Several years ago I read about a woman who solved her writer’s block by directing all of her journal entries to Vincent Van Gogh. This strategy worked so well for her that she eventually published a book based on the journal and titled it Dear Vincent. About that same time I also read Dear Theo: The Autobiography of Vincent Van Gogh, and Lust for Life by Irving Stone, each in their own way an insightful biography of Van Gogh. I have always been drawn to the work of this particular artist, perhaps because of the depth of his mental suffering and the way it was evident in his work. For example, when the Barnes Exhibit was at the Kimball Museum a decade or so ago, I went to view this amazing collection of paintings with the primary purpose of seeing the Van Goghs. It was the last day of the exhibit and the crowd was lined up around the building and up the sidewalk all the way to the street, hours before the doors opened. When my daughter and I finally made our way inside, it was shoulder to shoulder and we pretty much just had to go where the other art viewers carried us. About an hour into the tour, I found myself directly in front of Van Gogh’s Portrait of the Postman Joseph Roulin and I refused to be budged from the spot.
I was drawn to this painting in a way I had never been drawn to a work of art before or since. It was as though the painterly strokes of the portrait had come not from the hands of the tormented artist, but from his soul. I know, this sounds corny. But I will never forget standing there, a little more than arm’s distance from the small portrait with tears streaming down my face. This had nothing to do with fanaticism. It was simply my reaction to the gut wrenching emotion that came from the art. And the best part is that I looked over at my daughter beside me only to find her in the same state of rapt appreciation. I am reminded every time I think of the experience that it is the connection between artist and audience that allows a work to live forever.
I guess it is because I am a writer and an artist that I am drawn repeatedly to the similarities between the two crafts. Today I have been thinking about the art of blogging. It is a strange thing, electronically putting one’s thoughts out there for the world to read, never knowing who is in the audience. A few people follow, but you don’t know if they are really readers or have merely agreed to post their support because you have threatened to write about them if they don’t…
Unlike a poem, a story, or an essay, which may go through substantial revision before being published, a blog, while not entirely without focus, is usually not edited much before it is posted. This seems to be the way with our society now. Because permanence is not a priority, there seems to be a certain lack of regard for audience and therefore for the historical impact, no matter how small or how fleeting one’s contribution may be.
Maybe I am uptight, but I prefer to think of the material that emanates from writers and artists as having a lasting impact. For example, when I was trying to find the name of the author of the "Dear Vincent" book, I came across this website: http://www.vangoghsblog.com/ Initiated by the Van Gogh Museum, this blog is a celebration of the completion of the Van Gogh Letters Project. As one of the accompanying comments said, “Even the dead can blog!”
Of course, I would definitely hesitate to compare myself to Van Gogh as either an artist, a writer, or a blogger, except in one way, and that is the compulsion that drives me to connect with others by way of words and images. I once wrote a poem about my Van Gogh viewing experience (my one attempt at ekphrasis), and I would post it here, but I couldn’t find it. It isn’t like me to lose poems, and I think I didn’t bother to keep up with this one because it was a failed attempt to relate my reaction to that particular artist’s work. I guess that is why I sometimes turn to art instead of writing. As Van Gogh said, “One can speak poetry just by arranging colours well.”
Perhaps today’s attempt at blogging is a failure, too. But it doesn’t really matter, because I have learned to appreciate and nurture that thing inside me that drives me to share myself with others.
Check out the website of the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. http://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/vgm/index.jsp?page=98&lang=nl§ion=sectie_vincent There are several slideshows featuring the work of this amazing artist. Admittedly it is not as satisfying as standing a few feet from the real thing, but you won’t have to wait in line for hours. The descriptions are all in Dutch, but words are not necessary as the paintings speak for themselves. And you probably won’t bust out in tears, but whether the recipient/viewer/reader of a work of art or writing experiences it electronically or in close physical proximity, I like to think he or she experiences it personally, and that there remains at the core of the process that spark of creativity that when successfully executed, can live forever.
