The Top 6 Reasons Why I’m Grateful Not to be Vincent van Gogh

A life of squalor painted by numbers.

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Image by salman2 on Adobe Stock

He died when he was 37.

And guess how old I am? I’m thirty freaking seven. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not be dead so young. I’d especially rather not be dead from suicide, though I have to admit the thought does cross my mind occasionally.

He died before his paintings went viral.

These days teen girls on Instagram have infinitely more fame than Mr. van Gogh ever had in his entire life, and most of them have done nothing! I, for one, am glad he didn’t live to see this day. Mostly because he’d be 166.

His mental illness far exceeded my own.

Look, I’ve had major depressive disorder and anxiety my whole life, and I’ve learned to not exacerbate it needlessly. Plus, I have way more options for treatment these days than van Gogh did in his time.

Syphilis. He had syphilis.

Everyone had syphilis. It was incurable at the time.

I like both of my ears.

Sure, you’ve probably heard about Vincent van Gogh losing an ear. How it represents the convergence of creativity and madness and all that.

He was poor and relied on his brothers generosity.

Van Gogh’s brother Theo was his life boat. I’m not sure if my brother can even float.

I am privileged above many others, but I cannot do everything which I might have the courage and energy to undertake. The expenses are so extensive, beginning with a model and food and housing, and ending with the different colours and brushes.

What a pain in the booty it must have been to paint literally anything in the 1800's. We’re spoiled by today's standards, and that’s the way I like it.

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Artist. Blogger. Family man. I help people bring more art into the world:

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