A painting from Van Gogh’s later years, “The Sower” is an extraordinary image even today. The symbolism of rebirth and man’s link to nature was very important to Van Gogh. The bright colors and severe composition were radical in his time and reveal his awareness of Japanese prints and the expressive use of color initiated by the Impressionists and carried further by his friend Gauguin and Emile Bernard. But before he achieved such courageous designs, for years his art reflected the earthen, muddy tones of his homeland. 

​I chose to go overseas this year for relief, but also given the recklessness of the current US politics and the shrinking resources on our finite planet, I’ve become uncertain how much overseas travel is in my future. So my choice to visit Amsterdam was very intentional: I wanted to directly experience works by two artists I deeply respect and admire as people, Rembrandt Harmenzoon van Rijn and Vincent Van Gogh. Both lived through turbulent social times and experienced great personal challenges. I visited the Rijksmuseum, and the following day the Van Gogh Museum. 

As a former art museum educator and exhibit designer, I felt the Van Gogh Museum presented his story brilliantly. The large, appropriately understated building has four floors, and each had one or two themes, interweaving his biography, artistic development, and influences in an informative and clear way.  In addition to his famous works, there were dozens of examples of his studies and lesser known sketches and paintings, as well as numerous paintings by his many artist friends. 

It minimized romantic falsehoods of “artistic giftedness” and emphasized his years of study, rigorous effort and unceasing quest to learn from the past as well as from innovators of his time. He had an inquisitive and deep intellect, was very well-read, understood several languages, and in contrast to his heavy-handed art, was wonderfully articulate and eloquent.

Through all of this Van Gogh’s intense devotion to beauty and humanity shines. He floundered for years as he sought a respectable career in the eyes of his family of naval, artistic, and religious forefathers. Always pouring himself into endeavors with obsessive zeal, he struggled to “fit in” to the emerging market-based society. IE: when he a took on ministry, in a typical big-hearted way, he shared his small living stipend for food with others “living as Christ would.” Always sensitive to all life, he wrote his brother of sharing scraps of his meager meals even with the mice that found their way into his simple abode.

When he finally began to settle into a career in the arts, he didn’t just dive into making art—early in he studied art history, connoisseurship, collecting and framing with other family members as a trade. From the outset he always had immense empathy for others, and so was naturally drawn to the artists of the era who were depicting those on the lower end of the economic system. He especially appreciated art depicting simple peasants, who the rapidly changing industrializing world of his time mostly was leaving behind. 

But his voracious mind always pushed him to seek deeper understanding. His younger brother Theo, his unflagging supporter, best friend, and intellectual and emotional confidante, had become a modestly successful framer and dealer in Paris. The famed intensity of Vincent’s efforts are valid, he only began serious study refining his crude studio skills in the 1880’s when he was 28, and died within a decade at 37, yet produced over 2,100 works (paintings, drawings, and prints). 

His work “The Potato Eaters” was his attempt to create a major work expressing his desire to ennoble the hard-working and earnest peasants he lived near. He admired a similar painting by his more accomplished artist friend, Anthon Van Rappard, “The Tile Painters.” But from the outset Vincent was determined to wed the form and style of his work to the content in his paintings. Hence his “Potato Eaters” was intentionally rough and crude; he repainted their flesh to have the look “of very dusty potatoes.” He wanted it to have a sacramental feel, but retain the harsh simplicity of their lifestyle.  To me this marked him as a modernist thinker even before he engaged with more radical contemporary artists. 

His brightly-colored late works are the most well-known but he spent years painting in earthen tones common to the lands of his youth. His voracious appetite to understand, coupled with his brother’s connections to the fast-changing art scene in Paris steadily offered him new ideas. It’s easy to forget how works we know as quaint and pretty Impressionists paintings were very radical in their day, mocked by the establishment, and only appreciated by a few. Theo was on the cutting edge encouraging their popular acceptance, and Vincent began befriending those who were building upon the freedoms their work initiated.

Vincent moved to Paris and eagerly conspired with other great innovators of the day. I’ve always loved the pastel image of him by the skilled hand of the always perceptive Toulouse Lautrec, drawn on the spot in a cafe. You can feel Van Gogh’s intensity in his posture, leaning into the conversation, revealing also the striking contrast of his shabby, peasant attire in the fashionable metropolis. Vincent’s paintings of these years reveal his exponential growth from constant interaction with the most avant-garde artists, as his ideas about art and life began to crystallize into a coherent direction.  

