Description
One Vincent
Conceptual photographic research
April 2018 | Variable dimensions
Only one painting sold during his lifetime, The Red Vineyard at Montmajour, four hundred francs to Anna Boch in January eighteen ninety, a few months before he shot himself in the chest in a wheat field in Auvers-sur-Oise and died two days later at thirty-seven, poor misunderstood fool rejected by the art world that found him too crude too intense too strange, and now in April two thousand eighteen his canvases sold for one hundred fifty million dollars, Portrait of Dr. Gachet bought by a Japanese collector in nineteen ninety for eighty-two and a half million, record price at the time, and I created this ONE VINCENT bill, alternative currency for a parallel artistic kingdom where value was measured not in commercial success during lifetime but in authentic genius recognized too late, always too late.
The Rejected (Un)ved Artists – the rejected unloved artists, inscription at the top of the bill that replaced « The United States of America », founding of an invisible nation composed of all those who like Vincent had created in general indifference, ignored scorned sometimes mocked, Van Gogh the madman who ate his paintings, Van Gogh the failure who was financially dependent on his brother Theo his entire adult life, Van Gogh the complete commercial failure who had sold only one painting ONE VINCENT when he had painted nine hundred and done one thousand one hundred drawings, frenzied production of a man possessed by his vision who had to express it at any cost even if no one wanted to see.
On the left of the bill his face after the cut ear, December eighteen eighty-eight Arles, argument with Gauguin who was leaving, psychotic crisis, Vincent took his razor cut off his left lobe wrapped it in newspaper gave it to a prostitute named Rachel at the local brothel, gesture of pure madness but also gesture of an artist who sculpted his own flesh since no one wanted his paintings, if you don’t want my painting take my ear take my blood take my suffering directly without mediation, and the portrait showed that white bandage stained with red, that bodily sacrifice that had served nothing, Rachel terrified had called the police, Vincent hospitalized at the psychiatric asylum, and still no one bought his paintings.
On the right his portrait in relative health, intense blue gaze that pierced through, red beard, blue vest, he who painted the explosive yellow sunflowers, the undulating wheat fields, the cypresses that rose toward the sky like black flames, he who saw nature with an intensity that no one else saw, who captured cosmic vibrations in the starry nights above the Rhône above Saint-Rémy, and this extraordinary vision was worth nothing on the Parisian art market of eighteen ninety where people preferred smooth academics wise Impressionists, not this mad Dutchman who impasted too much who used raw colors who distorted perspectives according to his internal emotional logic.
In Art We Trust at the center, motto that replaced In God We Trust, and this substitution said everything – Vincent had faith in art as others had faith in God, absolute total faith that justified all sacrifices all renunciations all suffering, he believed that art was sacred that it served a higher purpose that it communicated essential truths about human condition and the terrible beauty of the world, and this faith sustained him while his life collapsed around him, mental health destroyed, physical health ruined by malnutrition and alcohol, impossible human relationships, failed loves, nonexistent career, but In Art We Trust, continue painting despite everything because it was the only thing that made sense.
April two thousand eighteen, fifty-six years old, sixteen and a half years in France, and this image distilled my own existential terror – what if I ended up like Vincent, what if I died without being recognized, what if my works remained in my studio until my death then were thrown away or sold at flea markets, what if all this energy spent for decades creating led nowhere, zero recognition zero success zero money, just the meager consolation of having been faithful to my vision even if no one had shared it. Vincent at least had Theo who believed in him who supported him financially emotionally, I had my wife my daughter who supported me but the Parisian art world ignored me completely, sixteen and a half years in France and not a single solo exhibition in an important institution, not a single work bought by a French museum, total invisibility that sometimes made me wonder if I wasn’t crazy to continue.
But the ONE VINCENT bill also suggested an alternative economy, a parallel value system where what mattered was not immediate commercial success but authenticity sincerity inner necessity, Vincent painted because he had to paint, irrepressible impulse, and this necessity was worth more than a thousand worldly successes, it defined true artistic value independent of the market, and perhaps in this spiritual economy of authentic art I was rich, perhaps my works were worth millions of VINCENT even if they were worth nothing in euros or dollars, parallel currencies for parallel kingdoms.
The Rejected (Un)ved Artists formed an invisible fellowship across the centuries, Van Gogh obviously but so many others, Emily Dickinson who barely published during her lifetime and whose poems were discovered after her death, Franz Kafka who asked Max Brod to burn all his manuscripts, Henry Darger janitor of Chicago who created for forty years a gigantic imaginary world discovered only after his death, Vivian Maier street photographer whose negatives were found in a storage unit, all these creators who worked in the shadows without recognition without encouragement without hope of success, just inner necessity that pushed them to create anyway.
And the ultimate cruel irony was that now Van Gogh had become exactly what he hated, merchandised commercialized transformed into brand, his sunflowers on coffee mugs posters T-shirts umbrellas socks, total kitschification of his genius, and his paintings had become financial investments for billionaires who bought them not because they loved art but because they were safe assets that would gain value, pure speculation, and Vincent who lived for art probably turned in his grave seeing his works treated like stock market shares, certificates of authenticity insurance policies climate-controlled vaults all this business that had nothing to do with the mystical vision that had possessed him during his ten years of frenzied creation.
ONE VINCENT was worth now one hundred fifty million but was worth one franc during his lifetime, and this absurd disproportion showed that the art market did not know how to recognize contemporary genius, that it only validated artists with fifty hundred years delay when they were dead and could no longer benefit from their posthumous success, perverse system that enriched dealers collectors auction houses but never the creators themselves who starved in their studios while their work was potentially worth fortunes they would never see.
April two thousand eighteen and I held this ONE VINCENT bill that I had created, currency for a country that did not exist, The Rejected (Un)ved Artists, invisible nation of which I too was a citizen, and I wondered if in a hundred years someone would look at my works and wonder how it was possible that I had been ignored during my lifetime, or if on the contrary I was just mediocre who thought he was a misunderstood genius, impossible to know, Vincent did not know either, he constantly doubted his talent compared himself to others found himself inferior, and it was only after his death that the world realized he had been one of the greatest, too late always too late, ONE VINCENT April two thousand eighteen In Art We Trust despite everything despite the market despite the indifference despite the terrible possibility of ending up like Vincent recognized only after death if ever recognized, but continue anyway because faith in art was the only faith that remained, the only one worth maintaining in this world that believed in nothing anymore except money, and ONE VINCENT was worth infinitely more than an ordinary dollar even if no one would accept it as payment in stores, spiritual currency for spiritual transactions between members of the invisible fellowship of rejected unloved artists who created anyway would always create because it was their nature their curse their blessing their only reason for being, ONE VINCENT forever April two thousand eighteen forever.
Cornel Barsan
April 2018
