Sketches of Pain

The Brits recently made a wonderful docudrama about Vincent Van Gogh, creating a script from the letters he exchanged with his brother, Theo, and casting Benedict Cumberbatch in the title role. Ter and I watched it on PBS a fortnight ago, and were mesmerized, it was so well done. Well written, expertly played. Brilliant.

Despite each having a favourite of his works, neither of us is a great Van Gogh fan. Of course we know who he was, but this little film expressed who he was, and again, I wonder at the misfortune of people born ahead of their time. Unique and misunderstood, he suffered mightily for it, yet he created some of the most vibrant, aggressive, almost brutally colourful art of the age. None of this shimmering, iridescent romanticism of the Impressionists for him; once he “discovered” it, Van Gogh used colour like a weapon.

And a tortured soul? Gah. What might he have done (or not done) without his internal angst? He demonstrated great compassion and sympathy for the plight of the working class, as many of his early drawings showed. The son of a Lutheran minister, he tool a stab at preaching and only lasted six months; he experienced such volatile mood swings that he had trouble keeping any sort of “real” job and so ended up painting the French countryside, starry nights, and sidewalk cafés.

He was not famous in his lifetime. He made no money from his art. He painted to keep his soul alive. Like any true creative spirit, he practiced his art to improve upon it, seeking inspiration in nature, digging deep to source emotion, alternately accepting his genius, then questioning his ability. Highs and lows. Ups and downs. Beauty and pain.

Contrast.

Is a madman who knows he is mad truly mad? Of course Van Gogh was not born ahead of his time. Nobody is. We each come when we are meant to, armed with certain gifts, a rough idea of what to do with them, and a greater role than we imagine we’re to play in the lives of others. We come to sing songs in the darkness, to experience the pull of gravity and learn to rise above it. We are here to touch and be touched by a plethora of emotions linked by contrast: love and sorrow, pleasure and pain, loss and discovery. Anyone who writes or designs or builds or gardens or cooks or sings or plays will understand why Vincent Van Gogh was driven to paint.

Whatever else he may have suffered in life, when he painted, he knew pure, primary-coloured joy.