I Work In An Art Gallery With Some Amazing Works By Vincent Van Gogh, And I Keep Find Myself Defending

I work in an art gallery with some amazing works by Vincent Van Gogh, and I keep find myself defending his honor. People frustrate me to no end.

Some people look at his artwork, which is full of immense love for the world, and go, "Oh, how sad. He was crazy. Isn't this painting SAD?" And, it's one of the most joyful paintings on earth.

The worst people are those who mock his artwork because he was "crazy". Upon looking at a beautiful, delicate, loving, and meditative artwork, a father nudged his son. "Isn't this the lunatic who cut off his own ear?" The son laughed. "Disgusting," the son said, and they laughed together.

Worse yet, some people find the artworks scary. With this kind and gentle painting before us, a young woman shrieked and grinned like she was in a haunted house, running into her boyfriend's arms. After all, he was crazy.

Vincent Van Gogh wanted to be a priest. He felt God's love in everything and everyone. The priesthood didn't work out, but nevertheless Vincent especially felt God's love in the unloved. He painted every breeze in the air, and the veins in the unnoticed laborer's hands.

I don't think Van Gogh's swirling spirals are crazy. I think they're meditations on God's love, breathed through all Creation. To me, these paintings are a prayer.

wouldn’t it be funny if mary magdalene was like i hang out with dudes because it’s less drama and then all that happened

The Vicar in the Pulpit Church Mouse // MedievalKnight 

Details from Garofalo’s Annunciation (1481)

Do you ever think about autistic medieval nuns. I'm pretty sure there were some, it's statistically impossible there weren't nuns that were on the spectrum. Other nuns at the monastery looking at them like "Sister Margary always looks to be in peace and so content with this life, why cannot I be such a good nun as well" and then immediately start grieving about the sin of envy or some shit.

Meanwhile Margary has zero fucking idea that anyone is staring at her, busy thinking "oh man I sure fucking love having the same meal at the same time every single day, and then going back to my simple repetitive work where Nobody Fucking Talks At Me all day."

George Lawrence Bulleid (British, 1858-1933) The Annunciation, n.d.