Van Gogh: Self-portrait in a Grey Felt Hat


Van Gogh is the one I need to keep in mind.
He sold only one painting in his life, didn’t know he’d sell any in death and yet he bent for no one and stayed true to himself until the end. His paintings weren’t all technically perfect either. Sometimes he’d mar the hands or shape of a chair or angle of a window, but that never seemed to lessen the feeling of the thing. He truly felt the colors he used, felt them in the very center of him, and spun them out like a silkworm’s thread; the bold vermilion, sunsets of wine red, and lilac, and pale sulphur yellow; the Prussian blue nightskies of Montmartre, and his mad self-portraits speckled with spots of flame and his wounded animal eyes looking always a little past you, as if into infinity.
Van Gogh was an artist in the truest, deepest, most profound sense.
He was the voice and vision of soil, the odor of the wheatfields, the peasant’s boot, the exfoliating flower of the heart, life pulsating, the starry heavens. He was all of it.
Innocent as a nightingale’s song, forever modern and never compromised, he lived and died somewhere deep inside in his Art.