the same way.

 

Museum District + moody sky

When we first entered the museum, I told Andrew, “If we get separated, meet me at the sunflowers,” which was quite poetic if I do say so myself, but also unnecessary (thank goodness) because we both completely missed the sunflower wing on our first go-round. After a brief moment of panic in which I considered the fact that the sunflowers might be *gasp* ON LOAN, I gathered myself and approached the information desk, where a skinny Dutchman assured me I was just an idiot, and they were on the first floor.

The Anne Frank Museum we visited after a delicious Indian meal on the Prinsengracht canal. I’ve always felt a kinship to Anne, as silly as that may be to say. I remember reading her diary as a young girl myself, getting caught up in her precocious accounts, being touched by her audacity and hope, and then experiencing the shocking revelation that had I been alive in 1942, this story could have been mine. Like me, Anne wanted to be a writer, longed to pen stories that people actually read and admired. But unlike me, Anne was confident it would happen for her. And in a strange and poignant way, it did.

I also played Anne in my school’s 6^th grade production of the Anne Frank play. Mostly when I think about that performance, I think about the fact that I had to do an “on-stage kiss,” aka a boy put his hand on my face and then kissed his own hand as quickly as possible. At twelve-years-old, this was about as sweat-inducing as anything we could imagine. The halls were atwitter with the scandal of it for weeks.

Many of my lines in the play, which I tried so hard to understand and do justice to at the time, took on new life when I reread them on the walls of the house where she hid. The slow and winding walk through the house, past the original secret bookcase and up steep staircases, gave you just enough time to digest the tidbits you saw. A single quote. A smiling childhood portrait. The red and pink checkered diary itself, open on a pillow. The windows are covered, as they had to be when the Franks lived there, so they wouldn’t be detected, and the effect is subtle, but smothering. Two years in this place? A teenager? The reality of the situation I had read about as a kid started settling in.

The museum ends on a tear-jerking, but hopeful note, which I like to think Anne would approve of. Otto, her father and only surviving member of the Amsterdam hideaway house, speaks on a short video clip. It’s impossible to imagine the extent of his sadness, but rather than succumb to it, he spent the rest of his life advocating against discrimination and injustice like that suffered by so many in WWII.

"If you believe in magic, you'll find it."

Today is out last day in Amsterdam! After Andrew finishes doing laundry at this little roadside Laundromat, we’re going to see where the day takes us and then hop on a night train to Munich, where (summon all positive vibes) my suitcase will finally reach me.  Good thing I look so good in this black and white sweater because I’ve had to wear it four days in a row now.