Wheatfield with Crows
After He Said Cancer | A Memoir
A golden wheat field lay under a thunderous sky. A meandering path disappeared into the distance in the middle of the painting. Leading the viewer…where? Seemingly at the last moment, the painter added a murder of crows. They flew across the sky and fields in thick, black strokes of paint shaped in an elongated ‘m’, like the way children draw seagulls. The crows gave the painting almost a sinister unease.
The painting was called Wheatfield with Crows and was finished by Vincent Van Gogh in 1890, a few weeks before his suicide. Some speculated that this was his last work and reflected the deep depression and psychological turmoil of his final moments. Technically, it wasn’t his very last painting, but it was certainly painted in the last weeks of his painful depression.
Wheatfield with Crows, by Vincent Van Gogh
It had been my favorite painting for nearly 40 years, and it had been this long since I had seen it in person.
A delayed take-off from Seattle resulted in a missed connection in Amsterdam, effectively stranding me and my family in Amsterdam for 24 hours. In a heartbeat, I knew what good fortune had befallen me and how difficult it might be to get museum tickets at the last moment. More than anything, I wanted to experience this painting again in person with its fiery contrast, rich colors, and menacing crows swarming overhead.
As I suspected, museum tickets were sold out. But with a stroke of luck, the hotel concierge had a museum pass that would allow us to skip the line and enter without prior reservation! While thanking him, I nearly ripped the pass out of his hand. We would have just enough time to go to the museum before our flight, if we left right after breakfast the next day.
The last time that I stood in front of this painting, I was twelve. My mother was an enthusiast of the arts and had taken me to the Van Gogh Museum, while we were in Amsterdam. At my first glance, I was probably taken by the stunning composition and contrasting blue and yellow colors. At that time, I hadn’t known the pain that life can bring, which fueled the artist’s brush. But the emotional intensity of the painting captivated me, and I couldn’t forget it.
This time, I had taken my thirteen-year-old daughter to the museum. It was too much to hope that she would feel all the same things that I felt. But if I could leave her with an impression of his works, that would be enough. The various levels of the museum were aligned with different artistic periods of his life. On the second level, I had tried to explain the rebelliousness of his peasant paintings that shone a spotlight on their difficult lives. In another room, I explained the influence of Impressionist artists in Paris on his work. But Vincent’s works were not focused on capturing the light and color of small moments similar to their work. Instead, he fit into the category of an Expressionist, whose goal is to evoke intense emotions in the viewer and reflect a stormy inner psyche.
The Wheatfield with Crows was on the third floor of the museum and designed to be one of the last works seen by the viewer and to culminate the visit. Having caught a glimpse of it as I entered the final room, I approached the painting with almost a deference. I held my breath and savored the moment, trying to decide how I would approach it.
Approaching the painting as an adult, I wanted to experience the painting for the first time, with my mind as a blank slate. My first impression was that the brushstrokes felt completely wild. I imagined the painter in his workshop layering on the paint at a furious pace, his eyes darting around the canvas. His artistic works were an expression of his inner anguish and the pain in his psyche. Painting with total surrender. And no filter.
Next, I let myself feel the painting and mind wander. It felt sinister, as if something terrible was coming. As my eyes were basking in the security and beauty of the wheat field, they were ripped upwards to the dark and angry sky full of crows. In large numbers, crows can symbolize an impending disaster or an omen of death. The path through the wheat field was so inviting but would, undoubtedly, end in grief and loss and terror.
But this was life, wasn’t it? An endless circle of love and loss. The greater my love for my husband, the greater would be my fall into darkness and grief if his life was cut short by cancer. Yet, this was the contract that I signed. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part.
Given the option of standing in place or choosing the path in front of me leading into darkness, I would choose the path forward and embrace what is coming. I know the fear and resentment of standing still and trying to hold on to what life was supposed to be. The bliss and heartaches of one’s life are equal parts of the dual universe in which we live.
In the gift shop, I had asked my mom to buy a postcard with my favorite paintings. The Wheatfield with Crows was among them. When we returned to the U.S., I thumbtacked the postcard to the cork board next to my desk. There it would remain as a source of inspiration, from middle school through medical school, for my wandering mind. I was in love.
“Mom, I feel like a third wheel between you and the artist,” my daughter said with a chuckle. Her words were right on the mark. But can one ever be too passionate about a piece of art that brings one’s own feelings into greater focus? Isn’t part of the struggle of life to discover its meaning? What better way to find its meaning than through the wild stroke of a pen, or the furious movements of a paintbrush?
Once again, I stood in the Van Gogh Museum gift shop. This time I was the mom. I found myself drawn to the postcards of the paintings, just as I had been forty years earlier. I selected several postcards, including of course one with my favorite painting, and resolved to tape them up in my office. They would remind me of the dual forces at work in our lives. And that loss is as much a part of this world as love.
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I have often thought the immense pain of grief is proportionate to the immense and intense love. Great pain is the price of great love. And, like you, I will gladly pay that price.
Having been a widow for a little over 14 years, I can remember the intense love I had for my husband. Though his health fluctuated for 20 years, there was a time when I was 29 years old that I prepared for his funeral. Because preparing for that in my mind meant I wouldn’t need to
do it. Skip ahead 23 years and the plan had to be put into action. I would never have traded the 33 years we had together if it meant less grief. Grief builds our character, but it also builds our compassion for someone else who is going through the same thing. Our journeys will always be different, but having the opportunity to love to our fullest, gives us the ability to share our compassion to the fullest.