Vincent and me and a view of the possible

I am reading about Vincent Van Gogh. I am drawn to him yet we are nothing alike. He lived in poverty, I live in comfort, He was tormented, I am content, he was lonely, I have the love and companionship of family and friends. Yet, reading about him and his commitment to his art inspires me. What is critical to my understanding of him is this: Vincent was a late bloomer, (like me), he was primarily self taught, (like me), he devoted time to his craft when people didn’t quite understand his devotion and wondered why he didn’t just get a job, (like me). But also this: he was driven, I am complacent. I can do better.  

I can learn a lot from Vincent. He sold only one of the 900+ paintings he created while he was living. The world told him it wasn’t interested in what he had to offer. So what did he do? He painted more. In contrast, I tell myself the world isn’t interested in what I am writing and I walk away from the projects and stories that live only in my mind. 

I look at my own life and see how my passion to create often fizzles when I face that wall of self-doubt.  It is so much easier to give up, redirect my attention to something that doesn’t make me feel less-than. Like me, Vincent often felt  that he wasn’t good enough, but unlike me, he persevered.  If he had given up as easily as I do, we would not have the starry night, the sunflowers, the wheat fields. 

Vincent was 37 years old when he died. By many accounts he died a failure. Today he is one of the most recognized and beloved artists in the world. 

Perhaps he can be my stand-in mentor. He’s not in my genre, has been dead for over a century and would never have understood my life of comparative privilege. Yet he is someone I can reach out to across the centuries when my quest to be a writer worth reading feels too lonely and unattainable. On the days I find myself on the ledge of self-doubt, I am counting on him to hold me accountable and color my world with a view of the possible.