- Chanticleer International Goethe Award 1st place 2024
- Pulitzer Prize Nominee 2024
- International Firebird Award, Second Place Literary Fiction 2024
- Literary Titan, 5 Star Gold Medal 2024
- NY Big Book Awards, Distinguished Favorite 2024
- Shelf Unbound Notable Indie 100, 2024
- International Coffee Pot Book Club Award, Silver Medal Historical Literary Fiction 2024
- Historical Fiction Company, Bronze Medal Literary Fiction 2022
Sabrine, hospitalized for five years at the infamous Salpêtrière Asylum for Women, gains her release due to intervention of her sister Julie Forette and a young Sigmund Freud. The reunited sisters are introduced to the dazzling art milieu of 1886 Paris, and soon become close friends to the leading Impressionists. Sabrine attracts a cult following as a poetess, the enigmatic "Haiku Princess." Seemingly cured by Freud of her Grand Hysteria, Sabrine soon enters into a tumultuous relationship with Vincent van Gogh.
Julie and Sigmund Freud, alarmed by the eerie parallels between the emotionally volatile couple and their self-destructive impulses, begin an urgent search to discover the root causes for Sabrine and Vincent's growing psychoses. Julie, 'The Dream Collector', seeks their most unforgettable dream for Freud's interpretation and revelations occur.
The Dream Collector is an exploration of the psychological consequences of betrayal, abandonment--and the redemptive power of art.
Julie and Sabrine, raised in Marseilles, find their passions for psychology, science, literature and art in 1886 Paris. The young women become close to artists Camille Pissarro, Toulouse-Lautrec, Edgar Degas and especially Vincent van Gogh. I share three chapter excerpts which exemplify their feelings about Vincent. The reader is invited to google two of Vincent’s masterpieces, The Sower (1888) and Starry Night(1889).
“Alchemy”
At dawn, the first rays entering the gallery were purest, a light that gently sought the paintings, slow movingly bringing them to life, the time I cherished, as the room transformed into an iridescent palace, and then I waited, my ritual: which painting would draw my attention. And there, Vincent’s dazzling landscape of a summer’s day took hold of me. His gigantic sun, dominant in the sky, spinning out unending rays of gold. Beneath the sun, his cornfield, a bright band of chrome yellow, grown thick, strong and high. A lone, blue-clad figure, the sower, strides across a furrowed field speckled in violet and blue, scattering seeds. The infusion of blue and burnished gold, Vincent’s favourite coloured harmony, imparts to the scene its lasting brilliance. The solitary figure toils under the furnace heat of the sun, the everyman, ploughing the earth, planting the seeds. More than ever, I felt the picture’s symbolic strength and Vincent’s abiding hope: here the cyclical condition of life, the toil, the strife, the unending effort to reach the promise of harvest. This painting a hopeful hymn for regeneration. I looked through tears at the sower in the sun. My tears for Vincent, the artist gone.
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| The Sower. Vincent van Gogh. Public domain. |
“The Visitors at the Full Moon Gallery”
Sabrine and I gazed at his Starry Night. It was as though he had dipped his brush in pure energy and swirled scores of blazing stars across a night sky drenched in cobalt blue. I felt this his boldest attempt to capture the serene mystery of nature and its nexus to humanity. A peaceful village nested below, the house windows lit in bright yellow. And comforting me the village church steeple reaching, rising heavenward toward Vincent’s spinning spheres. There was hopefulness in the painting, that something eternal—perhaps God—waited beyond the celestial night. “The stars are his destination,” Sabrine said. “He took death to reach them.” She turned, how lovely her green eyes. “You, Julie, shall be the guardian of Vincent’s art.” “Until others begin to understand his work.” When, I was not sure. Not one person, except Degas, had offered to buy any in the gallery. Sabrine gave more contemplation to the painting. “I like his moon. He does not paint it cold, pale, and lonely.” True, the moon was lemon yellow and as radiant as the sun. All of nature for Vincent held the same vibrant energy. I was struck by the cypress he placed in the foreground, spiraling up to the starry night. It seemed his own longing went into the cypress, to reach, as Sabrine said, for the limitless stars.
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| Starry Night. Vincent van Gogh. Public domain. |
“Vincent van Gogh’s Death”
Theo coaxed his wounded brother to lie down. “Rest, big brother, I am here.” “Oh, I thought you left me,” cried Vincent, “and with such terrible voices haunting me! Those awful sermons! Isaiah! Isaiah!” “Shhh... rest Vincent, save your strength.” “But I’m so cold!” Theo re-gathered the bedding and covered his brother’s bandaged chest. Vincent harnessed his waning strength and spoke out, his last vision. “I see our home in Zundert! Theo, I see it all so clearly! Our room... the sleigh bed we share... my collection of bird nests on the dresser table. From the kitchen window I can see the garden, the flowers we planted bloom... the snapdragons as white as snow, the purple dome asters. There we are, in Father’s church, sitting in the front pew... Father’s pulpit made of blonde oak that Mister Hoogenven built… Sunday’s sermon is listed... Mark 4, the parable of the sower. Oh, how miraculous... we’ve never left home. Mother opens all the windows, a view of the cemetery... the acacia tree with the magpie’s nest, the speckled blue eggs, one for me, one for you... the tombstone... his resting place. I see it all.” Theo began to sob. “Cry not, little brother. What I’ve done is for the good of everyone. Come, lie by me.” Theo slipped into bed, beside him. “This is the peace I seek,” Vincent murmured.
I saw them clearly, before Vincent gave up his last breath, the brothers locked in a gentle embrace, Sigmund might say, like lovers; but I only envisioned two boys exhausted from a day’s outing in the flower fields of Zundert.
