I was never the one to follow the works of classic painters, musicians or writers. To my primitive mind, they all seemed too complex, too out of reach. I stuck to the simpler Ruskins and Enids of the world. Vincent Van Gogh first appeared in my life 5 years ago, when a friend gifted me a poster of one of his night paintings. The painting lit up the wall behind my study desk and had a calming effect on my life. After this Vincent kept showing up in my life; sometimes through pop culture references and sometimes in the form of a keychain. When I moved in my first ever single room, his starry night poster was the first piece of furniture.
But it wasn’t until 4 years later that life would truly bring me face to face with this great man. The Vincent Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam which houses most of his paintings was being renovated. As luck would have it, a temporary exhibit of all those paintings was put up in The Museum of Fine Arts in Houston, the city in which I was residing at the time. At MFA Houston, I learned more about the life of this great painter who cut his own ear. For the first time, I saw other works of Vincent like the Sunflowers, the Almond Blossoms, the landscapes, and the many portraits.
I came to know of his struggles with mental issues and dire poverty. I learned about how this now most beloved painter was actually neglected and even humiliated for his art by his peers. And yet through all the hurt and dirt that was thrown at him by others and his own mind, what came out was only surreal paintings depicting his love for our planet. How can someone who has faced such harshness produce such beauty? At the museum in Houston, there were many of his paintings but I couldn’t see The Starry Night anywhere. I wanted to see that one the most. Anyway, mundane life went on and I forgot all about Vincent and his colors.
A year forward I was taking a flight to New York City. Like any other person on the middle seat of the aircraft would do I turned on the entertainment system. At Eternity’s Gate caught my eye and I saw the world through Vincent’s eyes for the next two hours. As the plane landed in New York City I wondered where was The Starry Night. The lump in my throat caused by the movie became a teardrop when a quick Google search revealed that The Starry Night is housed in the Museum of Modern Art, New York. The very first weekend in New York, I went straight to MoMA up the 5th floor.
The gallery has its Picassos and Monets all right but it is The Starry Night that commands the crowds it does and also two bodyguards for being the costliest painting at MoMA and the 2nd costliest in the world apart from Mona Lisa. The Starry Night quietly residing on a blank wall in New York City, people taking its pictures using high-tech cameras, seemed so out of place. I couldn’t really articulate my feelings when I saw the painting, so I moved away and saw some other paintings in the gallery.
When I came back after an hour, it was a little less crowded. I stood next to a couple that was intently looking at the painting. Not listening or reading or clicking pictures, just looking. I went and stood by their side. ” Wasn’t Vincent great. Look at the colors. Somehow it’s never the same looking at The Starry Night through pictures”, said one of them. So I looked at the colors. It was true. None of the renditions of The Starry Night that I have seen in movies, posters or pictures show the same colors. What shade of blue is it? How many shades of blue are in there?“Look at the circles; they represent the moon, the sun, Venus and the wind. I really like the green trees that he has painted between the village”, said another. I had never looked so intently to see the trees in the village.
As they discussed the rest of the painting, I learned more about The Starry Night. Van Gogh painted it when he was in the asylum and he wasn’t very happy with the painting. After thanking the two kind enlightening strangers I sat on the bench across the gallery for some time. I watched as crowds of people came, saw the painting, took pictures with it and went on. I wondered what would have Vincent thought had he seen the love that people have for his paintings, today (Doctor Who kind of made it happen). What would have happened had he received some encouragement during his time? Would the acceptance from peers have made his art even more magnificent than it already is? Or was it the pain that was fueling him? Oftentimes when life becomes a little harsh and I see the kindness slipping away and the melancholy seeping in, I catch myself looking up at a starry night and asking, “How did you do it, Vincent?”
