Olive Grove, Saint-Rémy

Vincent van Gogh’s *Olive Grove, Saint-Rémy* (1889) belongs to that feverish period of productivity during the artist’s confinement at the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum. The painting’s writhing olive trees—their gnarled trunks and silver-green leaves rendered in those characteristic, almost convulsive brushstrokes—feel less like a tranquil landscape than a kind of vegetal self-portrait. You can practically see van Gogh projecting his own restlessness onto the Provençal countryside, the way the branches twist upward as if straining against some invisible weight.
What’s often overlooked is how these olive groves became a recurring motif during his time in Saint-Rémy, appearing in at least 15 known works. There’s something almost liturgical about his fixation—the olive tree being such a loaded symbol in Christian iconography, from Gethsemane to the dove of Noah’s Ark. Yet van Gogh, ever the contrarian, strips away any overt biblical references. Instead, he zeroes in on the raw physicality of the trees themselves, their roots clawing into the ochre earth like arthritic fingers. The painting doesn’t preach; it vibrates.
Compared to his sunflowers or starry nights, these olive grove paintings feel quieter but no less intense. They lack the pyrotechnics of *The Starry Night* (painted that same summer), trading celestial drama for something more grounded—literally. The earth here isn’t just a backdrop; it’s an active participant, its warm tones pushing against the cool blues and greens of the foliage. It’s worth noting how often van Gogh returned to this particular grove, as if trying to solve some unspoken puzzle in the tangled branches. Maybe that’s why the painting feels less like a finished statement and more like a page torn from a diary—all urgency and unresolved energy.
The private collection status of this particular work adds another layer of intrigue. Unlike *The Olive Trees* now at MoMA or the Nelson-Atkins version, this one exists mostly through reproductions, which somehow feels appropriate. Van Gogh was never about polish or permanence; his best works have this rough, almost provisional quality, like they might dissolve back into paint if you stared too long. And honestly? That’s exactly what makes *Olive Grove, Saint-Rémy* so compelling—it’s not trying to be a masterpiece. It’s just van Gogh, a brush, and a patch of stubborn trees under the Mediterranean sun.