starry starry night

I never have really thought Don McLean was an especially gifted poet, but I have always loved this poignant song. I visited the Chicago Art Institute over Easter week and saw two Van Gogh paintings side by side in the gallery - one the familiar bedroom in yellow and blue and one a tortured self-portrait. They literally took my breath away - there were a few times in the gallery when I felt as if I needed to leave the room in order to breathe. I was rushing through the museum - we had about 2 hours for the whole museum. I spent nearly all of it in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century European galleries. I wish I had spent it all in front of the Van Goghs - but I didn't want to miss anything. I almost skipped the whole museum because I knew two hours was a ridiculous amount of time; but then I would have missed it all.

I still find it curious that paintings can affect me so strongly. I have always loved art museums, though I have never had much time to spend in them. One summer I lived in Washington, DC for about 6 weeks and I haunted the National Gallery during that time - any free afternoon I had was spent there instead of at the monuments or historic sights, or the Georgetown shops.

I find that paintings do for me what music does for many people - touch some place inside me that I can't really talk about - that is wonderful and painful at the same time. What C.S. Lewis called "this desire for our own far-off country."

Van Gogh "in person" is utterly different than any reproductions of his work. The colors glow, the texture is almost palpable. The sadness and the beauty at the same time are almost too much to look at. They are certainly impossible to describe in words. I find myself needing to look away; wishing for sunglasses or something that would soften the intensity. I wish to be alone in the room.

How can something so painful be so lovely? That is the paradox of life, of course. "Sorrow and love flow mingled down. . . They will look upon Him whom they have pierced. . . We shall see the King in His beauty. . He will wipe away all tears from their eyes. . ."

Starry, starry night

Paint your palette blue and gray

Look out on a summer's day ,

With eyes that know the darkness in my soul,

Shadows on the hills ,

Sketch the trees and daffodils ,

Catch the breeze and the winter chills,

In colors on the snowy linen land,

Now I understand ,

What you tried to say to me ,

And how you suffered for your sanity ,

And how you tried to set them free ,

They would not listen ,

They did not know how ,

Perhaps they'll listen now ,

Starry, starry night ,

Flaming flowers that brightly blaze ,

Swirling clouds and violet haze ,

Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue ,

Colors changing hue ,

Morning fields of amber grain ,

Weathered faces lined in pain ,

Are soothed beneath the artists' loving hand,

Now I understand ,

What you tried to say to me,

And how you suffered for your sanity,

And how you tried to set them free ,

They would not listen ,

They did not know how ,

Perhaps they'll listen now ,

For they could not love you ,

But still your love was true ,

And when no hope was left inside ,

On that starry, starry night ,

You took your life as lovers often do ,

But I could have told you Vincent ,

This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you ,

*Starry starry night,

Portraits hung in empty halls,

Frameless heads on nameless walls,

With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.

*Like the strangers that you've met ,

The ragged men in ragged clothes ,

The silver thorn of bloody rose ,

Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow ,

Now I think I know ,What you tried to say to me ,

And how you suffered for your sanity ,

And how you tried to set them free ,

They would not listen ,They're not listening still ,

Perhaps they never will.