Holland,
Michigan – a small town in the South West Michigan. It is
everything “The Netherlands”, or the Original Holland is but in small
scale. A community exhibiting the culture they had migrated from –
windmills, wooden shoes, chocolates, and tulips. I had an opportunity
to visit this small town for their annual Tulip festival. Amidst the
fair in the downtown of Tulip City, the carnival parade, the Dutch
dance ceremonies, and others, my main attraction was to visit the
Tulip Garden. Some of my friends who had visited this unique floral
craft in past had praised enough to generate curiosity in me. With
the weather being little cooperative, I embarked on three hours drive
from Chicago.
The day was cloudy all along the ride to Holland. The reminiscent of last night rain was visible in humid soil. The Tulip Garden, owned by a private farm, welcomed with full parking lot. Extended parking lot was on a grass field where the walking trail was slippery and muddy. I waited in the queue at the entrance where I noticed that the entrance fee was slightly more than a movie ticket. I hoped to get a comparable amusement from the display.
The garden was arranged with queues of tulips. Assorted with different colors over a fifty acre lot, the garden was organized gracefully. However, I was disappointed by the bloom. The flower buds appeared tired. The flowers were withered. I accounted, may be it was the previous night's downpour. I progressed my tour of the garden. It was difficult to locate a bunch of flowers that could be represented well in my digital frame. Although, the rich variety of colors did amaze me.
I struggled to capture finest snaps of the tulips. I would bring my camera up to my eyelids, and then move it down. I repeated the act two or three times with different blossoms.
“Light is not goed (good)?”
I looked back, a tall gentleman, white beard, white hairs, wearing the thick wooden dutch shoes, smiled back at me. He appeared to be the farm employee.
“No, light is perfect, but I am not able to find one good bunch,” I complained.
“This year weather has played games. Veldheer is an experienced Tulip farmer. I come here often. He is known as God Father of Tulips. You should have come last year. There were so many different varieties of Tulips that I got tiered of counting. It is here from where I pick my colors,” he replied.
I requested him to expand on what did he mean.
“Look at my shoes. Very colorful...(they were indeed colorful). Up there at the wood shop, I pick up the shoe that I like the most. It is hard to find one,” he added.
I had read on my way to the entrance that the wooden shoes were indeed crafted at that place. I imagined how could he walk on those shoes. They were bulky.
“...I have tried the stores in the area, but no one carries my size (of shoes). What they carry does not suit me. These wooden shoes are perfect. Winter or Summer, I can walk on them anywhere – outside or inside,” he explained.
“It must be laborious to color these?” I asked.
He grinned, “No not at all. You just need to practice a lot. You want to see my workshop?”
I could not deny the opportunity. He led me to an old wind mill adjacent to the fields. I trotted on the wet soil. My Italian shoes and jeans got splattered with mud. When he walked no splash was made. I was impressed by his shoes especially the way they handled themselves on the wet pavements.
Inside the Windmill, it was lighted old fashioned way, without electricity. There were stock of raw shoe stock lying on one corner. The table next to it had jars of different colors. The paint brush was lying next to it with a half colored shoe.
I inspected the colors – they matched exactly to the color of tulips outside.
“Do you use the tulips to prepare these colors?” I asked.
“Yes...those tulips from Veldheer are my inspiration. Look at these colors, how vibrant, how alive, aren't they?”
They were indeed. I was mesmerized by the glow of the colors. They surpassed every single tulip that was outside. I wondered if my guide had stolen their beauty and captured them in his jars.
“This is where I work,” he directed my interest towards opposite section.
It was filled with canvases. Every canvas had Tulips painted on them. There was a canvas on which he had captured the Tulip Garden from last year. I got transfixed by his talent. The painting was more real than the exhibit outside. I congratulated him on his mastery of colors.
“Well, I try to bring them to life when possible,” he added modestly, “...there was a time when I could paint almost everything. Canvas was my life. I had painted portraits, fields, flowers, streets, rivers, and much more. Now it has been so long, I have become old, but the colors keep me connected to this world. I cannot let them go. When I see those Veldheer's tulips blossom, I cannot stop painting them. It is as if I am bound to them.”
I was beguiled by his art. I suggested him to organize a gallery of his paintings. He should not hide his immense talent.
He laughed, “Dank u! (or Thank You in English). I am alright. My paintings are already out there...”
