Skip to main content

To Mr. Van Gogh, In a Capitalist World

What does one think about when they look at art?
Is it colours? Is it structure? Is it aesthetic?

Why do people see it as an object?

Art, to me, is dear.
Abstract, subjective, transparent, yet lucrative.

I draw the lines and curves,
and I paint them with the colours as I please.
If I didn’t do it for the love of it,
my art would be a failure.
But it is alive for me.

Every stroke paints a picture for me.

Oh, beloved and tragic Mr. Van Gogh,
how hard it is to just see it as something to love
in this world of capitalism and globalisation.
Where does abstract art lie?
Ignored. Deemed weird, unknowable, and disturbing.

Why is it so hard to survive in a world
where uniqueness and imagination feel rare?

Isn’t it why you dread life, Mr. Van Gogh?
The failure to gain recognition,
simply because people couldn’t see past what is on the surface.

I do not know you, sir.
I personally don’t. But as I look at your art,
I see me.
I see loneliness, sadness, isolation
and most of all, being misunderstood.
Even though you are gone,
your art has always been my company.

I love existentialism.
I love surrealism.
I love cosmic literature.
I enjoy painting them.

Free to see,
free to think,
free to interpret,
just, freedom.

So, Mr. Van Gogh,
if you had just revelled in your love of the freedom,
maybe you could have been saved... right?

But if you hadn't lament your failure,

you wouldn't be recognised...right?


Pain is capitalism, i guess

not beauty

not passion

not happiness

Pain, pain and pain


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Coffee with my younger self: II

I went about my way as I abandoned that little girl and left her to beg for help from others, like I once did. Asking, pleading for love and affection. I cannot go back to her. I know I’ve already left her behind. I want her to sleep in peace, to dream beautiful dreams that make her happy. I cannot dream like that, mine are either hollow or nightmares.  She doesn’t deserve to see that. She doesn’t deserve to know. She will find kindness from strangers who take her home. She will eat warm meals, sleep with a full belly, and close her eyes with wonder. I, on the other hand, can barely digest food or I eat like a pig and I dread going to bed. She doesn’t deserve to witness that. Her face is so full of joy, hope, and love. Mine is tired, hollow, and worn. She has to live the life she always dreamed of: smiling, hoping.  I can’t even go one hour without a cigarette. After all the pain I caused her today, I know she’ll still forgive me. She might hate me for an hour or two, but she’...
Post a Comment
Read more

I Awoke from Morpheus

you glowed and bejeweled the moonflowers, poison filled with illusory hope and serenity. and we both embraced, and we both strangled each other. we burn— oh, we burn so brightly, dear one. and yet, we turned too bright, and thus, we cascade down. no valley of flowers, no iridescent moonlight. no light, no hope— we burned into ashes. there goes my Morpheus, and so shall I cease to be. maybe in another life, we could have been. yes, we could have been. once, the light of my life, now becoming no more than a mere shadow that existed yesterday. there you go, like a dandelion, twirling away like a false prophet to one’s dreams and wishes. if only you had known how fickle words could have been, as people grow— and outgrow them. and yet, we live on, tragically, with beauty and grace.
Post a Comment
Read more

Champagne Flames and Crimson Roses

Lana Del Rey- Young and Beautiful Heavenly Father, if the road of life leads to heaven, let my lover pass through his beauty outshines this wicked world. His beauty glows, oh, it glows, like the last champagne light at the end of the party. His beauty endures as the world grows colder. And, Lord, let him be your angel, even if I am left to burn. His wings shadow the threshold of infinity. The smallest atoms of his being spill into me like holy wine, filling my soul with a redemption I will never deserve. His heart a crimson rose, opening, bleeding, a bloom that brings me to weeping. His hands, strong as steel, never rusting, yet they could shatter me like glass. And his kiss, oh Lord, his kiss burns my soul with the slow sweetness of damnation, as though my fate were already sealed in the fire that waits below. Such heavenly beauty drags me to the filthiest sins. His love, unending, makes me ache with unworthiness. like a moth unraveling in the flame, knowing I will perish, yet choosin...
Post a Comment
Read more