Poverty and the Spiritual

A few weeks ago Anita and I went to the Yale Art Gallery. I’ve known about it for a long time but had never been. One painting in particular I wanted to see was Vincent Van Gogh’s “Night Café.” This famous painting has been in New Haven  for about fifty years. He painted it to settle his debt with the café owner, who was also his landlord.

The painting depicts an all-night café in Arles, France, where Van Gogh was living at the time. He described the café in letters to his brother: “Night prowlers” can take refuge there when they have no money to pay for a lodging, or are too drunk to be taken in.” He later described his goal in making the painting: "In my picture of the Night Café I have tried to express the idea that the café is a place where one can ruin oneself, go mad or commit a crime.”

A place of desperation, perhaps?

Van Gogh was a deeply spiritual person, to use contemporary terminology, but he rejected organized Christianity as an institutionalized faith that did not address the basic needs of people. He attempted to prepare for the ministry, spending several years working among the poor in both England and his native Holland. His mentors felt he spent too much time among the poor. He gave up his hopes of being a pastor and floundered for awhile before discovering art. His early paintings are dark, and depict the poor as they live their lives in desperation. Several years into his brief, ten year art career he discovered color, and the style that he is known for was born. Van Gogh struggled with depression and anxiety during his adult life, and committed suicide in 1890 at the age of 37.

Vincent Van Gogh, Night Cafe, Yale University Art Gallery

Van Gogh’s paintings, for the most part, are not religious, but many have a theological or spiritual meaning. Many of his paintings portray the beauty of creation. His portraits celebrate the uniqueness of individuals. His earlier paintings, although not nearly as well-known as his later works, depict the grinding pain of poverty. That is also a theological concept.

People often ask where God is amidst suffering. It is natural to feel abandoned by God in the midst of suffering. Although not an easy answer, one response is that God is present in suffering. That isn’t to be trite. God is present with us in the midst of our suffering, present in the person of Jesus. In Christ, God is present in the suffering of the poor. And, God is present in the hands of those who offer hope to the poor. Van Gogh understood this, and unfortunately the world did not understand. I wonder if the world ever will understand.

Copying the Masters

Hans Holbein self portrait, 1542 (my copy)

One of my favorite museums is the Isabella Stewart Gardiner Museum in Boston. It’s an odd museum, an oddity in a city full of museums of various sorts. I enjoy going there even though the old museum (they have a new wing for rotating exhibits) never changes aside from the occasional painting or object being removed temporarily for conservation.

Mrs. Gardiner stipulated that the collection remain the same, including the building itself. It is a wonderful turn of the century mansion with architectural elements collected across Europe, and of course, many paintings.

The way the paintings are displayed is in the manner of a home at that time. Many of the smaller paintings are on stands, back to back, with a chair in front of each one. I’m sure that at one time visitors were allowed to sit in the chairs, but not now. This sort of arrangement is conducive to the sort of intimacy I look for in the display of art. Even if I can’t sit in the chair in front of a painting, I still get the feeling of intimacy, of having the small Giotto or Bellini to myself, to converse with it.

What does this have to do with copying paintings? Quite a bit, actually. I have never been one for art prints. Of course, many enjoy art prints, and that’s perfectly fine. For me, viewing a print of a painting is too many steps removed from the original. For one, the print is generally smaller than the original. The sense of size is lost. Also, it’s not a painting. There is no texture, no impasto, no depth in a print. Standing in front of a Picasso I can see how he applied the painting, sometimes almost like spreading icing thickly on a cake. It gives me the feeling that I’m looking over the artist’s shoulder.

Jan Van Eyck self portrait, 1433 (my copy)

I would never claim to be as good an artist as Van Gogh, Van Eyck, Rembrandt, Holbein, or anyone else. I copy paintings so that I can have my own. It’s almost like collecting them. I’ll never be able to afford a Rembrandt, obviously, but I can copy one of his Heads of Christ and enjoy it as his image, even though I’m the artist, having copied it as closely as possible.

For me, intimacy is an absolute necessity in art, whether I’m contemplating a painting I’ve copied or viewing one in a museum. It is the intimacy of the artist and me. For that moment, the artist and I are having a conversation, often over the span of centuries. That’s why I especially enjoy copying self portraits by artists. Van Eyck’s self portrait (1433) is a great example. The artist portrays himself as he is--getting older, needing a shave, and just basically being human. Hans Holbein painted several self portraits, one in the form of a sketch which I have turned into a painting. He’s just another guy.

Vincent Van Gogh self portrait, 1887 (my copy)

Vincent Van Gogh’s self portraits are deeply psychological, as many self portraits are. His seem to be even more so. I chose to copy one that I have actually seen in the Wadsworth Athenaeum in Hartford, Connecticut, just a short distance from where we live. In this painting he depicts himself as looking back over his shoulder at a world that he seems to distrust. He wasn’t a fool. The world can’t be trusted, not completely.

I’ll post some more copies from time to time as I add to my collection. Right now I’m working on a copy of Mantegna’s Adoration of the Magi, currently at the Getty Museum in California.