Vincent van Gogh: The Life Story Behind the Tortured Painter

Vincent van Gogh is the most famous painter in the world who never knew he was famous. In his lifetime, he sold almost no paintings, he was poor, he was often hungry, and he was thought by many people to be a failure, a strange man who painted in a wild, bright style that no one wanted to buy. He died at the age of thirty-seven, believing that his work had come to nothing. Today, his paintings sell for tens of millions of dollars, his Sunflowers and his Starry Night are among the most loved images in the world, and his name is known to children who have never been to a museum. It is one of the saddest and most extraordinary stories in the history of art.

He was born on 30 March 1853 in Zundert, a small village in the Netherlands, the son of Theodorus van Gogh, a Protestant pastor, and Anna Cornelia Carbentus, and he was the eldest of six children. He was a serious, sensitive boy, and he grew up in a religious household, where duty, faith, and hard work were the most important things. He tried many jobs before he became a painter: he worked in an art dealership, he was a teacher, he was a bookseller, and he tried to become a preacher, like his father. He failed at all of them, and he was twenty-seven years old before he picked up a brush and decided, at last, that painting was what he was meant to do.

In the ten years that followed, from 1880 to 1890, he painted more than two thousand works, including some of the most famous paintings ever made, and he did it while he was poor, while he was ill, and while he was dependent on his younger brother Theo, who believed in him when no one else did. Theo sent him money, Theo sent him paints, and Theo wrote him letters of encouragement, and Vincent wrote back, in letters that are now famous, telling Theo about his work, his ideas, and his struggles. It is through those letters that we know Vincent’s story, and it is through Theo’s love that Vincent was able to paint at all.

A Pastor’s Son in Zundert

Vincent Willem van Gogh was born on 30 March 1853 in Zundert, a village in the southern Netherlands, near the border with Belgium, to Theodorus van Gogh, a pastor in the Dutch Reformed Church, and Anna Cornelia Carbentus. He was the eldest of six children, and he grew up in a parsonage, a house next to the church, where life was shaped by religion, by the seasons, and by the flat, green landscape of the Netherlands. He was a quiet, serious child, and he loved nature, he loved to walk in the fields, and he loved to draw, although no one in his family thought that drawing would become his life.

His father was a kind man, but a strict one, and he expected his son to follow a respectable path, to work, to marry, and to live a useful life. Vincent tried. He left school at fifteen, and he went to work for an art dealership in The Hague, a firm called Goupil, which sold paintings, and where his uncle was a partner. It was a good job, and it taught him about art, about the business of selling pictures, and about the tastes of the rich people who bought them. He was good at it at first, but he was also a young man with strong opinions, and he argued with customers, and he was transferred to London, and then to Paris, and eventually he lost the job, because he was too honest, too blunt, and too uninterested in selling what people wanted to buy.

After Goupil, he tried other jobs, and he failed at them too. He worked as a teacher in England, he worked in a bookshop in the Netherlands, and he tried to become a preacher, studying theology, and then working as a lay preacher among poor miners in Belgium, in a place called the Borinage, where he lived in poverty, shared his food with the miners, and preached to them with a passion that moved them. It was a difficult, lonely life, and it ended when the church authorities decided that he was too intense, too emotional, and too unconventional to be a preacher. He was twenty-seven years old, he had no job, no money, and no clear future, and it was then, in 1880, that he decided to become an artist.

His brother Theo, who was four years younger, had also gone to work for Goupil, and he had become successful in the art business. Theo believed in Vincent, even when Vincent did not believe in himself, and he began to send him money, a small allowance each month, so that Vincent could live and paint. That allowance, and Theo’s letters, became the lifeline of Vincent’s life, and without them he could not have painted at all. It was a bond between two brothers that is one of the most moving in the history of art.

The Dutch Years and the Paintings of Peasants

In the early 1880s, Vincent lived in the Netherlands, first in Etten, with his parents, then in The Hague, and then in Drenthe and Nuenen, a village in the south where his parents had moved. He taught himself to paint, by copying, by studying, and by practising every day, and he painted what he saw around him: peasants working in the fields, weavers at their looms, and poor people eating potatoes in dark cottages. His colours in those years were dark, brown, grey, and black, because he was painting a dark, hard life, and because he had not yet found the bright colours that would make him famous.

His most famous work from this period is The Potato Eaters, painted in 1885 in Nuenen, which shows a family of peasants sitting around a table in a dark room, eating potatoes, with faces that are rough, tired, and honest. It is not a beautiful painting in the usual sense. It is a painting about poverty, about hard work, and about the dignity of people who live by the labour of their hands. Vincent was proud of it, and he wrote to Theo that it was the best thing he had done, because it was true, and because it showed the life of the people as it really was. The painting was not praised by the critics, and it did not sell, but it showed that Vincent was a serious artist, with a vision of his own.

