Van Gogh

My art teacher used to tell me,

That there isn’t really a right way to paint.

No one can teach you the intricacies of blending or the softness of strokes,

‘The more you turn art into science, the more it loses its meaning.’

But it never made sense to me anyway,

And maybe that’s why my art was always drenched in chaos.

He used to say that the complexities of life are similar to one’s imagination.

And I guess he wasn’t wrong,

But he was hardly ever right.

Much of the world didn’t make sense to Van Gogh,

He didn’t know why or when or how,

But he knew figures and shades and sorrow,

He knew ochre and terra sienna and Theo,

He knew corn fields and miners and the potato eaters,

He knew insanity and Gauguin and loneliness.

He drowned himself into seeking, without absolutely finding,

Always becoming but never arriving.

He drowned himself and he whispered,

“The sadness will last forever.”

I don’t understand when they tell me,

That a work of art demands perfection.

He starved himself to death,

Chasing their judgments,

Chasing the hunger for acceptance,

To receive nothing then,

But to be called magnificent,

Now.

I never finished any of my paintings,

In a fear of my own unjustisfied comprehension.

There’s always something more to do,

Something more to give,

Something more to say.

All the languages and literature and art fails to explain,

The deepening silences that rest among the dust,

On my paint brushes,

And the strange remembrance of his words,

That tonight brings,

With a wakeful consciousness.

My art teacher, he used to say,

Magic exists,

With or without your existence.

You either carry it in your eyes,

Or carry it in your hands.

And I guess he wasn’t wrong.

But he was hardly,

Ever right.