By Shakkeela Sainu Kalarickkal

For many artists and writers, suffering is not just incidental—it is often their destiny. Their lives are shaped by poverty, illness, and mental struggles. Recognition, if it comes at all, is usually posthumous. The story of Vincent van Gogh is a heartbreaking testament to this truth.

Van Gogh, a master who brought magic to the canvas with his strokes, led a life marked by deep psychological anguish and relentless poverty. It was his younger brother Theo who kept him alive—sending meager funds regularly, which van Gogh used not only for food but for paint and canvases as well.

In one episode that reflects the sensitivity of his troubled soul, van Gogh gifted a painting to a doctor who occasionally painted and also treated him for his mental illness. When he returned and saw the artwork carelessly kept, he was visibly disturbed. On being told the frame would be ordered the following week, van Gogh insisted it be done immediately. His agitation was apparent, and recognizing this, the doctor chose silence.

In a moment of emotional imbalance, van Gogh took a revolver from his pocket—but soon realized the gravity of his action and walked away in silent repentance. He wandered around a local churchyard, passing a cemetery, gazing at the golden wheat fields that stretched into the distance.

He carried his easel, as always, and in a desperate attempt to escape guilt, began to paint. Above the sprawling fields, crows flew—ominous and symbolic. When the painting was complete, he questioned the very act of painting. “Why paint anymore?” he asked himself. For years, every painting had been sent to Theo, who had exclusive rights to all his work. Yet only one had ever been sold.

Theo, too, was struggling financially, with a sick child and a wife to care for. Still, he ensured Vincent had paint, food, and shelter. Their bond was profound—so much so that Theo had even named his newborn son after Vincent. During a rare visit, he showed the child animals and birds, and, miraculously, the child later recovered from his illness.

But thinking of Theo’s suffering plunged van Gogh into despair. Life had become unbearable. Death appeared as the only release. Knowing he couldn’t say goodbye with a painting, or through colors alone, van Gogh looked toward the sun, pulled out his revolver, and shot himself in the chest.

He collapsed but didn’t die immediately.

Four hours later, the doctor arrived. Van Gogh, wounded but conscious, whispered,
“Even this I messed up… I couldn’t live properly, and now I can’t even die right.”

The following day, as a grief-stricken Theo sat beside him, Vincent weakly murmured,
“Mustn’t a man die at least once?”

Moments later, the 37-year-long torment that was Vincent van Gogh’s life came to an end.

In the years that followed, van Gogh’s works received global acclaim. Today, his paintings are sold for millions of dollars, and his letters to Theo—preserved in three volumes and translated into multiple languages—are revered as literature in their own right. These letters, intense and poetic, offer insight into the mind of a man in search of color and form, and the emotional resonance behind every brushstroke.

Many of those letters ponder how colours can express emotion, blending raw feeling with pigment on canvas.

In the same streets where he once wandered in torn clothes and hunger, celebrations now mark both his birth on March 30 and his death on July 29. His works are among the most valuable ever sold in the history of art.

Yet, Theo saw none of this.

Unable to recover from the trauma of Vincent’s death, Theo passed away just six months later. He was laid to rest beside his brother in a cemetery amid the wheat fields of Auvers-sur-Oise in France.

Two brothers. One buried legacy. But the world continues to celebrate the man who once saw colours even in despair.