He also painted many drawings and studies in those years, and he learned the craft of painting slowly, painfully, and with great determination. He was not a natural talent in the way that some artists are. He was a man who worked hard, who made mistakes, and who kept going, because he believed that painting was his calling, and that he had to do it, even if no one bought his work. He was poor, he was often hungry, and he was dependent on Theo, but he was also, for the first time in his life, doing something that felt right.

In 1885, his father died, and Vincent left the Netherlands, first for Antwerp, in Belgium, where he studied art for a short time, and then, in 1886, for Paris, where his brother Theo was living, and where the art world was changing fast. Paris would change his painting forever, and it would introduce him to the bright colours, the new ideas, and the artists who would shape the rest of his short life.

Paris, Bright Colours, and the Discovery of Light

In Paris, Vincent met Theo, and he met the artists of the time, including Paul Gauguin, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, and Emile Bernard, and he saw the work of the Impressionists, painters who used bright colours, short brushstrokes, and light to capture the world as it really looked, in the open air. It was a revelation for Vincent. He had painted in dark colours for years, and now he saw that painting could be bright, joyful, and full of light, and he began to change his palette, to use yellows, blues, and greens, and to paint with a new energy.

He painted portraits of himself, because he could not afford a model, and he painted the streets of Paris, the cafes, and the people he met, and he experimented with colour, with brushstrokes, and with the new ideas he was learning. His paintings became brighter, more vivid, and more personal, and he began to develop the style that would make him famous: thick paint, applied in short, swirling strokes, with colours that were not realistic but emotional, yellow for the sun, blue for the night, and green for the fields. It was a style that no one else was painting, and it was a style that the art world did not yet understand.

He also began to collect Japanese woodblock prints, which were popular in Paris at the time, and which influenced his work with their flat colours, their bold outlines, and their simple compositions. He copied them, he studied them, and he used them in his own paintings, and they helped him to see that a painting did not have to be realistic to be true. It could be flat, it could be bold, and it could be beautiful in a new way. That lesson stayed with him, and it is visible in his later work, in the Sunflowers, in the Starry Night, and in the portraits he painted in the south of France.

Paris was also a difficult time for Vincent. He was poor, he drank too much, he argued with Theo, and he was often ill. He was a man who felt things deeply, and who was easily hurt, and Paris, with its crowds, its noise, and its competition, was hard for him. After two years, he decided to leave Paris and go to the south of France, to Arles, a small town in Provence, where the light was bright, the sun was strong, and the colours were vivid. He hoped that the south would heal him, and that it would give him the peace he needed to paint.

Arles, Gauguin, and the Sunflowers

Vincent arrived in Arles in February 1888, and he was struck by the light, by the colours, and by the beauty of the south. He rented a small yellow house, which he called the Yellow House, and he began to paint with a new joy, producing some of his most famous works in a few short months. He painted Sunflowers, a series of paintings of yellow flowers in a vase, which he made to decorate the house for the arrival of Paul Gauguin, the artist he admired most, and whom he had invited to come and live with him in Arles, to form a community of artists.

The Sunflowers are among the most loved paintings in the world, and they are a perfect example of Vincent’s art: bright yellow, thick paint, and a simple subject, a vase of flowers, painted with such love and such energy that the flowers seem alive. He painted them quickly, in a burst of inspiration, and he was proud of them, and he wrote to Theo that they were the best thing he had done. They are still, today, a symbol of Vincent, of his love of colour, and of his hope for a better life.

Gauguin arrived in Arles in October 1888, and for two months the two men lived and painted together in the Yellow House. It was a difficult time. They were both strong-willed, they argued about art, about money, and about life, and their friendship, which had been based on admiration, began to break down. In December 1888, after a terrible argument, Vincent suffered a mental crisis, and he injured his own ear, in an episode that has been told and retold, and that is still not fully understood. He was taken to hospital, and Gauguin left Arles, and never saw Vincent again. It was the end of the dream of a community of artists, and the beginning of the darkest period of Vincent’s life.

He continued to paint in Arles, even after Gauguin left, and he painted some of his most beautiful works there, including The Bedroom, a painting of his small room in the Yellow House, and The Night Cafe, a painting of a cafe at night, with its harsh yellow light and its lonely figures. But he was also ill, he was hearing voices, and he was afraid, and the people of Arles, who had once been kind to him, began to fear him, and to ask the authorities to take him away. In May 1889, he left Arles voluntarily and went to the asylum of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole in Saint-Remy, a town nearby, where he hoped to find treatment and peace.