He blossomed through diligent study of contemporaries like Degas, Cezanne, Pissarro and Monet, and directly knew Lautrec, Emile Bernard, Seurat, Gauguin.  Eventually he recognized the simple life of brighter sunny southern regions of France better suited him and his ideals than the big city. Intertwined with his expansive artistic advances, he’d begun to more frequently have “episodes”: disabling headaches, depressive periods, mood swings and spasms, the cause of which remain uncertain. Some doctors diagnosed them as epilepsy, but regrettably there were only simplistic or crude treatments. 

Even as his art was reflecting his profound joy in nature and a deepening understanding of life, he was spending time in asylums, often consigned to live in spare settings with others with all manner of untreatable mental health ailments. It’s hard to imagine the personal fortitude it took to find one’s own peace with little understanding of the causes of your suffering, in such a time and place. Although he was in the more “advanced, humane” care of the leading specialist of the region, today we’d see these as prison-like settings, patients usually confined (sometimes physically) to their rooms or the grounds of the “hospital.” 

The tragic episode with Gauguin where Vincent mutilated his own ear is well-documented. As is his death—but I find it questionable it was a suicide. I generally agree with the recent Schnable movie that suggests he was shot and protected the shooter by not acknowledging it, which feels more akin to his character and beliefs. Less emphasized is the great sincerity and courage he displayed in facing his undefined malady which had no cause nor cure. Yet throughout all this he poured his soul into expressing his heart publicly through his art, and his innermost thoughts to his brother Theo in their correspondence. His work had begun to influence dozens of others and continues to broaden creative possibilities and understanding for us all today. 

Even to one very familiar with much of his life and art, for me the museum offered the fuller story behind several already touching works. His writings to Theo filled out the backstory about a beautiful landscape of wheat fields. It’s a striking example of what makes him so special. 

He was suffering from his attacks, and in an asylum/treatment facility at the time he painted it. Fortunately his primary doctor saw how art gave him purpose and allowed him to keep working. Often he was confined on the grounds or in his room “for his safety.” Though he was in a room that literally had iron bars on the windows, Vincent chose to look beyond these and paint this stunning image. A lush landscape with the added symbolism of harvesting wheat, a personal and universal spiritual metaphor in many traditions about the culling of human life and the benefits to the future of one’s life efforts. 

For me, studying his life, on and off across decades of my own, he remains an extraordinary model of integrity. He’s still incredibly inspiring, both creatively and as a profoundly compassionate person. The noble efforts of Vincent and Theo stayed were carried forward through their lineage: the museum (and the preservation and our awareness of Vincent’s work) exists largely through the amazing dedication of his sister in law, Jo. Theo died — perhaps heart-broken — soon after Vincent, and though a single mother in a very patriarchal society, Jo persevered in caretaking his vast creative output. As did her son, Vincent, Jr. after her passing. Their tireless work promoting and preserving his art and ideals kept his legacy intact. 

The experience literally sensing his “touch” on delicate drawings or paintings, feeling his passion about beauty, recognizing his faith in our common humanity—despite his “outsider” status—often moved me to tears. I feel so fortunate to have wandered among so many of his works, to feel his presence through his art, and indirectly be able to share time with him. Vincent embodied sensitivity and compassion. His open-heart, sincere passion to see beauty, and insistence on embracing all aspects of life is in stark contrast to our avoidance of issues, eagerness to find distractions, and current views of “success.” Fortunately his art endures to remind us of what’s real and important and guide us to the best in our selves.

Above: One of dozens of self-portraits that act as both a diary and public record of Vincent’s steady growth as an artist and his constant courageous introspection. Above left & below: One of his many small still-lifes that celebrate the small miracles of life. Always aware of the larger view, Van Gogh was equally committed to recognizing the cycles of the seasons, human lives, and even the cosmos.

Above: This is the remarkable painting Vincent did while looking through the bars of his window while being “treated” in an asylum. Always self-aware, he wrote his brother and appreciated the dark humor, irony and inherent symbolism of the ephemeral nature of life depicted by such a scene.
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Above: fields with cleansing rains, done in the final months of his life. At this point Vincent was completing several paintings each week. Contrary to romantic myths, the famed image of crows over a field was not his final work, and he did several joyful, life-affirming works before he passed. Below: a blossoming almond tree, which he did in his final weeks to celebrate the birth of his brother’s only child, Vincent, Jr., a painting treasured by his sister in law Jo, and his only heir for the rest of their lives.

