In it's own image, love creates itself -Lust for Life, Irving Stone


Love makes you peaceful, love makes you perfect. Love makes you see the businessmen walking in the street on a nonchalant day and smile. Love makes your passions flow and your work smooth. Nothing like the loveless life of Vincent I suppose? The man lost in time who never got to be loved. Out of his time, he had once said Love is not the love you get in return but the feelings which swell in your own breast. What is the purpose of the seemingly common term which didn't have any authority over the soul of this fou-rou ?

Love is your path to expression, the justice you do for your life. For Vincent love wasn't a marriage or a mistress, fate had provided him love in his paintings, his canvases, and his color palette.

Although his destiny, fates only reveal itself to the ones who seek it. Desperate in seeking courtship, disgruntled at being rejected and depressed beyond in not earning his own bread, he stumbles upon multiple footholds to fail in each of them.


"Whatever you do, you will do well and ultimately you will express yourself and that expression will justify your life" -Mendes


Keeping the words of his old master alive he drifts forward in search of happiness in form of the work which will release his expression and justify his life. Wearing through the dirty lanes of the evangelist church, he was deemed unworthy but then he secured a position of trial in the mining district of the Borinage. His days in Borinage showed his passion and his desperation to perform his work for God. Along the black pyramids rising through the filthy coal stricken carcasses of land, he submitted his entirety to the improvement of society. He rejected good food and comfortable boarding in reason that his subjects had the same. He tore his clothes to make bandages for the ailing for the needy.

Self Portrait

Spent his days on black coffee writhing with pain in the icy cold winters of the desolated lands, without a blanket or a bed, why? because he gave that to the child suffering from fever, to retain some warmth on that little body. The miners called him the second coming of Christ. The church? They declared him a madman and grimaced at his dire determination to bring some heat to the heath of those tired miners.

Rejected by the church and God for whom he worked tirelessly, he suddenly realized. Would a god have made a world so forlorn, without hope and crawling with miser?

Those miserable beings became the subject to his eyes, to be the first work of Vincent VanGogh a legacy to be kept, to be secured through the eras of neglect and then be redeemed.


"The blank canvas stares at me like an idiot, but I know that it is afraid of a passionate painter who dares, who once and for all has broken the spell of that "You cannot." Life itself turns itself towards the man infinitely blank, discouraging, and hopelessly blank side on which nothing is written, no more than this blank canvas." -Vincent VanGogh


Not learned in the art of Art itself, Vincent puts forward everything he had into his canvas, with sheer determination to be his strength and the support of his beloved brother Theo. If Vincent's life was a blank canvas to be turned to a masterpiece, Theo was the brush that painted the canvas. It sometimes pains me to think that anyone could support a person like Theo did his brother.

Four Cut Sunflowers

Across his painting days, from the Borinage to the parlor of Mauve in The Hague. From learning as an apprentice in the streets of The Hague to returning at his father's side in his new parish of Nuenen. Love in the form of Margot, the first person to love him more than anybody did to him all his life, second only to maybe Theo. Although love didn't see through his way as the society saw him only as a madman. After all, a man who paints his adult life away, just like the whim of a child, why should he be cared upon.

Branded as a madman by society, regarded as incompetent by art critics and buyers, he kept on pouring his emotions to 10's of canvases.

He kept on improving his method until he developed his own sense. Not following anyone, not regarding the reprimands of the classic painters. He had created his own style.


"One starts with a hopeless struggle to follow nature, and everything goes wrong; one ends by calmly creating from one's palette and nature agrees with it and follows" -Vincent Vangogh


Vincent realized a very important thing. You shouldn't try forcing yourself into the mould nature created. Make nature submit to your will and create the genuine piece which your heart desires. The rest gradually falls into place.

Vincent was a madman, a Fou-Rou till the end of his life. He might have lived a long life but he had risked it all to paint. To express his Impressions unto the world and be the justice his fate desired, he worked till he could work no more. Because in the end when he sat in front of the blank canvas he said to himself," There is nothing else for him left to express". Finally, he had said it all.

And when he had done it all his body caved in his mind collapsed. The madness finally made itself known. The years of toil had made itself aware. With bloodshot eyes and the little red patch of skin left on the top of his head, A gift from the fiery Arlesian sun. The barrel of the gun let it out against his side while he fell gracefully to the loamy moist earth, face-first into the bosom of mother earth.


"As a little after 1 in the morning, Vincent turned his head slightly and whispered,

"I wish I could die now, Theo."

In a few minutes, he closed his eyes.

Theo felt his brother leave him forever."


But even death didn't do them apart, because Theo followed behind his big brother to the uncertainty of the darkness called death, only Vincent got a six months head start. I imagine Vincent waiting upon his brother in the stair to the netherworld, smiling and saying, "What took you so long you old chap?".

The starry night

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