Saint-Remy, The Starry Night, and the Final Months

In Saint-Remy, Vincent lived in the asylum for a year, from May 1889 to May 1890, and he painted some of his greatest works there, including The Starry Night, painted in June 1889, which shows a swirling night sky over a small village, with a cypress tree in the foreground, and stars that seem to move and dance. It is one of the most famous paintings in the world, and it was painted from the window of his room in the asylum, from memory and from imagination, because he could not go outside at night. It is a painting about the night, about the stars, and about a mind that was both troubled and brilliant, and it is a masterpiece.

He also painted Irises, a painting of purple flowers, and many other works in Saint-Remy, including portraits, landscapes, and copies of other artists’ works, which he made to keep his hand steady and his mind occupied. He was ill, he had attacks, and he was often unable to work, but when he could work, he worked with a fury, producing more than a hundred paintings in a year, as if he knew that his time was short, and that he had to paint as much as he could, while he still could.

In May 1890, he left Saint-Remy and went to Auvers-sur-Oise, a village near Paris, where he was cared for by Dr Paul Gachet, a doctor who was also an amateur painter, and who became his friend. He painted there for two months, producing some of his last works, including Wheatfield with Crows, a painting of a dark sky over a yellow field, with black crows flying, which many people see as a painting about death, although Vincent himself did not say so. He also painted portraits of Dr Gachet, and of the villagers, and he wrote to Theo that he was feeling better, and that he hoped to go on painting.

He died on 29 July 1890 in Auvers, at the age of thirty-seven, after suffering a gunshot wound, in circumstances that are still not fully known, although it is widely believed that he shot himself, and that he died two days later, with Theo at his side. His last words, as reported by Theo, were, the sadness will last forever, a sentence that has become famous, and that captures the pain of his life. He was buried in Auvers, and Theo, who died six months later, was buried beside him, so that the two brothers, who had been so close in life, would be together in death.

The Letters to Theo and the Mind of the Painter

Vincent’s letters to Theo are one of the great treasures of art history, because they tell us, in his own words, what he was thinking, what he was painting, and how he was feeling, in a way that no biography can. He wrote more than six hundred letters to Theo, and Theo wrote back, and the correspondence is a record of two brothers who loved each other, who argued, who encouraged each other, and who shared a vision of art that was ahead of its time. Vincent wrote about colour, about the sun, about the fields, and about his belief that painting should be honest, and that it should show the life of ordinary people, and Theo wrote back with advice, with money, and with love, and with the belief that Vincent’s work would one day be recognised, even though no one else recognised it at the time.

The letters also show Vincent’s mind, which was brilliant, sensitive, and troubled, and which saw the world in a way that was both beautiful and painful. He wrote about his loneliness, about his hunger, and about his fear that he would never succeed, and he also wrote about his joy when a painting worked, when the colour was right, and when he felt that he had captured something true. Those letters are still read today, by artists, by students, and by anyone who wants to understand what it means to be an artist, and they are a reminder that Vincent was not only a painter, but also a writer, and that his words are as important as his pictures.

The Potato Eaters, the Bedroom, and the Paintings of Home

Among Vincent’s most personal paintings are the ones that show his home, and the simple life he lived, including The Bedroom, painted in Arles in 1888, which shows his small room in the Yellow House, with a bed, two chairs, a table, and pictures on the wall, painted in bright colours, with thick paint, and with a sense of peace that is rare in his work. It is a painting about a place, not about a person, and it shows that Vincent, who had no home of his own for most of his life, wanted a home, and wanted it to be simple, clean, and his own. He painted the room three times, in different versions, because it mattered to him, and because it was the closest he came to having a place that was truly his.

The Potato Eaters, from his Dutch years, is the opposite of The Bedroom: dark, rough, and honest, showing a family eating potatoes in a dark cottage, with faces that are tired and worn, and with a light that comes from a single lamp. It is a painting about poverty, and about dignity, and it shows that Vincent, even as a young painter, understood that art should be about real life, not about beautiful people in beautiful rooms. Together, The Potato Eaters and The Bedroom tell the story of Vincent’s life: a man who painted the poor, and who painted his own small room, and who found beauty in both, because he believed that beauty was not in wealth, but in truth, and in the simple things that make a life.

