Van Gogh in Technicolour.
Short deliberate brush strokes coated in midnight hues and colours of the sun, van gogh creates a world which is said to be a figment of his imagination however, when you put yourself on the other side and hold the brush in your hand, pause reflect, does it really feel like it's merely a figment of your imagination?
I stare at his most renowned work, “the starry night” and wonder, were the periwinkle and ultramarine blues destined to tell us a story, do they conceal his mental illnesses and sorrows or is it something in contrast, are they symbolic of euphoria or maybe even hope, hope of a better place. I linger on the golden stars and think to myself is this how he perceived the world, despite the cruelty, brutality of the human world, did he look at us with different colours, ones not so dark and vicious. Perhaps he saw us coated in shades of angel blues, leaving traces of hope wherever we walked. The night sky is swirling under my fingertips, as ancient as it is, it feels surreal, buoyant and exuberant. I look at it intensely, searching for a meaning, something philosophical, intellectual or real like the articles I ponder on endlessly but all it results in is- total mesmerization. Overwhelmed, I step back, and it seems like the colors are bleeding off the canvas onto the ground, onto the walls. The solid world merges with van gogh’s like crimson did with ultramarine blue, the shapes and swirls shifting, moving, till the line between reality and imagination is blurred to an extent where it's almost non-existent.
Looking down at my hands, the celtic and sapphire blues seem to be seeping into me, inching up gradually till I'm one with the midnight sky. Petrified, I gape at the world that's drenched in van gogh’s starry night. “Is this how he viewed the world?” I ask myself. The world that seemed rigid wasn't quite so anymore. Were we allowed to distort and reinvent it in whichever colours we liked? Van Gogh peeked outside the window of Saint- Paul- de- Mausole and instead of a stark night sky he saw something equivalent to heaven. A french province that would've disguised itself under the blanket of “ordinary” was created into something mystical by vincent. The possibility and enormity of transforming and perceiving the world differently sets in. “Is this possible and can I look at the world differently too?” I ask no one in particular hoping we are allowed at least that much.
The brush is quivering in my hand, terrified to put my mind out onto the canvas, hesitant, I start to paint. I pause and observe the world around me and see the people standing up for their rights, standing up for their love in shades of crimson. The coral coloured parent spreads out a net of protection. Awestruck, I continue to look at the people and places reek, drip and splatter shades of vivid hues. A passionate streak overpowers my fear of judgment, fear of unacceptance, fear of myself and I spill, I spill out the bright, bold, flamboyant images and colours till the canvas and the world is repainted, reimagined. Just like van gogh’s it's brimming with life, comfort, love, hope and above all humanity. The contrast between “was this how the world was destined to look?” and “does the world genuinely look this hopeful and heavenly” softens. The lines drawn by us mortals on perception and realism turned out to be delusions.
The dark, murky shades that once took the forms of calamities, hatred, homophobia, caste system, poverty are gradually fading to brighter ones. The corrupted society that held on to injustice, greed, power, and materialistic beliefs is turning fluid and is being washed away by the electric blue waves that leave, seashells made of hope on the coffee coloured sand, the sunflower yellows swarm and individuals are accepted wholeheartedly for who they are irrespective of colour, creed, caste. The infectious euphoria is sprinkled in shades of lavender, the tangerine skies embellished with peace, the deep mauve leaves a trail of optimism for a better future. The imperfect brush strokes I used to produce a world of surrealism hide under the hues, a world we long for, pray for. I brim with pride as I look at my version of “the starry night” dripping off the seams engulfing reality and I stare at a world that now shimmers in technicolor.
-Mabel Marion Cruz
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