Bringing Mae Flowers

My dad told me that my paintings remind him of Van Gogh.

My dad knows nothing about art, and Van Gogh is probably the only artist he knows. I am also his youngest daughter, so paternal pride likely plays a role in his praise. I know all this, and yet the compliment made me happy, because Van Gogh is my favorite artist.

That makes me a basic bitch.

If you ask a random stranger on the street to name and artist, there’s a high chance they’ll say “Vincent Van Gogh”. His paintings are used on everything from T-shirts to umbrellas. Sure, Picaso, Warhol, and Frida Kahlo have distinct styles. Dali, Pollock, and O’Keeffe have their fans, but Starry Night and Sunflowers have a hold on the public that cannot be disputed. And I’m not the kind of person who stops liking someone just because their popular.

The first time I saw his work in person, I cried.

Admitting that makes me sound pretentious and cliche at the same time, but it’s true. I went to the Museum of Fine Art in Boston with two of my friends and we spend hours admiring art from all around the world. I saw many breathtakingly beautiful pieces that day, but none of them made me cry until I saw Houses at Auvers.

This is far from his most famous painting.

In fact, it’s not even the first of his paintings I saw that day, I connected to that painting in a way that no other piece of art ever had. It happened in just a moment, when I saw the thick, cracking paint in the cloudy sky. I saw the energy behind the distinct brushstrokes, and could feel it emanating from the canvas. When I saw the places where the paint lay thick and heavy, almost sloppy in application, I thought: “He used too much paint, like I do.” That’s when I felt the tears.

My paintings are mediocre at best.

I don’t claim to be an artist, and don’t put on any airs about my hobby. I took art classes in high school, but I never showed any real talent for it. And after high school I didn’t pick-up a sketchbook or paintbrush for nearly a decade. It wasn’t until my life started to stabilize that I started to paint again, and once I did, I didn’t stop.

Painting, like writing, is a release for me.

I have always struggled with my mental health. Maybe that’s why I relate to Vincent as a person in addition to admiring him as an artist. I often feel that depression is my natural state, only lifting for moments of frantic energy. That’s when the need to create becomes overwhelming. I have to write, to paint, to shape, to craft- anything- to get the frenzied emotions out of my veins and into physical form. In this state my pen-strokes and brushstrokes are hurried as my hands struggle to keep up with my racing mind.

I believe he felt the same way.

Maybe it’s self projection, and maybe it’s disrespectful to compare myself to someone so skilled, but I don’t care. When I see the vibrant colors full of emotion, when I see lines brushstrokes full of energy, and compositions so masterfully laid bare, I am filled with both awe and recognition. I sense a similar spirit behind the paint, that first spoke to me through Houses at Auvers.