true believer -- romancing the ear

Van Gogh didn’t cut off his own ear. He had a hard drinking roommate, Gauguin, who happened to own a souvenir samurai sword, and they had an argument -- not so difficult with a drunk. If Van Gogh had implicated the roommate he would have been arrested, so Vincent said he did it himself and humbly accepted the dent in his own reputation and history’s tittering ridicule, how would I know that? Spending time with an alcoholic has to be part of it, especially the wounded ego sort Gauguin must have been, don’t they rage, but mostly it has to do with what I know about Van Gogh. Poverty is a widespread human condition, not just the trial of a visionary painter, but buying art materials before beans seems to indicate a certain fervor. Then there’s the art.

The most cogent conclusion to be drawn from his infamous lack of ‘success’ was that he wasn’t doing it for the money, yet he continued to pump it out, hundreds of canvases in a year, perhaps indicative of a certain generosity of spirit. This, in modern terms, is way crazier than self mutilation, ironically something of a fad these days. What was he after, sitting in front of an easel day after day, without much, any, validation, no openings and timely reviews, no agents and buyers sniffing around? He was convinced he could communicate mind to mind by applying color to a piece of canvas, craziest idea yet. He kept trying.

There isn’t any way to consider if he was successful or not without seeing the work directly. Coffee table books and waiting room posters won’t convey his intent, and don’t even agree with each other. It’s also necessary to dial back from social media mode, put away the device and look for the eyes that see sunsets, witness the morning light out to fetch the paper, the world of actual things -- Vincent will help you. That’s his job. It’s what he didn’t get paid for. Standing and seriously considering one of his paintings causes an almost audible shifting of gears, a reverse warping of the digitized mind. Such a relief is the typical sensation. 

He’s gone away from us now, the minstrel of common sight and true conviction, ascended into the pantheon of immortals constantly breaking the bank somewhere, armed guards at all the exits. He was very, very good, but anyone who really tries hard, especially for no money, probably has something to say. Art, in any serious sense, isn’t about money, and it’s unwholesome to talk about it only in those terms. On the other hand, buying one of Vincent’s paintings way back then, and keeping it in the family above the mantle all these generations since, would probably bring enough to fill a bunch of houses with local stuff, help to support a few living artists, and improve the general outlook, sense of presence, and immediate awareness of just about everybody.