Open Space paint a picture of a yound Dutch artist
Posted on 13th November 2025
Nicolas Wright’s sneaky relocation of Van Gogh’s lodgings from Stockwell to Brixton must have triggered presumptions of urban grit for an audience in the noughties, when Vincent in Brixton was first performed at the National. In fact, we learn very early on that Stockwell was a genteel, suburban oasis for the art dealer Vincent aspired to be, who showed little sign of the ambition needed to paint pictures. We know, from his letters to his brother, little more than the bare bones of a biography, so Wright’s play invents a reason for his happiness while staying in South London. The narrative that unfolds might, for some, have stretched credulity in a way – as one wag put it – akin to an episode of Eastenders, but that’s all the more reason to commend a cast that brought the play to life.
Kris Letchumanen brought an easy-going charm to Sam the lodger, in pleasing contrast to Emily Walpone’s unusually vicious Anna, while Eugenie Loyer was played by Mabel Olliffe with an underplayed quietude that reminded me of a young Florence Pugh. However, this play succeeds or fails on the strength of the leads, and fortunately Joe and Cathy Edwards-Gill both excelled. Joe, with his undoubted comic skills, gets the gauche bluntness of Wright’s Vincent spot on. Who can say if young Van Gogh was really like this, but I have Dutch friends, and they are. He also captured, and this is where Wright strives to take the particular to illustrate a universal truth, how artists are often a curious hybrid of the vulnerable and the arrogant, far seeing yet oddly naive. Cathy was just as strong as his landlady Ursula Loyer, an exemplar of depression we can only see hints of in Vincent. This is what depression looks like, she seems to be saying, in case you haven’t yet looked in the mirror. When her character descends into blackness, Cathy pulled this off with a horrible stillness and raw authenticity I found hard to watch dispassionately.
I seem to remember that the original National Theatre production tipped a hat, through clever production design, to Vincent’s paintings. Chairs, wallpaper and especially starlit nights were all reminiscent of the artist’s work. There were hints of this, as Vincent sketched dirty boots sitting on the table, but I rather enjoyed that director David Green felt comfortable allowing the text to do more of the heavy lifting. With the help of an excellent cast, it proved to be a wise decision.