Keys to the Kingdom**

My 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

 

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I believe that the origin of art is the dread we experience 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 fear, and far too often wished I had never been born. I can identify with Van Gogh’s suffering 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 problems may have been more exacting and less manageable than mine. What matters is that an artist I revere experienced life with similar handicaps, 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 before the foundations of the earth.

Keys to the Kingdom

 

-DWARFTED BY THE TREES-

 

To Whom Much Is Given,

Much Is Expected

 

-Luke 12:48

 

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There came a key to mad Van Gogh

There came a madman’s eye

 

That saw a terror in the crows

That trembled in the sky

 

And though mad Vincent

Would not know a 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 the 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 grace

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,

Mad Vincent

 

Turned the lock!

 

Therefore, did he descend

Into the pit of Man’s despair,

And there, his key, defend

 

Against the craven beast within

That shudders in the fear

Of those who have not

Keys themselves

 

Or have no business here.