I grew up outside of San Francisco, CA. I think my parents may have taken me to one of the bigs museums in that city once, maybe twice. All I remember from those excursions was a room full of armor and many brooding paintings of saints and martyrs.
Fast forward 10 years. It is 1971 and an artist friend of mine manages to score an extra ticket to the Van Gogh exhibit at the De Young Museum in San Francisco. He invites me and I accept with joy. I’d only seen one Van Gogh painting in the encyclopedias that my parents owned and it was called “L’Arlesienne: Madalme Ginoux With Books”. The garish colors and her introspective face had always fascinated me. So of course I was eager to see more of his work.
What I wasn’t expecting was to have my life changed forever. Room after room of paintings filled with rich colors and violent brushstrokes assaulted me. I remember standing in front of “Wheat Field with Crows” for what seemed like forever; I felt my heart beat faster, in rhythm with the wind on the field and the beat of the crows’ wings. I knew at that moment that my destiny was to become a painter.
But I also knew at the same time that Van Gogh’s life was fraught with pain and madness. Would that be my future as well? I was afraid, but I knew I had no choice but to succumb to the magic of of the colors that pulled at my soul and gave me new life.