I was enthralled. I congratulated him again. He gifted me his painting. The light was growing dimmer outside. A thunderstorm was approaching. I bid him farewell and returned to my car. I lifted the cover from the painting. It was a scene of tulips from last year.
I read his signature - “Van Gogh”
I returned to the garden, paid for the entrance ticket again, rushed to the windmill. It was empty. My favorite painter had become itinerant in the world of colors...
The day was cloudy all along the ride to Holland. The reminiscent of last night rain was visible in humid soil. The Tulip Garden, owned by a private farm, welcomed with full parking lot. Extended parking lot was on a grass field where the walking trail was slippery and muddy. I waited in the queue at the entrance where I noticed that the entrance fee was slightly more than a movie ticket. I hoped to get a comparable amusement from the display.
The garden was arranged with queues of tulips. Assorted with different colors over a fifty acre lot, the garden was organized gracefully. However, I was disappointed by the bloom. The flower buds appeared tired. The flowers were withered. I accounted, may be it was the previous night's downpour. I progressed my tour of the garden. It was difficult to locate a bunch of flowers that could be represented well in my digital frame. Although, the rich variety of colors did amaze me.
I struggled to capture finest snaps of the tulips. I would bring my camera up to my eyelids, and then move it down. I repeated the act two or three times with different blossoms.
“Light is not goed (good)?”
I looked back, a tall gentleman, white beard, white hairs, wearing the thick wooden dutch shoes, smiled back at me. He appeared to be the farm employee.
“No, light is perfect, but I am not able to find one good bunch,” I complained.
“This year weather has played games. Veldheer is an experienced Tulip farmer. I come here often. He is known as God Father of Tulips. You should have come last year. There were so many different varieties of Tulips that I got tiered of counting. It is here from where I pick my colors,” he replied.
I requested him to expand on what did he mean.
“Look at my shoes. Very colorful...(they were indeed colorful). Up there at the wood shop, I pick up the shoe that I like the most. It is hard to find one,” he added.
I had read on my way to the entrance that the wooden shoes were indeed crafted at that place. I imagined how could he walk on those shoes. They were bulky.
“...I have tried the stores in the area, but no one carries my size (of shoes). What they carry does not suit me. These wooden shoes are perfect. Winter or Summer, I can walk on them anywhere – outside or inside,” he explained.
“It must be laborious to color these?” I asked.
He grinned, “No not at all. You just need to practice a lot. You want to see my workshop?”
I could not deny the opportunity. He led me to an old wind mill adjacent to the fields. I trotted on the wet soil. My Italian shoes and jeans got splattered with mud. When he walked no splash was made. I was impressed by his shoes especially the way they handled themselves on the wet pavements.
Inside the Windmill, it was lighted old fashioned way, without electricity. There were stock of raw shoe stock lying on one corner. The table next to it had jars of different colors. The paint brush was lying next to it with a half colored shoe.
I inspected the colors – they matched exactly to the color of tulips outside.
“Do you use the tulips to prepare these colors?” I asked.
“Yes...those tulips from Veldheer are my inspiration. Look at these colors, how vibrant, how alive, aren't they?”
They were indeed. I was mesmerized by the glow of the colors. They surpassed every single tulip that was outside. I wondered if my guide had stolen their beauty and captured them in his jars.
“This is where I work,” he directed my interest towards opposite section.
It was filled with canvases. Every canvas had Tulips painted on them. There was a canvas on which he had captured the Tulip Garden from last year. I got transfixed by his talent. The painting was more real than the exhibit outside. I congratulated him on his mastery of colors.
“Well, I try to bring them to life when possible,” he added modestly, “...there was a time when I could paint almost everything. Canvas was my life. I had painted portraits, fields, flowers, streets, rivers, and much more. Now it has been so long, I have become old, but the colors keep me connected to this world. I cannot let them go. When I see those Veldheer's tulips blossom, I cannot stop painting them. It is as if I am bound to them.”
I was beguiled by his art. I suggested him to organize a gallery of his paintings. He should not hide his immense talent.
He laughed, “Dank u! (or Thank You in English). I am alright. My paintings are already out there...”
I was enthralled. I congratulated him again. He gifted me his painting. The light was growing dimmer outside. A thunderstorm was approaching. I bid him farewell and returned to my car. I lifted the cover from the painting. It was a scene of tulips from last year.
I read his signature - “Van Gogh”
I returned to the garden, paid for the entrance ticket again, rushed to the windmill. It was empty. My favorite painter had become itinerant in the world of colors...
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