In Memory of Gehry

Shards of Light

It was a hot summer day, the kind where the air becomes heavy before you even start moving. I entered the train, instantly surrounded by a sea of French voices—fast, soft, musical, and completely overwhelming in the heat. The journey stretched ahead. I opened my book and kept reading about my new destination: Arles in the south of France. Van Gogh’s madness and color were already alive in my mind, but lately another image had joined him—Frank Gehry’s strange metallic tower rising from the flat landscape like a broken mirror. That contrast alone was exciting enough to make the heat tolerable.

I was lost somewhere between sunflowers and titanium reflections when a man stopped beside me.

“Excuse me,” he asked in French, pointing to the seat next to me. “Is this place free?”

With a trace of hesitation, I said yes. Out loud, polite and calm. Inside, less generous: Please, no. It’s too hot. I need air.

But he sat down anyway.

A few minutes passed in silence, the train rattling forward, metal against metal, sunlight trembling through dusty windows. Then we started talking—first about the heat, then about destinations. It didn’t take long to realize we were both heading to Arles, though for different reasons. He was going for work, something connected to restoration, stones, old walls, history that needed careful hands. I was going for something else entirely.

I told him about Van Gogh first. Everyone does. Then, almost as an afterthought, I mentioned Gehry.

“The LUMA tower,” I said. “That strange silver thing in the middle of nowhere.”

He smiled. “Ah yes. Some people hate it.”

“Some people hate Van Gogh too,” I replied.

Outside, the landscape slowly flattened. Wide fields. Pale yellows. Dusty greens. The light was brutal and endless. I imagined Gehry’s building ahead of us, its fractured skin cutting the sunlight into sharp reflections, throwing it back into the sky like a shattered sun. A foreign object inside a Roman city. Or maybe just the newest layer in a very thick history.

He spoke about stones; I spoke about steel. Two different languages, strangely compatible.

Somewhere between Avignon and Arles, the irritation I had first felt about losing my precious pocket of air disappeared. The heat was still there, pressing against skin and fabric, but now it felt shared. The train slowed. Industrial edges appeared. Low buildings. No postcards yet. No paintings. No shiny tower—only the quiet pause before arrival.

When the loudspeaker finally announced Arles, we stood up at the same time. The air inside the wagon felt unbearable now. But outside—outside, I was certain—the silver tower was already catching the sun, waiting.