Vincent

I have always had this fascination for Van Gogh. Understandable, I guess, since I’m not the only one who thinks like this. It’s just that, his paintings affect me in a certain way… strange, mysterious, and very difficult to explain no matter how accommodating one’s vocabulary is. For me, it’s like this man had a different kind of view - as though he’d been given eyes that were specially and specifically endowed with… magic! Looking at his paintings, the first question that always comes to my mind is, "Do those colors truly exist in the real world?" How was it possible for him to take sunlight, or moonlight, or starlight, and put it on canvas? I will probably never understand, except for if he himself came to visit me just to explain to my heart’s content. But that’s not it. I don’t think anyone could ever expect an artist to explain anything. In the movie, Finding Forrester, William Forrester said, "Writers write, so that readers can read." I believe it’s the same for painters. They paint, and the viewers are there to be astounded. And I surely am! The curious thing is, no matter how glaringly bright his paintings can be, I always feel some sort of sadness in them. Some sort of longing for something unnamable. They make me feel so alive… and at the same time they keep reminding me that I will die, and none of what I am now will matter. The paintings whisper to me, "Just look at how bright and wonderful life is. But it’s all borrowed - it never was yours and it never will be." Painful… the astonishing world that no one else but Vincent saw… is painful.

(posted elsewhere 22 Aug 2005)