ng howling winds, most of the time with an empty stomach due to his extreme poverty, and the sun of the Provance didn’t deter him in the least. He was producing painting after painting that did not sell. To these years belong the masterpieces such as The Starry Night, Sunflowers, and The Postman. No one understood the intrinsic value of his style. And this prodigious, hard working painter, fond of his art but always poorly rewarded was destined to spend the remainder of his life Gjikondi 6in poverty, depending solely on his brother’s income. What was worse, this steady income was slowly deteriorating as well. One can only take so many blows without wincing, but nature in the end, always more resourceful, and better equipped takes its toll. Vincent Van Gogh was always taken for a visionary. Now another element was added to that list: Madness.Whether it was the sun of the French Provance, his fatigue, his straining after perfection, or simply the result of so many troubles while new ones were piling up on him no one will ever be able to tell. He was locked up in a lunatic asylum in Saint Remy after cutting off his ear with a razor blade. He was occasionally allowed to paint outdoors but only when accompanied by a guard.It was the middle of July. Vincent had just come from his brother’s where he had witnessed the poor state of Theo’s living. He thought himself as a burden to others, with no other use in this world but that of a painter who never sold anything. Well, then, he would paint. He left his hotel room and headed towards the fields. He chose his subject carefully. It was a wheat field that hadn’t been harvested yet. So were his paintings, perhaps. The years had passed by, taking each one of them a portion of his love for life, reducing him to a mere madman whom everybody ridiculed. The years were like crows above this wheat field. That is what he would paint. He laid layer after la...
