In Memory of Gehry

Shards of Light

It was a hot summer day, the kind when the air feels dense before any movement begins. The train was already filled with voices—French, fast and fluid, softened by the heat. The journey ahead was long. A book lay open, describing the destination: Arles, in the south of France. Van Gogh’s name appeared again and again, inseparable from the city, but another image had recently joined it—Frank Gehry’s metallic tower, rising unexpectedly from the flat landscape. The contrast between painted sunflowers and fragmented titanium suggested a place shaped by layers rather than continuity.

As the train moved forward, the rhythm settled in: metal against metal, sunlight filtering through dusty windows. Outside, the landscape slowly flattened into wide fields and pale colors—yellow grasses, muted greens, dust and light stretching toward the horizon. The heat was constant, pressing gently against skin and fabric, shaping perception as much as the view itself.

Thoughts moved between images. Van Gogh’s intense color and restless brushstrokes on one side; Gehry’s fractured surfaces and reflective skin on the other. One rooted in the fields and light of Provence, the other cutting into the same light with sharp, metallic angles. A foreign object in a Roman city, or perhaps simply the newest layer in a long sequence of transformations.

The train continued south. Fields gave way to infrastructure. The horizon lowered. Industrial edges appeared, quiet and unremarkable, as if holding back what was still unseen. No postcards yet, no paintings, no architecture—only the pause before arrival.

When the loudspeaker finally announced Arles, the train slowed and came to a stop. The air inside the wagon felt heavy with heat and motion. Outside, beyond the platform, the city waited. Somewhere nearby, the silver tower was already catching the sun, breaking it into shards of light.