Few things have powerfully and instantly reduced me to tearful incompetency. It happened when a dog I though was gone forever was returned to me, when a friend came to my aid after I was assaulted and when I saw my first painting my Vincent van Gogh.
There have been other times, but those were by far the most memorable and dramatic—especially when I saw my first van Gogh paintings. It was memorable because my reaction, I knew, was due to my knowledge of the backstory of all Vincent’s work.
A fatally flawed man, Vincent was protected and nourished by his remarkable brother, Théo and by Théo’s wife and widow, Johanna. It was Johanna’s shrewd management of Vincent’s legacy and estate that made him the revered artist he is today.
But for me, growing up without love and alone, this remarkable fraternal love is what made me cry. Vincent’s paintings are, for me, artifacts of that love.
And a movie is coming out very soon about him called Loving Vincent and it's animated completely in his style. I am breathless from waiting.
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