You'd Hate Van Gogh

Fighting the feeling you'd be worth more dead as an artist.

I don’t know how to live up to my dead self’s potential. I know that’s probably an intense and somewhat confusing statement, but it’s true. None of us do and none of us will. That anxiety has stuck with me throughout my life, through more three a.m.s than not. Because, if you can become what you always ‘could’ve been’ simply by dying, then does what you do now during that ‘could’ even matter?

Some days I think my answer to that question is no. The exhaustion of existing overpowers whatever you hope to achieve while you’re still here, and what you achieve depends almost entirely on factors outside your control. Some days I’m too tired to even think about it.

Let me explain a little better. For a long time, it has seemed to me that to be ‘great,’ in the eyes of the world and pop culture today, is not just to be talented at what you do. It's not even just being more talented than a large percentage of people at what they do. To be truly great in the modern era, to be special, requires one or both of these things: being young or being dead.

Vincent Van Gogh only sold one painting while he was alive. His art was deemed unremarkable by most around him, and his rageful personality and severe mental illness drove away pretty much anyone who entered his life. He is appreciated now because he is dead. He is not here to tell us what he thinks or to argue about his beliefs, and that makes it so, so much easier to praise and idealize and pretend like we miss him. We can talk about his greatness, unencumbered, for one simple reason: he can’t talk back. If he could, he wouldn't be famous. Or at least, not as famous and not for the most ideal reasons. He would be shunned for his wild mood swings and his struggles with addiction. People would avoid him if they saw him on the street during a delusion-based manic episode. His inability to hold a nine-to-five job would be seen as lazy, and his unpredictable health issues, a safety concern to himself and others. Not to mention, his capacity to continue to create new works would lessen the value of his existing ones because we could always just ask him for more. We could pressure him into changing his style to whatever we thought he should be doing.

He is appreciated because he is not here to bother us. He cannot embarrass anyone with excess output, bad political takes, or sudden controversy. Our access to both his good and bad contributions to the world are limited, just how we like it. Each piece becomes unique and guaranteed, and this is crucial, because if something isn’t once in a lifetime then how could it possibly be worth admiration?

There is one less fatal path to fame, in our age. You can be young. To do anything well, at a young age, is automatically given more praise than doing the same thing well at forty. A forty-two year old publishes a book? That's great! Nice job! That same human person publishes that same exact book but they happen to be eighteen? Incredible!! You’re a genius!! Other people should be taking notes on your extraordinary talent and drive!!

Existing itself becomes less impressive the more you do it, regardless of the fact that the difficulty level of doing so skyrockets as time goes by. We exist briefly as children, full of ambition, and then we are no longer children and the ambition remains and we are forced to contend with the more final of the two paths to fame.

Van Gogh only sold one painting in his life, but it is documented that he gave many away. He presented his work, expressions of his soul, as gifts to friends, colleagues, those that inspired him, and sometimes just whoever asked. Some of those paintings we can visit in museums today. Many, though, no longer exist because the recipients of them, Vincent’s own mother included, deemed them average or to be taking up too much space, and eventually got rid of them.

The only constant in Van Gogh’s support system was his younger brother, Theo. Theo funded nearly all of his brother’s needs for many years of his life, because Vincent was unable to do so himself. Theo paid for his painting supplies, his food, his travel. He paid his rent, or for last-minute lodging when Vincent ruined another relationship with a roommate or had to be hospitalized for his hallucinations and seizures. The brothers wrote to each other often, and these salvaged letters have allowed historians to obtain a better picture of the unglamorous life that this glamorized man lived. Two years before his death, Vincent wrote to Theo, saying “A great fire burns within me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke.”

Today, Van Gogh’s works are so rare, sought after, and securely protected that you can’t get close enough to touch them without at least a scolding, if not worse. These paintings have not been altered since their creation. So, why do people flock to them now, when it’s clear that those who had free access to the man himself during the birth of these monumental pieces would avoid even eye contact? Why did the town where he resided in the latter portion of his life create a petition to have this brilliant artist arrested or, at the very least, hospitalized for the safety of its citizens? Because that artist was also a person, and that person was a danger and a risk to himself and to those around him. So, for most, that risk wasn’t worth the reward of keeping afloat one drowning post-impressionist painter during the expansive, unwavering flood of Post-Impressionism. He became monumental only after he could be turned into a monument. And he is admired for it.

Thirty-seven is a young age to kill yourself, but not a young age to exist at. We like what people provide us more if they’ve suffered to make it. Just providing something isn't impressive enough to warrant renown, unless you have enough bankroll to self-indulgently market your way to the spotlight. The harder it was to simply survive the thing you create, the more excited we are that you almost didn't.

You’ve met him yourself at some point in your life. A person with artistic talent and passion who was intolerable to be around due to circumstances like disability, mental illness, addiction, or trauma. You, yes you, have met a modern variant of Van Gogh. And you probably didn’t like them very much.

Problems are loved for the beauty they create, by the people who don’t have to deal with the issues they’ve caused. Vincent Van Gogh is adored because we don’t have to have an awkward run in with him at the grocery store or be his downstairs neighbor during one of his many tirades. He suffered, and that’s beautiful, because none of us had to actually be there and take care of him while he did. His art is groundbreaking because his past experiences intrigue us, and he has no current experiences that can annoy us.

The difference between my writing now and my writing after I'm dead is nothing. There is no difference, except that anything I write now, can be talked about by me. No one can ponder what I was like or the symbolism of my work to the same extent because I am here to tell them if they are right or wrong. The author can be reached without a oujia board. I am here to say what I think, and that is far less appealing than if I were not—because dead people can be whatever society decides they are rather than what they actually were, and rose-colored glasses emerge when we lose access to things, good and bad, that were once unlimited to us.

I don’t know for sure if I can or will ever live up to my dead self’s potential. It may not be possible, or even worth the energy. But what I do know, between all the confusion that comes with every person's three a.m.s, is that I deserve to be seen. I deserve to be seen in all that I am and with all that I have to say. Now. As I am and while I am. Because, I think Vincent was right. Not in cutting off his ear lobe or drinking a lethal amount of turpentine or attempting to marry multiple prostitutes (though I’m not here to judge), but in the way that he used all he went through to try to create something better for himself—a beautiful world that he could transport to and live in through his art. And he did it in spite of other people, not because of them. He did it even when the real world outside his canvas deemed him unsalvageable.

So, to quote a poor, unsuccessful, ill, and unpleasant, red haired loon, “If I am worth anything later, I am worth something now. For wheat is wheat, even if people think it is a grass in the beginning.” Some days I feel more grass than wheat, but that does not negate the fact that I am here. I am not a mutable experience and I am not optional to perceive. It can be hard when life gets stressful to remember that every ‘could’ve been’ starts out as a ‘can be.’ But every once in a while the fog clears, and the exhaustion fades, and you take in that ‘can be’ for what it is; an endless Starry Night.