Vincent van Gogh sans his red beard

1890: Vincent van Gogh died in Auvers-sur-Oise, France, two days after shooting himself.

From An Artist Empowered:

However, it appears that far from being the isolated lunatic on the fringe, van Gogh was a practical and methodical artist with a healthy sense of his times, coupled with an interest in science, astronomy, poetry, and literature. As Becky Hendrick, in her fine book, Getting It, puts it: “He was a great painter in spite of his mental illness, not as a result of it.” Van Gogh wasn’t mad when he painted or wrote letters, especially to his brother, Theo, which were clear, pragmatic, and mindful of his mission as an artist.

One could argue, as Albert Boime does, that Vincent was less mad and more a victim; he suffered seizures that were most likely brought on by a form of epilepsy; he didn’t recall cutting off his earlobe, and this frightened him.

On July 27, 1890, van Gogh left for a nearby field (earlier that month in the fields he had painted vast stretches of wheat, crows, and turbulent skies) where he shot himself—which might be explained away by a seizure, but not why he had a pistol with him.

Today would have been my dear late mother’s eighty-fourth birthday.

I think of her daily and dream of her often. Adele had enough compassion for the whole world. She was brave and always willing to lend a helping hand. She spoke up when necessary; her compassion did not make her a fool.

She would say to me: “Giving up on your art is like tossing your baby away.”

So, dear Adele darling, who is now free from pain, be well in that place beyond.

It’s been about two weeks since Aldo, the parakeet, landed at my front door. No one has claimed him. He’s doing very well and is content.

Since he had flown onto my finger outside, I thought he was at least partially tame. However, when I tried getting him to step up onto my finger inside his cage, he refused. This means that he and I are in for clicker training—a form of positive reinforcement training that requires patience.

It turns out that despite being wild, Aldo perceived me as a port in the storm, flying over and landing on my finger. He overcame his fear of humans (who can blame him) for relief from the harsh desert and its predators. This gives new meaning to an outdated and erroneous concept: birdbrain. 

So, we can say that little Aldo worked me, and we are both the richer for it.