My Understanding of the ArtistA Poem by Paris HladMy
Understanding of the Artist
If you hear a voice within you say,
“You cannot paint,” Then by all means paint, and that
voice will be silenced.
-Vincent
Van Gogh
---
I believe that the origin of artistic
expression is the dread that results from contemplating the reality of physical
existence. That has been true for me, and from what I can tell, it was the
driving force in the creative lives of those artists and poets I most admire "
Never so much as in the case of the Dutch impressionist Vincent Van Gogh. According
to his biographers, the artist suffered periods of extreme depression,
paralyzing fear, and suicidal thoughts. As a result, he was for a while
hospitalized at an institution that would one day bear his name. Not too many
things in life went his way.[1] But he
was given a talent that few men have. He used it.
He was a man of art " A man of God.
Parts of my own life are comparable to Van
Gogh’s. I, too, have been overwhelmed by existential terror, and far too often
wished I had never been born. I can identify with Van Gogh’s despair because I
am human. And it does not matter that he was a master of an art, and I am a
common poet, or that his suffering was more exacting and, at length, less
manageable than mine. What matters is that an artist I revere experienced life
with even greater handicaps than mine, and still did what he had been created
to do. Now, how “well” I create is unimportant; it only matters that I use the
gifts that were freely and lovingly given to me before
the foundations of the earth. eKeys
to the Kingdomf
-P-
To Whom Much Is Given
There
came a key To
mad Van Gogh; There
came a madman’s eye That
saw a terror in the crows That
swarmed a trembling sky
And
though mad Vincent Never
knew the gain Within
the gift,
He
never lost the golden key That
scarcely he could lift!
Dwarfed
by the trees That
rose like fiends,
He
painted where he stood, And
through their branches
Brushed
the stars
That
swirled Above
the woods
And
in each star, the face of Man, He
claimed as if his own,
And
in their beauty found a truth That
is by wise men known For God, in trust, gives not his keys With charms and binding strings, But patiently will wait on faith, The rarest of all things
He gives what keys cannot be lost, But leaves not His consent
For gifts to languish in disuse Or
base bewilderment
Therefore,
Did Vincent turn
the lock, Therefore,
did he descend Into
the pit of Man’s despair, And
there, his gift, defend
Against
the craven beast within That
shudders in the fear Of
those who have not Keys
themselves
Or
have no business here. [1] Van
Gogh is believed to have sold only one painting during his lifetime, “The Red
Vineyard at Arles.” Maybe he sold a few more. No one can know for certain. But
his work was not prized by his contemporaries " At least by those who would pay
money for it. Indeed, Van Gogh once painted a portrait for his doctor, which
the physician eventually used to repair the side of a chicken coop.
© 2022 Paris HladFeatured Review
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1 Review Added on December 30, 2022 Last Updated on December 30, 2022 AuthorParis HladSouthport, NC, United States Minor Outlying IslandsAboutI am a 70-year-old retired New York state high school English teacher, living in Southport, NC. more..Writing
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