Remember the Van Gogh ear story from elementary school art class?
Wait. Let’s just take a moment to acknowledge that we were told stories at age single-digit about the hewn pinnae of deranged painters. To be fair, I think they might have left out the bit about it being for the sake of a hooker.
“I only have two. And I gave one of them away.”
“I said ‘year’…”
“Sorry. Couldn’t hear you.”
As a kind gesture the prozzy told ugly-as-sin Vincent (that’s a paraphrase of a direct quote – not personal observache) that she “liked him”. Unaccustomed to hearing (foreshadow for ya) this, he asked “what do you like about me?” She replied, “Your ears” (probably didn’t have a good follow up lie on deck after ‘I like you’). So he went home, sliced off his sound receiver, and packaged it up pretty for her with the instructions to “guard it carefully”.
That same “what do you like about me?” concept was injected into his art, too.
The dude ate, bled, breathed, and shat painting. The proverbial “starving artist”, he’d get money from his brother each week – and he’d only eat using three or four days worth of the donation while the rest went to paints and canvases.
When I heard this, I thought, “Wow. That was really nice of his brother to do.”
His brother was nice – and he wasn’t just avoiding some guilt void either. He took the shiz to a whole ‘nother level, sending a friend (who Van Gogh didn’t know) over to buy a painting. The idea was (since nobody else was buying his art and galleries wouldn’t even take ‘em for free) that a stranger would buy a piece and Vincent could feel good about his art earning cheddah.
Homeboy wasn’t having it, though.
Perhaps a bit batshit – but not a dipshit – he saw through the ruse straight away. That “what do you like about it?” concept – same question he asked the prozzy – came to mind. This guy comes outta nowhere, picks up the first work he sees, and says he wants it. What could he like about it when he didn’t even look it over? Vincent called him on his bullshit, said he KNEW his brother sent him, got mad at the dude and his own brother, and said, “You’re obviously blind to art and I’m not going to exploit a blind man by selling him art.”
He’d give his own ears freely to a sex worker who truly liked them.
But he’d deny his work for money if it meant nothing to the buyer.
I thought, “What an asshole. His bro’s just trying his hardest.”
But the thing is, I forgot how sick the guy was. There was an acquired savant syndrome documentary on Discovery a while ago, where these people get hit on the head or whatever and suddenly can play piano or feel an insatiable urge to paint. It’s not just an “I like it and I’m good at it now” thing, either. They’ll have to stop their car to write or create.
Also, I realized something even worse: I do that too. People will compliment my crap writing and I’ll be like, “Well what did you like about it? Hmmm?! Quote me a line. Recite me paragraph three, verse seven, AS YOU STAND ON ONE LEG!!!1”
I see people with passion – and they also have balance. If you’re cutting off everyone in order to create and then morphing into a cornered-rat lashing out sans remorse… is that really passion? Or just a brain-malfunction induced compulsion?
And can too much isolation and creation concentration turn run o’ the mill zeal into lunacy?
More importantly: how was it Mr. PainterPants was financially bereft and bony – but could still afford Roxannes’ red lobe special?
#priwhoreities