Tag: arts

  • Portrait of Vincent Van Gogh

    Vincent van Gogh: A Life From Beginning to End by Hourly History

    My rating: 5 of 5 stars

    Here’s a portrait of a man who hated being alone yet found freedom when alone. Austere yet bohemian, religious yet autonomous, he was a paradox himself like the faces of Janus. It was no other than the painter Vincent Van Gogh himself in his well-known portrait looking more in disappointment with the world than in madness against it.

    As the late eminent Australian biographer of Ben Jonson Ian Donaldson once put, good biography is anything but a bland, chronological summation of a man’s life, and I am not intent on reciting the dates of from Gogh’s birth to death and in-betweens. Instead, I am all mind in positing what I think he was, other than the man with a bandaged self-mutilated ear because our sensory perception often betrays the truthfulness of what we see when stimulated to the external sensation. Indeed, Gogh was a disturbed man whose sensitivity found no elbow room in the world with which he so endeavored to have a long-lasting content relationship. It is not to say that Gogh was an archetypal self-imposed exiled artist who voluntarily distanced himself from ordinary life scenes. Hardly so. As shown in his letter to his beloved little brother Theo, who helped his misunderstood forlorn artist brother as ever, Gogh tried to be as good-humored and cheerful as he wanted. Still, it was the world that seemed to betray him with blows that bludgeoned his unalloyed wishes and noble aspirations.

    Gogh’s paintings reflect his love of realism and reject artificial romanticism without the ideal romantic ambiance in vogue with the time. He was interested in all that existed as they were because discovering beauty in the coarseness of reality was his objective in achieving creative and experiential values. In this regard, Gogh was in the same artistic vein as Francoise Millet, whose paintings Gogh admired because Millet believed that treating the commonplace with the feeling of the sublime was what gave art its true power. The only difference between the masters of art was how to portray it with individual flairs of colors, techniques, and perspectives based on their tastes and judgments. Gogh’s ‘Potato Eaters” might not have that romantic dignity surrounding the hardscrabble peasants. Still, they were unforgettably expressive in the nuanced struggles and strife they had to bear and live with. Perhaps the uneasy cohabitation of the independent spirit and the loving heart distinguished Gogh from his famous peers who had the practical sense to reconcile their creative souls to social needs.

    Moreover, Gogh lost a sense of direction when he realized that a man of the cloth wasn’t his cloth. The existential frustrations from the confliction of the will then added to his already innate fragile sensitivity, a hereditary mental trait running in his maternal family. Nevertheless, Gogh continuously endeavored to fend it off and conquer it, even when the citizens of Arles, where he dreamed of building a haven for his kindred spirits, united to expel him from the city he once cherished. However, one good-hearted postman continued to give him a touch of kindness till he voluntarily admitted himself into a mental asylum for the peace of his mind and others’.

    To me, Gogh tried to live up to his conviction of good, fulfilled life with exquisite sensibilities, and unalloyed humanity too great for the realities of the world he was born into. His life was life imitating art, and art was not imitating but expressing life as he saw. Yet, be it ever the play of the fate, the more he tried to be good-humored, the more estranged he became because he was an extraordinary artist constantly breaking away from confinement prejudicial to his ever sensitive and creative spirit. Upon reading this elegantly narrated life of Vincent Van Gogh, I realized the truth of the genius only took some time for its brilliance to shine, no matter how long it would take. Who would have thought Vincent Van Gogh, who once sold only one of his works out of hundreds, would be looking at his admirers in the constellation of brilliant painters in heaven? For those who are creators of arts in all genres, famous or hidden, amateur or professional, the story of Vincent Van Gogh will be a consolation to the heart and hope to the spirit that never knows the end.



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  • Agony and Ecstasy

    The Castle West of the Moon has two marble sculptures:
    One is Ecstasy of Saint Teresa and the other Laocoon,
    The works of Art in the image of Perfect Form
    As though the makers of such Art had seen it in a dream;

    The divine ecstasy swept chaste Teresa in fiery passion
    Tearing a thin veil of hidden desire beneath a cloak of faith
    As Cupid’s Arrow of Desire thrust her heart in and out
    And teased her with a recalcitrant paroxysm of ecstasy;
    The eyes half-cast to the exhilaration of flowing streams
    Of wanting, asking, giving, wanting it all in growing rapture
    As the lips opened to the truth of the sensation she had denied.
    How incredible Teresa’s devotion to God was wreathed in glory!

    Whereby Laocoon, the Trojan priest of Neptune, stood in agony
    Frozen in marble ice as the Serpents coiling his ribs and thighs
    Towering in their divine glory that the gods bestowed upon the beasts
    And his two young sons coming to aide in filial haste in pitiful vain
    Watched their righteous father perished in punishment for the truth
    Against his audacious enemies for Helen treading upon his beloved Troy.
    Twice round their bodies the Serpents’ long and winding volumes rolled,
    Twice round their breaths the Serpents’ insidious and portent venoms gushed,
    The Father and Sons dissolved into one great monument of struggles for life
    As the Serpents wreathed them with their mighty power in triumph.

    The Queen of the Castle looked at the marvelous wonders of Art
    In a surge of indomitable compassion for Laocoon and his Sons
    For the painful death was beyond the reason of justice and sense
    Even though it mattered gods, and gods and God were selfish always,
    Whereby Teresa’s Ecstasy was deliciously dreamy in a sweet delirium
    Glistening like dewdrops reflecting a rainbow on the gossamer cobweb.

  • The Prince and the Queen

    Their love was sterling silver,

    never to be stained with rust.

    It’s all made of faith and duty;

    It’s all made of sighs and smiles;

    It’s all made of fantasy and reality.

    He would for the crown of the palace

    keep his faith and troth till the end.

  • The Art of Memory

    The 3 gods preside over the Arts.

    Pallas Athena sends out the rays

    of visions into the memory temple;

    Vulcan grasps the beams of light

    and grows them into red hot fires;

    Mars receives the divine artifices

    and perfects them into treasures.

  • the good people

    Thunder and lightning swirling

    The palace of heaven tumbling

    The Angels of Mutiny are falling

    Falling below, downward, falling

    into the sea and the earth.

    While the light of Divine Grace

    still flickers on the scraped wings,

    They become the Good People

    too vivacious to be in Hell.

  • the sound of the sea

    Where the ocean sends forth

    The breeze of the shrill west

    Pegasus gallops over the waves

    Neighing in wondrous force, full of pathos

    Dolorous, vigorous, resembling

    The great conch of Poseidon, resounding

    Across a boundless reach of the sky.