A few days ago I quoted from Kirk Douglas’ reference to Vincent Van Gogh in his autobiography. Several of those comments still echo in my mind this morning: “How terrible to paint pictures and feel that no one wants them. How awful it would be to write music that no one wants to hear. Books that no one wants to read.” I wrote the following in 2017.
Artists are “seers” who have the gift of enabling others to see what they see through their art forms and there are many forms of art: a quilt, a painting, a book, a photograph, a sculpture, a completed construction project, etc.. Vincent van Gogh of the 19th century, was one of these gifted artists. His work was not appreciated until long after his suicide at age 37. During his lifetime, he sold only two paintings, but today his work is worth millions and is found in museums around the world.
Vincent wanted to be a minister, tried it, and failed. Afterward, he broke all ties with organized religion. He turned to art, seeing in it a better medium for bringing meaning and beauty to people; a way of opening their eyes to the deeper mysteries of life (helping others see what he saw). Vincent saw meaning and beauty in ordinary things: flower vases, houses, cafes, cypress trees, and sunflowers. He saw an inner beauty in people: peasants working and eating, shopkeepers, weavers, postmen, prostitutes and attempted to paint this inner beauty. In the faces of common people, seasoned by life’s trials and joys, Vincent could see the sacred; he wanted to share what he saw with the world. “It is looking at things for a long time,” wrote Vincent to his brother Theo, “that ripens you and gives you a deeper understanding.” While Vincent saw the sacredness, the beauty, and the wonder in the ordinary, he seemed unable to see his own beauty and worth. His story is a story worth reading and the song about him is worth singing, for it is still true: “They could not listen; they’re not listening still. Perhaps they never will” be able to see the sacred in ordinary persons and things as Vincent saw.…
Starry starry night/Paint your palette blue and gray/Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul/Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils/Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land/Now I understand
What you tried to say to me/How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free/They would not listen they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now
Starry starry night/Flaming flowers that brightly blaze/Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue/Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain/Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand/For they could not love you
But still your love was true/And when no hope was left inside
On that starry starry night/You took your life as lovers often do
But I could have told you Vincent/This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you
They did not listen, they're not listening still
Perhaps they never will
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