A slight delay in arrival meant I only had two full days in Amsterdam, so I focused on art. Still I had to be selective, and chose as my first stop the grand old Rijksmuseum which I’d heard about since my first art classes 45 years ago. It was a fascinating surprise to discover the huge building has a street running through it! The ceiling of the spanning passage is a wonderful array of arches. I got my ticket, stowed my backpack in a locker and began making my way through the fecund history of the Netherlands. The Rijksmuseum focuses mainly on the last 400 years, with all manner of cultural objects, from goblets and glass (for which they were early innovators, to ship models to jewelry, coins and weaponry. Their boats and optical technology, advanced their international trade and financial industry, paving the way to global power. ​

Before they became a state, several decades of wars between crowns and nobility and the Catholic church vying for control eventually led to the separation of the former royal region into Catholic Belgium in the south, and the Protestant Netherlands (north lands). Even this wasn’t entirely secure for a few generations, as governance shifted via violent disputes. Still, many acknowledge 17th c. Netherlands as birthing the first middle-class society in modern western culture. 

This new group gained a status above peasantry, which then enabled them to own a few nice things beyond what was practical and essential. In particular this spurred the market for paintings, because for the first time successful “average” folks (that is, not just nobility, royalty or churches) could afford to own art. It radically changed everything because suddenly the content of what was depicted could include “common folk” and their interests. To this day “regular people” in our culture hang paintings in our homes. It was during this evolution, the Golden Age of Dutch Painting, that Rembrandt, Vermeer, and Fran Hals were born. 

I’ve learned to not try to look at everything in museums, and especially given a tight time-frame, instead give full attention to a few things. There were many highlights for me in this vast archive of objects. Since painting is my own discipline, I aimed there. 

It’s a rare delight to find three Vermeers in one small gallery. His paintings of figures in interiors get most of the attention, deservedly, as they’re as appealing as any paintings I’ve seen. However, a lesser known street scene by him captivated me just as much. As with all his works, there’s something haunting in the stillness. In this one I felt a subtle tension between the static, rooted buildings and the floating clouds and then, allowing more time to take it in, the people going about their daily tasks. 

There’s nothing “dramatic” depicted here, but I felt the soft drama of daily life. It’s as if time itself is one of the themes: the extreme detail in the worn brick and weather-beaten paint and rooftop, human creations vying to stay fresh, upright, and solid against age; the sky and the conspicuous fleeting ever-shifting nature of clouds and weather suggesting both renewing rains, impermanence and cycles. More cycles in the few women working, quietly, naturally resolute in their humble chores as as if there were no other possible thing they might be doing; the kids playing, similarly engaged in a way that feels utterly unforced. It’s a simple snapshot yet somehow it holds me as if an image of unspoken universal truths, at once holding up the solidity of our physical experience and the ephemeral reality of being alive.

I came upon two portraits of Rembrandt, one by his close companion Jan Lievens and the other a self-portrait. Each revealed different aspects of the future master. The gifted duo had only a few years before left their hometown of Leiden as young men and struck out to the bustling metropolis of Amsterdam to make it big in their brave new art world. They were both ambitious, driven, and they were beginning to gain a foothold. Lievens utilized some of his buddy’s devices: adding a lively head-turn and emulating some of his painting techniques adding to the illusion of texture by physically scratching into the painted surface. 

But more notably, I sense in the image a determined passion in the young Rembrandt. His piercing glance catches me off-guard. There’s a sort of “aha” in the slight rise Rembrandt’s left eyebrow, as if he’s just had an insight, likely a familiar expression to someone who knew him well. To Jan’s credit, he also depicted a hint of softness behind that strong gaze. Even early on Rembrandt had a profound sensitivity to and compassion for others, something that must have been palpable to Jan, one of his closest friends. 

In the wonderful shadowy self-portrait, young Rembrandt is already pushing the boundaries on what he can do in this exciting new medium. He’s playing with painting the illusion of textures and adding his trademark scratching of real textures— essentially telling me he’s self-aware that making images is a tool, not to be confused with reality. Again he adds a slight sense of the head turning toward us, a subtle bit of movement that makes adds so much to this little (10” x 7”) image. 

He’s probably copying some of what he’s seen in prints and other’s painted copies of Caravaggio’s work in Italy, and to a degree his more nearby hero, Rubens. He’s playing with dramatic lighting and the way it affects or evokes emotions, like an actor practicing gestures in rehearsal. Using these tools or elements was crucial to the story-making in his commissioned and popular history paintings, etchings, and later contributed to his revolutionary methods for adding vitality to formal portraits. He’s also learning how to engage viewers, and how to evoke curiosity to mystery. Leaving just enough visible to draw us in, he entices us to look harder to see the face of this “man in the shadows..” And his painted expression carries just a bit of surprise, as if by looking in the mirror even he’s sharing our own response to the painting of his own familiar face, saying “Oh wow, it’s just you!”