Artists are doomed

The master said it best.

Yes, the term "master" makes most minds latch magnetically onto the obvious: Michelangelo, Raphael, Rembrandt. But there is no better master than the one who interpretted art in the only way he could to give his own unique voice life. The voice with so much to say that a whole new horizon of expression had to be invented - which is, of course, the best purpose in art. Reaching as far as possible into the beyond.

But Vincent van Gogh talked to his brother Theo in letters about the trouble he knew future artists would face. The same trouble he faced, and hoped to imagine away through the fantasy of a community starting with him and Paul Gauguin.

Maybe, just maybe, buffeted from the Mistral in a little yellow house planted like a strong stark stalk in the south of France, they could be free day by day to put in the heavy hours needed to create their work. Without having to compromise the effort to pursue a material existence, all living endeavor could go where it had to. This, perhaps, could solve the acute problem of having to focus all one's energy into work that would buy no bread. Indeed, Theo would later comment - as Vincent deteriorated into a more and more strained mental state - the neglection of his material existence was to blame for so much of his woe. And Vincent would say in return, but this is where the work is born.

Van Gogh said the need to support oneself pitted against the need to put all good attempt into art would be at the crux of most strife many of his peers would face. So to the artists who I know struggle so well, the feeling coming to mind is love. And like all who cannot give it up, you are still doomed.