The Artist in Ma Heid

Vincent
With apologies to Don McLean

Vincent came out of his dream with an idea, a vision for his next work, a starry night. He set up the canvas and began to load his palette, predominantly blue and grey. He just knew that was what was required, don’t ask how, he just knew, it was instinctive. Looking out he saw a brilliant summer day. But he also saw a darkness in the souls of many of the passers-by. This in contrast with the beauty of the shadows on the hills, of the trees and the daffodils. He knew that he had the ability to capture the breezes, the chill of winter, and the colour of the snow laden linen land that he could see in his mind. But would anyone understand, would anyone get what he was trying to say. He knew at time that he was working on the edges of sanity, that he wanted to set the world free. Would anyone listen. He thought not, because he knew that they didn’t know how to listen. But perhaps this work would enable them, and then, maybe, they would listen, understand.

Paint began to flow, the vision starting to become reality. Flowers flaming, blazing brightly, a violet haze of swirling clouds, all reflected in Vincent’s china blue eyes. He looked around at other works, and understood how the colours constantly changed hue. He saw the fields of grain, amber in the morning light. He saw the pain lined faces, weathered by hard labour. He knew that they were soothed only by an artist’s caring hand. Again he was lost in thought about the lack of understanding. No one was hearing what he was trying to say from the edge of his own sanity. He was trying to set them free. They couldn’t hear because they didn’t know how to listen. Maybe there would be a moment in time when they would know how, and then, maybe, they would listen, understand.

He knew that he was close to the end of the work, and thought how he shunned traditional works, those empty halls with their portraits, the nameless walls supporting frameless heads. He saw through eyes that watched the world, eyes that could not forget. He thought about the strangers he had met, those broken men in their ragged clothes. He remembered a silver thorn and a blood red rose lying crushed, broken in the unsullied snow. So many images and so little time, would he ever capture them all.

They could not love you Vincent, how could they love something they didn’t understand. But your love remained true, even if unrequited. You reached the point where hope was out of sight, and on that starry night, as lovers often do, you took your life. We could have told you Vincent that this world could never understand one as talented as you. Now I understand what you were trying to say, but do the rest. You suffered for your sanity, and your vain attempts to set people free. They could not listen, they didn’t know how, they do not listen still – perhaps they never will.

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Author’s Note
Here I took the words of Don McLean’s Vincent and a narrator, then tried to put the narrator into the artist’s head to find the story behind the poetry. To attempt to see it from the point of view of the artist. So many artists I have known have struggled with mental health issues, and in some cases sanity. I have sung this song many, many times, but it took me several years to really understand it. For those years I sang it as written, but when I understood it I changed my interpretation of the final verse and the outro to give them a much more melancholic/pessimistic feel as opposed to the upbeat/optimistic feel of the preceding verses and choruses.