Beautiful Madness
The Borinage, Belgium 1879
It was a hot July afternoon when I found out they were dismissing me from my post preaching to the miners of Wasmes. I walked, my head hung low, down the road and back to my house, avoiding the questioning eyes of those I passed along the way.
"Overzealous" they'd called me, whatever that was supposed to mean. I knew what had caused their disappointment, however, understanding why it made them so upset was much more difficult.
In the time I'd been in this small poverty stricken village, I'd grown to like the people very much. They were all such kind people, despite the awful conditions they lived in. They had a way of always being cheerful and upbeat, even when you could plainly see the pain they were hiding. They lived in poverty, all struggling to provide food and clothing for their families.
I did all I could to help them, eventually turning to giving up my own food and clothing for their sake. It wasn't long before I found myself living in the same harsh way, but I didn't mind, it only seemed fair. I found a certain satisfaction in suffering to end their pain.
None the less, the church was not as happy, and so, they dismissed me. It wouldn't be the first failed career I'd had. When I first left home, nearly ten years ago now, I'd set out to be an art dealer. I'd worked for Goupil & Co, beginning my career in The Hague, and later being transferred to London, and then Paris. I wasn't the first in my family to pursue a career in the world of art, and I certainly wouldn't be the last. Two of my uncles had been very successful art dealers, and much later, young Theo would begin working at Goupil & Co. himself. Although I enjoyed the job at first, I soon developed my own taste in art, and had difficulties selling paintings I wouldn't buy myself.
In 1876 I left Goupil & Co, and returned to London. There I began working as a teacher at Rev. William P. Stoke's School in Ramsgate. I enjoyed teaching very much, and I remained there for about a year, until I slowly began to see my career heading more in the direction of a clergyman. My hopes of being a spiritual leader should have faded away when I wasn't admitted to the mission school in Laeken, but I refused to give up. I made arrangements with the church to begin what they were calling a trial period. That was how I had come to be walking home in shame, when that trial period came to an unfortunate end.
That night I sat awake for a long time, in the cold emptiness of the small house I lived in. My emotions shifted quickly from anger directed towards the church, towards myself, and finally settled on a feeling of despair, as a voice from within taunted me, telling me that I would never be successful.
* * *
The sun was still hanging low in the sky and morning song birds were as loud as ever, as I held my latest sketch at arm's length and at last decided it was finished. I set it on the table, wiping my hands clean on my shirt as I admired it one last time. The sketch depicted a coal miner, a shovel rested on his shoulder as he made his way back to the mines to face another exhausting shift. It was inspired by the many men I saw leaving for the mines early in the morning, and then watched return late at night.
Two weeks had passed since I'd been dismissed, and in that time I'd begun drawing the people of Wasmes to occupy my time. It gave me something to do, capturing the pain I saw in all of them, the pain I would never truly be able to end.
As I stared down at the drawing I thought again about a career I'd been considering for a very long time. I'd written to Theo, who was working at Goupil's now, and shared with him my idea. I read over his letter for the fifth time, a letter that showed his complete support for the idea. Looking from his kind words of support back to the sketch on the table I came to my decision. I was going to be an artist.
"Overzealous" they'd called me, whatever that was supposed to mean. I knew what had caused their disappointment, however, understanding why it made them so upset was much more difficult.
In the time I'd been in this small poverty stricken village, I'd grown to like the people very much. They were all such kind people, despite the awful conditions they lived in. They had a way of always being cheerful and upbeat, even when you could plainly see the pain they were hiding. They lived in poverty, all struggling to provide food and clothing for their families.
I did all I could to help them, eventually turning to giving up my own food and clothing for their sake. It wasn't long before I found myself living in the same harsh way, but I didn't mind, it only seemed fair. I found a certain satisfaction in suffering to end their pain.
None the less, the church was not as happy, and so, they dismissed me. It wouldn't be the first failed career I'd had. When I first left home, nearly ten years ago now, I'd set out to be an art dealer. I'd worked for Goupil & Co, beginning my career in The Hague, and later being transferred to London, and then Paris. I wasn't the first in my family to pursue a career in the world of art, and I certainly wouldn't be the last. Two of my uncles had been very successful art dealers, and much later, young Theo would begin working at Goupil & Co. himself. Although I enjoyed the job at first, I soon developed my own taste in art, and had difficulties selling paintings I wouldn't buy myself.
In 1876 I left Goupil & Co, and returned to London. There I began working as a teacher at Rev. William P. Stoke's School in Ramsgate. I enjoyed teaching very much, and I remained there for about a year, until I slowly began to see my career heading more in the direction of a clergyman. My hopes of being a spiritual leader should have faded away when I wasn't admitted to the mission school in Laeken, but I refused to give up. I made arrangements with the church to begin what they were calling a trial period. That was how I had come to be walking home in shame, when that trial period came to an unfortunate end.
That night I sat awake for a long time, in the cold emptiness of the small house I lived in. My emotions shifted quickly from anger directed towards the church, towards myself, and finally settled on a feeling of despair, as a voice from within taunted me, telling me that I would never be successful.
* * *
The sun was still hanging low in the sky and morning song birds were as loud as ever, as I held my latest sketch at arm's length and at last decided it was finished. I set it on the table, wiping my hands clean on my shirt as I admired it one last time. The sketch depicted a coal miner, a shovel rested on his shoulder as he made his way back to the mines to face another exhausting shift. It was inspired by the many men I saw leaving for the mines early in the morning, and then watched return late at night.
Two weeks had passed since I'd been dismissed, and in that time I'd begun drawing the people of Wasmes to occupy my time. It gave me something to do, capturing the pain I saw in all of them, the pain I would never truly be able to end.
As I stared down at the drawing I thought again about a career I'd been considering for a very long time. I'd written to Theo, who was working at Goupil's now, and shared with him my idea. I read over his letter for the fifth time, a letter that showed his complete support for the idea. Looking from his kind words of support back to the sketch on the table I came to my decision. I was going to be an artist.