Van Gogh never sold one painting while he was alive.
Unless you count the one his brother bought, which really doesn’t count.
A lifetime, short as it was, without selling one painting.
Forget the monetary gain or the fact that he lived off people his whole life. What fascinates me is there’s no pat on the back, no acknowledgement that what he was doing meant something to someone.
Not one person that said, “Oh, that’s lovely. I want it for my house.”
He created 2,100 works of art. They were stacked in his apartment. His brother was an art dealer, so he had some connections, and yet not one person bought his work.
Of course now every single canvas or scrap of paper he touched is worth millions. If that’s not a perfect example of irony I don’t know what is, and I suppose for a lot of people Van Gogh is sad.
I mean he was said to be a little off (the whole ear business) and he took his life at 37, but I don’t find him sad at all.
How wonderful to create for the sake of creating, because you need to.
Most artists or writers will tell you they “need” to create, it’s almost cliche and very few continue without some encouragement.
But, it is an incredible human being that can fully allow their creations without any encouragement or accolades at all.
I write for myself, but I’m not sure I’d have it in me to continue if my books were never published.
I find Van Gogh inspiring and I wonder…sigh, I just wonder, crazy or not, what that freedom must feel like.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Dream in Color.
Art crazy life struggle thoughts writers Art thoughts Van Gogh Writing
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