In October of 2021, I had the amazing pleasure of visiting my college roommate in New York City. Another one of my college roommates came to see our friend perform who was on tour with her Grammy award-winning band for the first time since the pandemic. Susan, I had seen her on various occasions since college. Amy, I had not seen her in person since the last time all three of us hung out in the late nineties in Florida when Susan was a solo artist rock starring across the country and world. To say that I was excited to see Amy when she got off the plane in New York City would be an extreme understatement.
Susan's band was playing for two nights at the Beacon Theater - shows that Amy and I were scheduled to see. On day two, Amy suggested that we go to see the Vincent Van Gogh exhibit which was a huge hit in various cities across the United States. I obliged, and we bought our tickets to attend on Saturday afternoon.
Upon entering the exhibit, I was truly taken aback by the story of Vincent. The paintings just drew me in as I had never been before. The only two things I can compare it to are when I was in New York City with my dad and son and we stumbled upon the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The exhibits brought tears to my eyes. The other time was when, again, my husband and I stumbled upon The Met when he and I visited New York City in 2013. I remembered the romantic feel of the outside of that building when I saw Cher and Nicholas Cage meeting for an opera date outside of the building in the movie Moonstruck. Again, I just started crying.
Reading about the paintings in the exhibit and why those paintings were created is what made me look deeper into the colors and motions of those strokes on that canvas. I imagined every single emotion being interpreted as he created these masterpieces. He struggled with mental illness his entire life and painting is what helped him manage this condition. Walking through those hallways of paintings while the most beautiful classical music played was cathartic for me. I felt like I was walking through someplace familiar.
The part of this that was so notable was when we entered a large room where on each wall, a video of Van Gogh's paintings "played" with the most beautiful music you've ever heard (I captured these moments in the video to the right. You are welcome to download this video). When the Starry, Starry Night video of his painting played, it was a place I did not want to leave. I felt so incredibly safe and protected in that room - like, the person I had been, currently was, and wanted to be, was welcomed. It didn't matter how much I had changed or was going to change. This was a room where all of it belonged. I just cried and cried and cried at the beauty of it.
The song "Starry Starry Night" by Don McLean made no sense to me as a child, because I didn't know Vincent Van Gogh. Now, when I hear the song, I realize it is about his life, that beautiful painting, and what it meant. Every time I hear it, I cry...especially when I hear these lyrics at the end:
Now< I think I know
What you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they're not listening still
Perhaps they never will
I write about this today because I'm scheduling time to go see this exhibit in Chicago in June. I cannot wait to go. I realize what a starry starry night I've lived. I've not hidden any parts of who I am. I have not left stories untold, pictures left not described, experiences left not shared. I haven't hidden in rooms and locked the doors so no one could come in. I have shared my experiences in music, in actions, and in all of who I am, because for the first time now, I accept it all. Everything. The ONLY pain I think that comes with sharing so much...is when I feel as if I'm made to believe that people really heard what I said...but they do things contrary to what their words are supposed to mean. That's when I realize that a lot of people hear the sound, but only a select few really listen to what you are sharing and saying. I also realize, if I tell thirty people the truth behind who I am, and 29 don’t care or never hear me, but one person changes their life for the better because of what I shared, then I did my job.
So like Van Gogh, we have to keep telling those stories. We must let our artistry be shared, not just so we can get our feelings out, but so others know that they can too. And, perhaps in our future, we will have a room that has all our deepest, darkest, notable secrets; there will be music, and pain, and joy, and tears and smiles and laughter. People who once felt that they had no place to feel included, will know that this is their room too. They can cry tears of joy at the beauty of the anguish often felt, but the result of release when your anguish is dealt with.
The experience with Susan and Amy opened the door for all of us to have some hard conversations about where life had brought us. We talked about our kids, our relationships, and our friendship. I love you and I am proud of you were comments that we couldn’t stop making. All three of us had been through some struggles in our almost 30-year friendship that brought us to this point, and we were so grateful that we had each other. We were really LISTENING. And for the past 30 years, despite all that we had been through, it was obvious that we had been listening the entire time. We knew who the other person was. And we celebrated all of it. That is what Van Gogh wanted to say in his paintings. All of it matters. Deal with it. Appreciate it. Embrace it. Accept it. Love it. Help it. Be loyal to it. And if it really matters to you, do not dismiss it.
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps, they'll listen now
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