Now place yourself in Washington DC, inside a big box outlet, a former Save a Lot, where groceries were once tagged and bagged near the Amtrak train yards. There are none of the flowers or cafés that marked Van Gogh’s years in France, but blazing projectors streaming images of his paintings across every square foot of surface area, as classical music piped in over loudspeakers completes the sense of aerosolised serenity.
There are nearly 40 Impressionist-ish installations across the US, thanks to Emily in Paris. Do the exhibitions live up to the hype?
Picture yourself in Arles, where the Rhône meets the Côte d’Azur in France, a flâneur taking in the bustling boutiques that line the road to the Roman amphitheatre or the ancient baths built by Constantine along the river. Imagine the softness of the sun as it falls in Provence. The place where Vincent Van Gogh found abundant light and temporary respite, a wanderer among the sunflowers.
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