A snapshot of this morning. This picture could be from any time in my life really, but today it takes on a special meaning. 130 years ago Van Gogh died of gunshot wounds. Whether that was suicide or a drunken bar fight is up for discussion, as well as the theories of his last painting. Grateful for New York Times articles like these that show how years after his death, he is still discussed, and therefore alive in many ways.
I’ve been drawn to Van Gogh since childhood — his style of painting is a frequency that hits my eyes, brain, and heart perfectly. I feel in complete harmony when I experience them.
The Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam is a spiritual pilgrimage I regularly take — I’ve been seven times. I come to each an older and different person, changed by life’s inevitable evolution. I’ve gone with family, friends, a spouse, alone, accompanied with evening drinks and live music, partaking in the local specialties. Each visit is new, and I mark the occasion with an icon I bring home.
They say he was a tortured and misunderstood soul. I see passion, fire, love. I think he moved through the world differently for his time — sensitive, flowing with so much emotion that all he could do is release it through his fingers. His writing — primarily through letters — is just as deep as his paintings. His life inspires me: remaining true to his self, authentic, no matter how painful it was for him and its results.
One of his pieces is the most expensive painting ever sold at auction ($82.5M). I often wonder what he’d think of this. “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.”