Van Gogh

The weather has sucked for the past two days. Nevertheless we have been on the move. Bus-style takes a bit of getting use to. Little groups are beginning to form, the same people meeting for dinner and breakfast. They become seating partners in the bus…those who grab the front seats and those who resign themselves to the back. Dad and I piloted the last seat in the bus and by the end of the day I felt invaded when Bill and Dan jumped protocol and joined us. By then, after visiting a diamond factory and the Van Gogh Museum with my uncle, I was ready to recline across the five seats for the hour and half ride back to the hotel. Instead I found myself engaged in conversation with Dan about his family back home in Wisconsin. No nap and no blogging.

The highlight of my day was the visit to Van Gogh’s Museum. As a kid I aspired to be an artist. Mrs.Gray, who by no means discouraged me, warned me that it was a tough way to make a living. Van Gogh certainly had a tough life choosing his profession at the age of twenty-seven. Like many young artist I studied the masters. I became acquainted with them during my high school art classes. Under the tutelage of Mr. Izzo, I won some art award at graduation for having the highest grade point average. I wasn’t headed off to college or any other place to hone my talent, if indeed I had any other than an acute insight to please the art teachers for a good grade. Mr. Izzo died my senior year of a heart attack, leaving school in his car only to pull off into the ditch and slump behind the wheel. I was shocked by the loss and art dropped off the radar as a means of self-support.

I picked up a camera, joined the army and the rest is side-tracked history.

After two days under dreary skies I appreciate what Van Gogh saw. The thick clouds release light in thin rays that highlight the most subtle of emotion. Seen from the eyes of a young man whose confidence hid deep inside a troubled mind so desperate to be released, Van Gogh sought to learn, to interrupt, to mimic and to recompose light under a sky that perpetually gathers it to its breasts.

He worked hard at his passion. And I saw his work for the first time. Unlike photos in a book, I saw the three dimensions of the works – the thickness of paint, the brush strokes the texture of canvas…tools employed by the artist to create his story. Awesome.

Van Gogh tried to do what he knew he believed he couldn’t. Constantly learning, inventing his art was one big experiment.

Some of the work I swear I could have painted, but when understood as a whole of his portfolio, I am glad I never became an artist.

Yet, there are times I yearn to pick up a brush and create.