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I just viewed a short film document on the work of painter Vincent VanGogh, VanGogh: Brush with Genius, only 39 minutes long, and at its end, my eyes produced tears, my upper cheeks, right and left, became wet. You see, I love VanGogh. I love his work and I love his life story. I suppose, if I knew VanGogh back in the 1800s, it may have been different. He was difficult, socially and psychologically and I may not have been able to understand him. As it is, knowing VanGogh in hindsight, through the work he left behind, his letters, and the research of scholars, I love him. I do not use the word ‘love’ cavalierly. I only use the word love with reference to living beings, never in respect of inanimate objects, like books or movies or furniture or artwork. To me, love means the extreme liking a person has for another being, or something alive, like a flower. Love is felt on the inside and practiced outwardly in action; the action is in purpose to cultivate love in the other. For example, a person loving roses might care for a rose garden in expression of that love, and the roses return love by proper blooming. VanGogh is yet alive. Jesus taught that all, even the ‘dead,’ are alive unto God. A child might say that VanGogh is in heaven and so would I.
My love is a shadow, a negation of her shadow
Together, we have no light//
Our love is silent – struggling for birth
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