Listening to 'Vincent', I realized Don Mclean was as much an artist as Van Gogh was a poet - the two could never be disentangled because they both appeals to that vulnerable place in the mind that questions reality and embraces pathos. Van Gogh painted so much! It's just as my mother casually said one day - "He only did two things - breathe and paint". In delirium last night, I'd wondered if people fell ill because God wanted to give them a glimpse of what punishment could be. I was brutallyhonest during that strange time of febrile sleep - I wonder if the things I thought then were really not the starkest truths as I see them, painted on a surreal cavas as they may have been. Do all artists 'suffer for their sanity'? Does suffering in pure awareness etch the pathway to be able to see beauty as artists do?
Nescient ardor that makes my heart skip a beat when I see heaven in a valley and a cloud - never mind those who didn't listen. They're not listening, still. They'd much rather have life laid out on a platter and in a spoon for them. They don't watch the world, fettered as they are. Perhaps they never will.
Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the
Darkness in my soul.
Paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the
Darkness in my soul.
3 comments:
Ah, so this is what you were busy with! :)
I have these thoughts at times as well *hi-fi*. Seriously though, what is sanity? When your behaviour is acceptable by societal "norms"? Or when you don't see and hear things that don't exist?
I think sanity is a very relative word. The "normal" people are the insane ones.
Is it a burning need to arrange thoughts in disarrary, bring into the light murky imaginations or preserve the mind in its unedited fragments so as to be able to piece together a life, a purpose, a larger meaning from them
Beautifully put.
There is a school of thought that thought separates and is merely a response based on one's conditioning. I don't know. It is very hard for me to abstain from thinking when I write. I also find it quite difficult to remember the intermediate patterns of thoughts which transpire. Quite a terrible thing to say, this. Funny, vicious circle this, if I understand what I really am typing!
The worst thing about Van Gogh was that his love for for humanity was so completely mis-interpreted, dismissed and crudely unrequited. I remember with muffled consternation his saying "I dream of my painting and then I paint my dream".
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