|Courtesy of www.VincentVanGogh.org|
Yesterday at sunset I was on a stony heath where some very small, twisted oaks grow, in the distance a ruin on a hill and wheat in the valley. It was romantic in the extreme, like a Monticelli, the sun shining its bright yellow rays on the bushes and the ground, an absolute shower of gold. And all the lines were beautiful; the whole thing had a charming nobility. One wouldn't have been in the least surprised suddenly to see knights and ladies returning from hawking or to hear the voice of some old Provencal troubadour. The land seemed violet, the distances blue.
Here's a new subject - a corner of a garden with round bushes and a weeping tree, and in the background clumps of oleander. And the grass, which has just been cut, with long trails of hay drying in the sun, and a small piece of blue-green sky at the top.