Vincent Van Gogh...

Much of my time is spent travelling for business. It has its ups and downs, but I try to make the best of it. Sometimes I am very lucky and land in a place where I can make the time to step out of the ordinariness of my life and see something truly amazing. When I found myself in Columbia, Maryland, for an intensive Tinnitus Retraining Therapy course and realized how close I was to Washington DC, I made plans to visit the National Gallery of Art. My main goal was to see the paintings of my art hero, Vincent Van Gogh.

I have been lucky enough to see his Irises at the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa, Ontario. I have seen his painting, The Bedroom, in the Art Institute of Chicago, and even visited the Van Gogh Museum when in Amsterdam a couple of years ago. And now I was able to see one of his many self portraits at the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. I had anticipated seeing these works and deliberately made my way through the other areas of interest in the museum, saving his paintings for last. I wanted to have time to look at and reflect upon them, without being rushed. And I was not disappointed.


When I entered the gallery where his paintings were hung, I found it was a shared space with his friend, Paul Gauguin. The entire experience was a bit surreal. The room was paneled in rich, dark wood. Along one side hung Gauguin’s vibrant island girl paintings, those he completed when living in Panama and Martinique. His colours were royal purples, scarlet reds, and deep greens. On the other side of the gallery hung Vincent’s paintings. These particular works were pale and brilliant all at once, if that is possible. His colours were of pale greens, deep blues, a stellium of grays, and light pinks. The two artists could not have been different in their colours, compositions, or subject matter. But at one time, they were friends.

The main painting I was interested in was a self portrait he painted at a very difficult time in his life. I walked up to the Vincent in his self portrait and simply stood there, looking at his eyes. So deep and penetrating was his gaze; he held in his hand a painters palette and his thumb was large and awkward. I am not sure why I feel such a special kinship with Vincent. But standing there, looking at him, the beauty and depth of the colours, the texture of the brush strokes, it all was suddenly too much. I felt my throat tighten; my eyes began to burn as I tried to keep the tears at bay. His paintings always move me so. I wanted to reach out and touch the paint, to travel back in time, to feel what he placed on the canvas. Then I went to each of his other paintings in that gallery, and looked at the colours, the brush strokes, and thought of his difficult life. In the end, the tears came; I could not help it.

The self portrait was painted when he was hospitalized while in Arles, France. He did end up in an asylum in Saint-Remy, where life was not easy. But he could see the stars in the night sky from the small window in his room. He painted many paintings from memory. I believe that Vincent’s life was not ever easy. He was alone and misunderstood. I will never forget standing in the museum in Amsterdam, looking at his very last painting, Wheatfield with Crows. It is massive, filled with intense colours, with an ominous feel, as if the painting were an omen of his last days. And it turns out it was just that. When he shot himself in the hay field, and then died two days later, while in his brother's arms, a light in this world was extinguished forever. How ironic that it is the colours in his paintings that personify his style. For years his internal world was bleak and lonely, yet his later works were bold, alive, beautiful, and filled with passion.

Earlier in the day, I was feeling very lonely. The kind of lonely one feels in a crowd. Maybe it was the kind of lonely Vincent had felt in his lifetime. It seemed I was the only person traveling solo; each person was paired with another. I was wishing I had someone to share my thoughts and ideas with, someone to talk with while I ate lunch, and someone to share dinner with at the end of such an amazing day. But then, after seeing Vincent, I simply was moved beyond words. I could not have talked if I had wanted to. When I finished viewing his works, I made my way to the garden and fountains where I could sit and simply take in the experience. I sat still for about half an hour, simply thinking about Vincent and his life. I still want to touch the paintings, but I know I never will. And someday before I die, I want to see Starry Night in real life. But for that painting, I will have to visit the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. I can hardly wait…