Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Piers Anthony on Van Gogh


Twenty years ago when my late mother visited us, she brought a poster she had picked up at an exhibit of the paintings of Vincent Van Gogh, the famous Dutch post-impressionist artist 1853-1890. Unsuccessful, he committed suicide. Creative folk can be depressive; I have wondered whether if I could be completely free of my mild depression, but at the expense of my writing urge, would I do it? I suspect I would not. Van Gogh's success began after his death, slowly building, until now he is recognized as one of the formative artists of our world. I can't say I saw much in him myself, but we put up the poster, VAN GOGH IN ARLES, where we had wall space, which was in a downstairs bathroom. I could see it in the mirror as I brushed my teeth. I think I have looked at that picture more than any other in my life, simply because it was there when my eyes had nothing much else to do. And I came to appreciate it, and Van Gogh. I bought a huge book of his paintings, containing everything except the one we have, and read about his obscure life and sad death. Because he messed it up; he shot himself, but didn't kill himself immediately; he took many hours to die, saying even in this he was a failure. Too bad he couldn't have lived longer, to see his phenomenal later success.
Anyway, I stared at that painting, backwards in the mirror, many times a day, for twenty years. At first it seemed to be just a smearing of colors horizontally across the canvas. Then I realized that one band was more like a flowering hedge, and that gave definition to the foreground. Years later I realized that the hedge was more like a planting, dividing two lots, and there was a path through it. I tried to fathom where that path might lead, but couldn't locate it beyond the hedge. More recently I realized that there was another house in the painting. Or there had been, before the artist changed his mind and tried to mask it with a tree. The house is still there, masked, however; the artist in me can see it well enough. Stage by stage I came to understand the painting, perceiving the larger scene.
And that I think is a way of looking at life. We can't see all of it at first, but as time passes we pick up on more of it, until at last we have a pretty fair notion of its magnitude, though perhaps not a very great comprehension of it. We view it backwards through time, and episodes of childhood don't have quite the same meaning they did when we were younger. Who is to say which view is more accurate? All we can do is keep looking and pondering, hoping to get it closer to correct. Hoping that what we are will not entirely fade after we pass on, as Van Gogh did not.

7 comments:

  1. If only Van Gogh had an agent . . .

    Sometimes I ask myself why I did not start writing a lot earlier, like say 30 years ago. I had just as much angst then as now. The answer, of course, is I needed more of life's experience to have something to write about, and a computer.

    How did we ever manage without today's communications technology?

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  2. Books, too. Concepts I didn't understand thirty years ago are now ideas I love to think about. The rush of youth weighed against the carefully trod path of my looming dotage. Each gray hair earned, where I think some days I can hear them grow.

    I write adult fiction, but I seem overwhelmed by fluff, not concepts. The big idea behind every word. One word with me can have tremendous impact on a story, its conclusion, and where youth may skim, we oldsters listen to the voice the overall narrative provides.

    Some days I feel ahead of my time, underappreciated, not rated as of yet, but I won't give in. In the last twenty years I've been screwed to the wall, published to see no money, blackballed for standing up for author's right, my rights, lost online writing friends, became a collector's item with one book never to see a dime, and now publish myself (as a pen name so these same publishers never see a dime from my true name) with blog fans that don't buy. They read for free and leave, yet my blog grows on its own, week to week. It's frustrating but funny. Van Gogh should have had a dry sense of humor.

    "Try not! Do or do not, there is no try." - Yoda

    My favorite quote.

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  3. Not long ago I was watching a horror movie from 2009, The Shortcut, & it's pretty predictable fare but since Raymond Barry was in it I had to watch it. During 1 of the classroom scenes the art teacher was showing Van Gogh's work & talking about his life. She mentioned how he only sold 1 painting in his life. Talk about depressing. To me, that was far scarier than the movie.

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  4. Welcome to the blog sphere. And it seems that disease, hallucinations, and meds have really changed my view on life. I see things that I couldn't see in my 40s before I experienced pain. So I didn't understand Van Gogh yet either. I will have to go back and look at his paintings again.

    I have been writing for years, but it has only been recently that I have felt brave enough to show the world. In fact I didn't even show my friends until the last decade.

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  5. I have had the pleasure to view Van Gogh's work in various museums & his intensity really comes through in his brushstrokes. His letters to Theo are well worth reading if you haven't yet

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  6. I think depression and the arts go hand in hand. Just look at any artist/ musician/ poet's life.

    And yes, time has a way of opening our eyes, doesn't it?

    I am glad I found your blog. I grew up "living" in Xanth to escape the harshness of Mundania.
    :-)

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  7. I think depression and the arts go hand in hand. Just look at any artist/ musician/ poet's life.

    And yes, time has a way of opening our eyes, doesn't it?

    I am glad I found your blog. I grew up "living" in Xanth to escape the harshness of Mundania.

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