Vincent van Gogh
It must be the anniversary of van Gogh's death or something. For the past two days, Google.com has been using a rendition of his "Starry Night" on its website.
It amazes me how many people are infatuated with so-called "modern art." Not being especially familiar with the development of this stuff, I decided to give van Gogh the benefit of the doubt and do a little research on him to figure out what he was all about. You know, "what's the deep, esoteric meaning underlying this deceptively simplistic and curiously abstract profundity called, merely, 'art.'"
A quick Google search (is this starting to sound like a Google infomercial?) revealed enough about the artist to fully explain his style. Sadly, it seems van Gogh was doomed from the start, born exactly one year after his stillborn older brother, also named "Vincent." (Come on, mom, what were you thinking!)
Throughout life, van Gogh was notoriously unsuccessful in his relationships with women. My guess is that the paranoid schizophrenia was a turn-off. Or, it could have just been they didn't fully appreciate his overtures. Once, in a gallant attempt to prove his undying love for his cousin, van Gogh tried to burn himself with an oil lamp. Her father coldly blew it out. Another time, after cutting off part of his left ear in an effort to stop the voices in his head, our loverboy presented the now-detached organ to a woman, insisting it was a priceless gift. (He may have had more foresight than I can give him credit for.) She was apparently unappreciative and refused his offer, though I doubt she was unaffected by it.
van Gogh wasn't even much of a success at suicides. The first time he tried it he had his painting privileges taken away. (In those days, eating tubes of oil paint was considered a sign of mental instability rather than artistic expression.) On July 27, 1890, van Gogh again tried to kill himself by shooting himself in the chest. He then went back to the inn where he was staying and went to bed. Apparently, there were no Kavorkians around in those days to help him out. A couple days and a siezure later, van Gogh took another step in his sad life.
"Sad" really is the best description of van Gogh's life, his choices, and yes, his art, the secret of which we should briefly consider. In his own words, "I throw myself headlong into my work, and come up again with my studies; if the storm within gets too loud, I take a glass too much to stun myself." Aha! Eureka! The secret to artistic success! To make matters worse, the glass he is referring to was often absinthe, a drink that combines the potency of hard liquor with both the thrill of a dangerous poison and a trip as exciting as any other drug's. Perhaps his absinthe-induced psychotic wanderings were the source of those halos and aurorae depicted in so many of his works.
Not so random thought of the day:
If history tells us anything, chances are good that a hundred years from now, everyone will recognize the name of that ragged bum you tripped on in the streets of San Francisco, while your memory will be a page lost in the wind.
Why is it that the same people who have such a fascination with and appreciation for the abstract drug-induced "art" of a one-eared suicidal psychopath are the same people who caustically dismiss the incredible order and unspeakable intricacies of creation as being merely a product of chance? Why do they go to such lengths to finding meaning in a world of unreality, when reality is sitting, unexplored, on their doorsteps? What are they running from?
It amazes me how many people are infatuated with so-called "modern art." Not being especially familiar with the development of this stuff, I decided to give van Gogh the benefit of the doubt and do a little research on him to figure out what he was all about. You know, "what's the deep, esoteric meaning underlying this deceptively simplistic and curiously abstract profundity called, merely, 'art.'"
A quick Google search (is this starting to sound like a Google infomercial?) revealed enough about the artist to fully explain his style. Sadly, it seems van Gogh was doomed from the start, born exactly one year after his stillborn older brother, also named "Vincent." (Come on, mom, what were you thinking!)
Throughout life, van Gogh was notoriously unsuccessful in his relationships with women. My guess is that the paranoid schizophrenia was a turn-off. Or, it could have just been they didn't fully appreciate his overtures. Once, in a gallant attempt to prove his undying love for his cousin, van Gogh tried to burn himself with an oil lamp. Her father coldly blew it out. Another time, after cutting off part of his left ear in an effort to stop the voices in his head, our loverboy presented the now-detached organ to a woman, insisting it was a priceless gift. (He may have had more foresight than I can give him credit for.) She was apparently unappreciative and refused his offer, though I doubt she was unaffected by it.
van Gogh wasn't even much of a success at suicides. The first time he tried it he had his painting privileges taken away. (In those days, eating tubes of oil paint was considered a sign of mental instability rather than artistic expression.) On July 27, 1890, van Gogh again tried to kill himself by shooting himself in the chest. He then went back to the inn where he was staying and went to bed. Apparently, there were no Kavorkians around in those days to help him out. A couple days and a siezure later, van Gogh took another step in his sad life.
"Sad" really is the best description of van Gogh's life, his choices, and yes, his art, the secret of which we should briefly consider. In his own words, "I throw myself headlong into my work, and come up again with my studies; if the storm within gets too loud, I take a glass too much to stun myself." Aha! Eureka! The secret to artistic success! To make matters worse, the glass he is referring to was often absinthe, a drink that combines the potency of hard liquor with both the thrill of a dangerous poison and a trip as exciting as any other drug's. Perhaps his absinthe-induced psychotic wanderings were the source of those halos and aurorae depicted in so many of his works.
Not so random thought of the day:
If history tells us anything, chances are good that a hundred years from now, everyone will recognize the name of that ragged bum you tripped on in the streets of San Francisco, while your memory will be a page lost in the wind.
Why is it that the same people who have such a fascination with and appreciation for the abstract drug-induced "art" of a one-eared suicidal psychopath are the same people who caustically dismiss the incredible order and unspeakable intricacies of creation as being merely a product of chance? Why do they go to such lengths to finding meaning in a world of unreality, when reality is sitting, unexplored, on their doorsteps? What are they running from?
posted by jph | 11:14 AM
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