When Sandrine and I went to the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam, I had this amazing reaction to his work and found myself making connections and having insights into life and art. I spent a lot of time wandering around the gift shop, deciding what would be the right gift for myself to remind me of this experience, to become my touchstone. I decided upon a book about his letters, mostly the ones to his younger brother, Theo, and lots of postcards of his paintings.
It's the process that's most interesting to me. And he wrestled with his process A LOT. He would sketch the painting on which he was working in the letters he sent. He spent a lot of time practising, exploring different tools and images and styles, figuring out how to translate his thoughts and visions into this other medium. And I find it comforting to have that process made tangible before me because so much of my process is stuck in my head and never made tangible, especially when I am not working on a production.
I think this may be my Van Gogh period. I have magnets with images from his paintings and some quotes from his letters. They are there to inspire me, to center me, to remind me that this is a life-long journey in which I am still figuring out my medium. I am hoping I can accept that the work I am doing right now are like the treatments he did before his paintings (such as for The Potato Eaters). I've already experienced this with the presentation I delivered on Saturday; I'm already thinking about the next round of research to refine and rephrase my argument more successfully. I am understanding better why many academics will get articles published and then collect them and rework them for a book as the through-line develops.
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If you are interested there is a play called Vincent in Brixton that was based on some of his letters to Theo.
Thanks for the suggestion, Nora. And thanks for the Tom Stoppard one you recommended earlier; it was more murder-mystery, but helpful to consider. Hope you're doing well, love!
And then there is the Don McLean song "Starry, Starry, Night"
Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer's day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills,
Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land.
Starry, starry night.
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze, Swirling clouds in violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.
For they could not love you,
But still your love was true.
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night,
You took your life, as lovers often do.
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you.
Portraits hung in empty halls,
Frameless head on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met,
The ragged men in the ragged clothes,
The silver thorn of bloody rose,
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.
Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...
An analysis of the lyrics is at: http://www.vangoghgallery.com/painting/starrynightlyrics.html
... Dad
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