Broken Beauty

I am fasicnating by mad people. Their brain works in an amazing way. They see different things that normal people see.

Artists are said to be mad. Or at least on the borderline of madness. I believe they are. To be able to see the beautiful, small, tiny things in this life and to then express them out is simply crazy. Or on the other hand, to be able to see the darkest of things that is hidden away in the beautiful facade is mad indeed. They have to be extra sensitive to be able to capture all the details and the put them out again, either in a canvas, in writings, sclupture, or whatever media they choose.

Even among the mad, there are The Mad. Vincent van Gogh is among them. He is so beautiful and tragic. His art is so vibrant and yet dark. His madness is famous: He cut his own earlobe, he shot himself in the stomach. He lived in a life no other could enter. Even in his time, when being a painter is something exotic (though that didn't not guarantee full stomach), he was an outcast. He spent his last days in an institution.

Have you ever seen his painting? Those strokes... those colors, those impatience slapped onto canvases. Pain is there. Beauty is there.. loneliness... hope... and...simply madness.

His yellow leaped from the canvas and attacked your eyes. It exploded and filled your senses with surprise and temporary numbness. To be able to paint so bright yet never be able to tame his own demons.

He is, to me, a Broken Beauty. Someone so misunderstood, someone so wrong for his time, someone with so many things in his mind - more than his heart and concious can bear.