Vincent was born on March 30th, 1853.  At age 16, his uncle (also named Vincent) helps him get a job at the famous Paris-based art gallery Goupil & Co. at its Hague branch.  For the first few years he does well, and is transferred to London and Paris, but Vincent’s relationships with his employers and his family deteriorates as Vincent increasingly comes to see his life as an art dealer meaningless, like the “pretty pictures” he is forced to sell.  He is fired.  Vincent’s father is a preacher, and Vincent decided to try to become a preacher too, but is a failure at that as well.  He tries teaching and that doesn’t work out.  He falls in love with his cousin and she rejects him.  His father kicks him out of the house.  Things aren’t going well. 

     In 1880, at age 27, Vincent turns to art.  We all know the rest of this story: Vincent dies 10 years later, after having created an enormous number of paintings and drawings, but never selling enough to support himself and apparently never becoming successful.  How did he keep going those 10 years?  How did he not starve, have a roof over his head, and more importantly, keep working at his art without succumbing to the doubts and fears expressed by his family, his associates and himself?  His brother Theo.  That one person who believed in him, who supported him, who was his lifeline and touchstone. 

     Vincent wrote to Theo, shortly before he died: “At present I do not think my pictures are worthy of your kindness to me.  But once they are worthy, I insist that you will have created them as much as I, and that we are fashioning them together.”  Theo died six months after Vincent, but before he died he wrote to their mother, “Life was such a burden to him (Vincent), but now, as it often happens, everybody is full of praise for his talents…Oh Mother!  He was so my own, own brother.” 

Posted by Mari, for Vincent’s birthday, and dedicated to my husband Rod.  Although I am no Vincent, he is my Theo.