I recently read the book Vincent van Gogh – A Life in Letters by Bakkar, Jansen and Luijten, a compilation of almost 1000 letters van Gogh wrote to his brother, Theo, from 1880 until his tragic suicide 10 years later. In art, literature and the media in modern history there seems to be a fixation with the archetype of the tortured artist, or a figure presented as the ultimate melancholic, lonely and romantic archetype. This figure is plagued by their psyche and their artistic brilliance cannot be contained within genteel society. van Gogh seems to me as the typical archetypal figure of this concept with his unrequited love for his cousin Kee Vos, destitution, and bouts of melancholy throughout his life. Even his infamous fight with fellow artist Paul Gauguin, which notoriously led to van Gogh cutting off his own ear and gifting it to a prostitute, is demonstrated within popular media as in keeping with the characteristics of the frenzied, impulsive yet ultimately romantic artist.
Upon reading the personal letters van Gogh wrote to his brother explaining his torments and aspirations, I realised how damaging the notion of the tortured artist is. By accepting and romanticising the actions of great artists such as van Gogh as part of artistic creation, we as a society run the risk of idealising severe mental illness and dehumanising the man behind some of the most iconic artworks in modern history.
In looking behind this trite trope, what surprised me the most about Vincent van Gogh’s letters was his own self-awareness in regards to his poor mental health. He himself wrote that ‘to know how to suffer without complaining, that’s the solution to life’s problems.’ Reading this I felt a deep sense of foreboding considering his later suicide. Even more worrying, his awareness and even acceptance of his fate could be read as compounding the damaging notion that greatness comes hand in hand with madness.
This notion is reflected not only in the life of van Gogh but also in other notable artists such Edvard Munch who created the iconic The Scream (1893), and also the hot-tempered Baroque master, Caravaggio, who killed a man over a game of tennis. This trope extends beyond visual arts: authors such as Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath are viewed as the ultimate archetypes of the romantic. Like van Gogh, both women died by suicide; however, this tragedy is fetishised and reduced to simply being a part of their creative genius.
This tragedy is fetishised and reduced to simply being a part of their creative genius
Both women sought distinction through their work, but this is too often overshadowed by their psychological turmoil and resulting death. I disagree with the notion that troubled mental health is in partnership with intellectual and artistic greatness, this appears to me to glamorise and normalise the idea of mental illness as the natural consequence of being a ‘genius,’ a suggestion that disregards real suffering.
Reading the letters van Gogh wrote to his brother gave me a sense of the person beyond this iconic and infamous figure. He did not seem to be solely an archetype of romantic suffering; instead I read the letters of a man who lived what he described as the humble yet fulfilling life of an artist. And although van Gogh suffered from bouts of melancholy and anxiety, he was determined to be more than his illness. In a letter to writer and painter Emile Bernard, van Gogh wrote: ‘I had an attack of melancholy like yours from which I would have suffered as much as you were it not that I welcomed it with great pleasure as a sign that I was going to recover.’ To me, this shows van Gogh’s persistent hope for recovery, a side of his personality overlooked by history: one of endurance, hope and vitality. This, not his mental illness, and his love and appreciation for nature were what truly inspired him to paint his masterpieces.
In fact, the 902 letters that Vincent wrote to Theo read to me as love letters to his brother. In almost every letter, he speaks about how much he misses his brother and how he eagerly awaits both Theo’s letters and visits; he signs every letter off with warm terms of endearment. The undying devotion Vincent had towards his brother, whose opinion mattered more to him in both his personal life and artwork further creates a sense of humanisation excluded from the traditional ‘tortured artist’ narrative.
Van Gogh writes that the people who love deeply and fully are ‘more serious and holier than those who sacrifice their love and their heart to an idea’. Here, he speaks to how the notion of loving and being loved lies at the core of human existence. To remember and consider great artists only under the reductive guise of the “tortured artist” is to disallow them to be seen as real people. Indeed, van Gogh’s awareness of this makes it all the more bittersweet. He writes in letter 574 that he doesn’t want to be understood as a ‘bitter and morbid’ figure, stating instead one should ‘Enjoy yourself too much rather than too little, and do not take art or love too seriously either.’ With this in mind, when confronted by the trope of the tortured artist in museums, the media, or history, I implore you to look beyond the presentation of figures such as Vincent van Gogh as the manic and tortured romantic, and look further to understand them instead as someone who yearned to embrace love, life and art with genuine joy.
“Van Gogh” by tonynetone is licensed under CC BY 2.0