A few finger years ago, I met Vincent van Gogh at the Montréal Museum of Fine Arts. I changed since then. I feel like I did. There was this inherent affection towards van Gogh’s work; it shook me to the ground. For the first time in life I found myself admiring the work of an artist from light to night. I checked into the museum during the sun, walked out feeling so profound at night.
On my part, I always knew I was a writer at heart. My affection for writing is greater than anything else I’ve tried. I pour out different parts of me and some moments I just “Alas!” ‘There’s the product of me I made out of myself. These are also me,’ I sincerely think to myself. Sometime I lack the desire to sell them but “what’s good in a story if no one reads it?”
As for Vincent van Gogh, on much devastating part of his life, only sold one of his works for 500 Francs (about $1k today) throughout his 10 year career. He never tasted that glory the world now serves him in his coffin; never tasted that mouthwatering fruit of his refined legacy; never tasted that sweet bosom of a lover who would have embraced him and his paintings as if they were her own. I think Vincent’s paintings were, shall I say ‘Robust’ and ‘Expressive’ for the 19th Century.
The transition from the Romanticism still prevailed from French masters during Vincent’s time in 19th Century Europe. The Dutch artist community of ‘The Hague School’ favored somber and opaque qualities over Impressionistic and expressive use of colors. I think in general, Vincent was way ahead of his game. 21st century could’ve been his thing.
That’s why I’m bringing him to our neighborhood. Take him to Startbucks, to McDonals, to Downtown pubs and clubs and Museums full of masterpieces of the past.
I can only hope that you’d enjoy a bit of his life through the work of a writer in practice. I’m D., a man doing his everyday writing for whomever he can. A bit of my background includes: creative writing, grant writing, non-profit writing, proposal writing, book writing, this writing, that writing….another writing… more writing… endless writing…more endless writing…. writing…. My life is practically based on writing at all times.
And I seriously love it.
After all those writings, I finally hear the voices in every manuscript. Whether firm, soft, convincing, stating, vulnerable, sympathetic, begging, stubborn, demanding, angry, excited or just about every other human emotions I have felt in the past: I hear them. My favorite is a love-letter. It’s the greatest form of art. Some really excel in it or just really terrible at it, but still a love-letter is as sweet as a love can be.
I’m writing about this story with most honest, sincere voice as possible. I make sure that no stone is left unturned inside Boulevard 63l.
Let’s get going-
© 2016 D.