mclintock160

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February 5, 2009
Hello my friend . . . Sorry, I have not forgotten about you. I would like to share something with you. Hopefully as a young artist/ creative person, you might identify in some ways with the following . . . This morning I was listening to Don Maclean”s “Starry, starry night.” (lyrics below) Anyway I stopped what I was doing, paused and thought of your future life and all that will come and be gone in such a shot time.
I don’t know if you found the manuscript on my website. I just realized that there was once at the beginning, a homage to dear Vincent. For some reason I removed it. With your insurgents, here it is below.
Peace, Robert
But first . . .

Starry, starry night, paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer's day with eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Shadows on the hills, sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills, in colors on the snowy linen land

Now I understand what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for you sanity How you tried to set them free
They would not listen they did not know how, perhaps they'll listen now

Starry starry night, flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue
Colors changing hue, morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand

For they could not love you, but still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight, on that starry starry night
You took your life as lovers often do,
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you

Starry, starry night, portraits hung in empty halls
Frameless heads on nameless walls with eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the stranger that you've met, the ragged man in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose, lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow

Now I think I know what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for you sanity How you tried to set them free
They would not listen they're not listening still
Perhaps they never will... (d.maclean)


Ode to Vincent
I know his work all to well,
however, I want to know the person.
He was a living, breathing, being,
with joys, pains, and disappointments.


His work is now separate and apart,
the Artist gone, the work remains
withstood the test of time.
His labor, his bequest.


Only after reading about
his life struggles,
do I have a greater appreciation
of the language that was his life
expressed through a personal vision.


When discovering the person,
the life they lived,
the person that was that life,
causes me to stop and wonder,
which is more important,
the man and his life or his work?

If I were to see an exhibition of Vincent's paintings. I could appreciate his presence in those paintings. However, if on display was some personal possession, a hat, a book, or . . . oh yes, a paint brush.

I would stare with such a sense of wonder.
That paintbrush, held in his hands,
the tool of his expression,
the connector between his mind and the canvas.
The very instrument of his expression.
Somehow the brush connects me to the man
and his daily life.
The hum-drum of having to clean that brush.
Was it a favorite?
It was held in the hand that wrote
those passionate letters to his brother,
that he ate with.
The hand that pulled the trigger.


Dear Vincent,
If someone had taken or
held that hand
would anything have been different for you?
Life a little more tolerable
Was your Art enough?

Listen, listen as Vincent speaks;
" Is it the 'longing for God' which leads us to make a choice which we never regret?"
"Try to walk as much as you can, and keep your love for nature, for that is the true way to learn to understand art more and more. Painters understand nature and love her and teach us to see her. If one really loves nature, one can find beauty everywhere."
"Man is not easily content: now he finds things too easy and then again he is not contented enough."

If the artist's life circumstances had been different, would the work be the same? If Vincent Van Gogh had been accepted by the art establishment, if he could have had the pat on the back, "inclosed please find check," would the work be different? Did the creative Muse require that he be poor, not accepted, lose his mind, in order to create?

For most visionaries, there is always resistance.
I personally have the greatest admiration for Van Gogh. Not for his contemporary stature as a Master, but for his persistence, belief in his work. Against all odds, uncompromising, he pushed on, driven by his passionate and personal vision. He must have believed in what he was doing. At times, I am inclined to think that it is the process not the end result that is of value to the artist.
Could you imagine the pressure Vincent would have felt if he knew, while painting the Iris's, one day that painting would be sold for seventy five-million dollars? Would that knowledge affect the work? Would it have done a lot for his self-esteem?
Where is the value of the person? The quality and security of his personal life as opposed to the quality of his work, must the artist always be deprived of normalcy, economically low man on the totem poll, suffering to create a work of art? Can he be "normal" whatever that means? My instincts say no. The creative soul is different and pays a heavy price for that difference . . . generating an inequity from the point of view of the artist.

The very real personal hunger and sacrifice contained in the creative act
becomes a commercial commodity.
The artist's life made manifest on canvas becomes a decorative accessory.
Is a man's art simply another person's ornamental trophy?
Once, when I was in the home of a well to do attorney, I saw a sign on the wall. "He who dies with the most toys, wins." At the time I laughed. That's funny, not true, but funny. The only reason I remember the sign at all is that it troubled me. This same attorney had a large collection of my work hanging throughout his home.
Not long ago, through my New York gallery, I was attempting to arrange a benefit art show for Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and her AIDS Baby Hospice. The Gallery owner turned me down because he did not think such a show would raise any money. "People would not buy a painting for such a depressing cause. If someone did buy a painting, they would always associate the painting with AIDS. No one will invest money in anything that will always remind them of or be associated with pain."
Are the owners of a Van Gogh reminded when they look at his paintings of his short life? Are they reminded of how he ended it . . . or . . . is its significance recognized only as a financial investment? Perhaps in the polite society of collectors one does not deliberate on the intimate life behind the creations hanging on their walls. Yet, the images are a documentation of its creator's innermost thoughts.
And so, we have come full circle. The text of this manuscript tells the stories behind the images. However, one must support the understanding and recognize that all art must stand on its own merits. The life of its creator is incidental in the long run.
In time my memory may fail me,
in time memory of me.
But, the paintings will never forget.

thanks for watch a faves... your works are awesome btw~! ^^

glad you like my work, thank you!

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