Some days I feel like Vincent, but not quite. He had Theo to support him and try to peddle his paintings while I have only myself for support. I write because I have to. Like Vincent I seek out places where the light is right, engage in my passion for long stretches of time while neglecting the finer elements of life like bathing and putting on presentable clothing. I may even be going mad. I never drink paint thinner like Vincent does in the movie, and I don’t smoke either. I don’t think I’m self destructive, and I’m healthy as far as I know, so my madness must have a different sort of genesis from the Van goghs.
I may very well be driving myself crazy. I’m embroiled in a battle of wills, between my writing muse and the need to earn a living. How will I continue to write if the goal is to be published? Does this banal need dull the exotic passion to simply create?
Like Vincent, I’m driven to do my solitary work, regardless of the audience, and in spite of what any other person might think of my art. We share a nonconformist way of seeing things, and even our penchant for oddly composed vignettes is similar, only I paint my art with words, while Vincent used pigments and texture. Both of us have poured our souls into our work.
There is a point of departure between us. While Vincent’s paintings and life are endlessly subject to speculation, mine is an open book.
Causes Jennifer Pierce Supports
I support the effort of organizations promoting public access and farmland preservation, open space preservation, organic farming and local marketing of...