Van Gogh

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Van Gogh Art is a severe Goddess, who in return for her smiles demands many sacrifices. No one did more to please her, and no one was so insufficiently rewarded as Van Gogh. Several times the blows that she dealt him were painful enough to make any reasonable man resign. Only fanaticism and faith in her would permit one to leap the abyss between reality and desire. With cruel, merciless method, art asked from Van Gogh everything. It was a loan that multiplied with time and was never paid back. It haunted him within the recesses of his soul, it flirted with him and raises his hopes, it took away from him everything that was dear, and when it could finally take no more, it decided to take his life. Vincent Van Gogh was born on 30 March 1853 in the small village of Groot-Zundert, Holland, to Theodorus Van Gogh and Anna Cornelia. He had a normal childhood and was in no way distinguished from his peers by any uncommon character traits. At the age of 16 he was apprenticed to Goupil & Cie, art dealers from Paris with a branch established in Hague by his uncle Vincent. The working place afforded him enough time to become acquainted with the classical painting masters and the different schools of painting at that time. Because of his extreme honesty, he was considered a poor salesman and the company chose to transfer him to the London branch. The change did not improve his standing and soon enough he exchanged the clerical position for that of a pastor. He was sent to Borinage, a coal-mining district in Belgium. Van Gogh thought he had finally found his vocation. He was an educated man amongst the illiterate miners and their families. Ironically enough, he found more virtue, patience, and holiness among this cla... ... middle of paper ... ... reducing him to a mere madman whom everybody ridiculed. The years were like crows above this wheat field. That is what he would paint. He laid layer after layer of thick yellow and black. He painted the yellow wheat, the black crows, below a dirt path leading to a dead end, somewhere among the field, and above a furious sky, venting his anger upon every unlucky blossoming plant. He loved life. He loved it passionately, madly, he loved it to insanity but it was time for him to leave. He pulled out a revolver from his pocket and aimed it in his stomach. A deafening noise disrupted the silence of the wheat field and the finished canvas rolled on the ground together with the body. Vincent was dead. Works Cited Stone, Irving. Lust for life . New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1934. Van Gogh, Vincent. A self-portrait. New York: E.P. Dutton & Co., Inc, 1963.

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