CELTICLADY'S REVIEWS: The Dream Collector: Sabrine & Vincent van Gogh by R.w. Meek Book Tour! @cathiedunn @thecoffeepotbookclub

Book Title

The Dream Collector “Sabrine & Vincent van Gogh”

Series

Book II

Author

R.w. Meek

Publication Date

April 30th, 2024

Publisher

Historium Press

Pages

651

Genre

Historical Fiction

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.

Universal Buy Link

https://books2read.com/u/baLazP

Hardback Link US

https://www.amazon.com/Dream-Collector-Sabrine-Vincent-Gogh/dp/1962465349

Excerpt 8

“Guard the Tear”

WANTING TO find Gauguin, guided by intuition, I headed straight from rue Lepic to the Tambourine Café, a ten minute walk on the snow laden sidewalk. He was known to frequent the café ever since Vincent had introduced him to La Segatori. There was a chance he might be there on this lonely night, exorcizing his own disquieting thoughts, either through drink or sex. Most of the Tambourine waitresses offered their feminine charms for a price. If not at the café, I hoped La Segatori might know of his whereabouts.

What I wanted from Gauguin was his version of what happened in Arles. The café, when I entered, was nearly deserted except for a few regulars hunkered around the small bar who were not speaking a word to each other. At her special tambourine table, la Segatori eyed me with some suspicion, blowing a lazy stream of smoke in my direction. The painting Vincent made of her before he left Paris captured her melancholy demeanor all too well. She had some sort of feather piece atop her head, not quite a hat, its carmine plumage somehow enfolded into her coal black hair.

Signaled to her table, I sat. Her dark, thick eyebrows rose, waiting for the reason I was there.

“Good-evening, la Segatori.”

“It’s been a long time. Whatever happened to that good-looking boyfriend of yours, the doctor fella?”

“Dr. Freud returned to his native Vienna.”

“Always had an urge to take a firm grip of his beard with two hands and plant a kiss on those gorgeous lips.”

“You did pull his beard once, playfully.”

“I believe I did.”

Best to be direct with la Segatori. “I’m looking for Paul Gauguin.”

She took the tip of her remaining cigarette to light another, inhaling and exhaling luxuriantly. “Is that so?”

“It concerns Vincent van Gogh.”

“Gauguin? And Vincent van Gogh?” She gave out a thick-throated laugh. “So, you have an attraction to artists as well. Who then, shall we wonder, is best in bed?”

We both sat quiet, very quiet, I guess wondering who slept with whom? She grunted, “Bah! Better for you to stick with the doctor of cocaine.” She finished her beer and shrugged. “Gauguin. He's as handsome as a gypsy, but not my type. Who I let my guard down for was that other love-hungry sonofabitch. Therein lies my mistake.”

“Vincent?”

“I’m not sure what he expected from me.” She drew greedily on the cigarette. “Made it clear to him that I’d never been in love and didn't plan to be, not in this life. A businesswoman first, I told him plain as day.”

“Was… he in love with you?”

She focused on tapping the ash into the tray, giving herself time... perhaps wondering how candid she dared to be. No one in the near empty café was paying any attention to us. “Vincent falls in love,” she answered, “with the misfits. the downtrodden, the maimed. Yes, the people he thinks are outsiders, those he latches on to—with the best intentions. I happened to be more independent than he bargained for. We argued, too much. He thought I made bad business decisions with the café. Oh, I do have debts, and I do owe people, only Vincent never comprehended the subtleties of business.” She waved a hand around the café. “Used to have a lot of his paintings hanging on the walls. Damn good stuff, damn good artist. One day he came with a wheelbarrow and hauled them away. That's that. C’est la guerre.”