van Gogh on birds

i have just begun to delve into the depths of van Gogh's spiritual journey but i find some friends here, some i know by heart, henri nouwen for one and that comforts me greatly. that one such as he would find such spiritual inspiration in van Gogh encourages me that i too am finding the crumbs along my path.

i've yet to begin van Gogh's letters, but the book i have started today is entitled: the shoes of van Gogh; a spiritual and artistic journey to the ordinary by cliff edwards. i do not know the man, but he spoke with henri before his death and that comforts me too. that they were upon parallel paths.

i've thought much about the sylvia plath effect and mentioned how i don't want that to be my end. then i consider van Gogh, whose story i am scarcely familiar with. and in trepidation i turn the pages and find myself reading a kindred spirit. his words, passion and art stem from one great desire, to know God. van Gogh could not afford to go to the king's college so he could not be a minister as his father was (ministerial salary and five kids did not allow for the education of vincent). i find that tragically beautiful.

read some of his words:

As molting time--when they change their feathers--is for birds, so adversity or misfortune is the difficult time for us human beings. One can stay in it--in that difficult time of molting--one can also emerge renewed; but anyhow it must not be done in public and it is not at all amusing, therefore the only thing is to hide oneself. (letter 133)

read on:

A caged bird in spring knows quite well that he might serve some end; he is well aware that there is something for him to do, but he cannot do it. What is it? He does not quite remember. Then some vague ideas occur to him, and he says to himself, "The other birds build their nests and lay their eggs and bring up their little ones"; and knocks his head against the bars of the cage. But the cage remains, and the bird is maddened by anguish.

such beauty. such eloquence. i am a stuttering dullard when it comes to him. he was despised, his art disdained all the days of his life. he could not make a living for himself and his art was sustained by his beloved brother. oh the anguish this must have been for him.

i have a family and child, so there i am rich beyond anything he knew. but i understand the often terrible dilemma of art or survival. the struggle between labor and creativity. he chose to create a legacy of passion but it cost him his comfort. am i willing to pay such a price? to beat it out in weariness and keep trudging on toward the goal of creating something, anything of value. and if it is not to be valued in my day, and in days to come, will the promise or hope of future value be enough to keep my fire burning? can i subject my family to this?

i do not know. i tremble at the thought of it. only here in this modern day and age can one stuggle and grapple with such things, as it were, in public.