My Take:

I think Vincent van Gogh is the saddest genius in the history of art, and I do not say that to be dramatic, but because his life was a story of talent, of hard work, and of almost complete failure in his own lifetime, followed by fame that came too late for him to enjoy it. He painted for ten years, he produced more than two thousand works, and he sold almost nothing. He was poor, he was hungry, and he was thought to be a madman, and he died believing that he had failed. Today, his paintings are worth millions, and his name is known to everyone, and that contrast, between the life he lived and the fame he has now, is heartbreaking to me. He deserved to know, while he was alive, that his work was beautiful, and he never knew it.

What I love most about his paintings is the colour. He painted yellow sunflowers that seem to glow, blue night skies that seem to swirl, and green fields that seem to move, and he did it with paint applied thickly, in short strokes, as if he were sculpting the colour onto the canvas. When I look at The Starry Night, I do not see a realistic night sky. I see a sky that is alive, with stars that dance and clouds that swirl, and I feel the emotion of the painter, who was looking at the night from a window in an asylum, and who saw beauty in a place where most people would only see sadness. That is the power of his art: he took a difficult life, and he turned it into beauty, and he shared that beauty with the world, even though the world did not want it at the time.

I think about his brother Theo, and I am moved by their relationship, because it is one of the most loving in history. Theo believed in Vincent when no one else did, he sent him money every month, he sent him paints, and he wrote him letters that encouraged him to keep going. Vincent wrote back, in letters that are now famous, telling Theo about his work, his ideas, and his struggles, and those letters are a record of a mind that was brilliant, sensitive, and troubled. Without Theo, Vincent could not have painted, and without Vincent, Theo would not be remembered. They needed each other, and they loved each other, and Theo died six months after Vincent, as if he could not live without his brother. That is a love story, and it is a sad one, and it is the heart of Vincent’s life.

The part of his story that I find hardest to understand is his illness, and the way it affected his work. He suffered from mental illness, he heard voices, he had attacks, and he injured his own ear in a crisis that is still not fully understood. I do not want to romanticise his illness, or to say that his art came from his madness, because that is a cruel and simple idea, and it is not true. His art came from his hard work, his study, and his love of colour and of nature, not from his illness. His illness made his life harder, it made his work harder, and it eventually killed him. I think we should remember him as an artist who worked despite his illness, not because of it, and we should be honest about the pain he felt, without turning it into a story about a mad genius.

I also think about the Sunflowers, and how they were painted for Gauguin, as a decoration for the Yellow House, in the hope that Gauguin would come and live with Vincent, and that they would form a community of artists. That hope was so human, and so sad, because Vincent wanted a friend, he wanted a family of artists, and he wanted to belong somewhere, and the Sunflowers were his way of saying welcome. When Gauguin left, after only two months, Vincent’s dream was broken, and he never recovered from it. I find that heartbreaking, because it shows that behind the great painter was a lonely man who wanted companionship, and who was disappointed, again and again, by the people he loved.

I want to be honest about the end of his life, because it is painful, and because it is important not to hide it. He died at thirty-seven, after a gunshot wound, and it is widely believed that he took his own life, although the exact circumstances are still debated. He died with Theo at his side, and his last words, as Theo reported them, were about sadness lasting forever. That is a tragic end, and it is a reminder that mental illness is a real and dangerous thing, and that even a great artist, with a loving brother, can be overwhelmed by it. I think we should talk about his death honestly, without sensationalism, and with compassion, because it is a part of his story, and because it reminds us to take care of the people around us who are struggling.

I also think about his letters to Theo, because they are the most honest record of an artist’s mind that I have ever read. He wrote about colour, about the sun, about his hunger, and about his fear, and he wrote with a clarity that is rare in letters, because he was writing to the one person who believed in him, and who would not judge him. Those letters are a gift, because they show us Vincent as a person, not as a legend, and they show us that he was thoughtful, funny, and intelligent, as well as troubled. I think anyone who wants to understand Vincent should read his letters, because they are the closest we will ever come to hearing him speak, and they are more moving than any biography.

I think about The Bedroom, and about how it shows a small room, with a bed, two chairs, and pictures on the wall, painted in bright colours, and I find it deeply moving, because it is a painting about wanting a home. Vincent had no home of his own for most of his life. He lived with his parents, he lived in cheap rooms, he lived in an asylum, and he lived in the Yellow House, which was the closest he came to a home, and he painted it, again and again, because it mattered to him. That longing for a home, for a place that is yours, is a human longing, and it is one that many people share, and Vincent painted it with a love that makes the small room feel like a palace. I think that is the power of his art: he took a small, ordinary room, and he made it beautiful, because he loved it.

Another thought that stays with me is about his time in the Borinage, when he was a preacher among poor miners, and when he gave away his food, his clothes, and his bed, to the people he was trying to help. He was not a painter then, but he was already the man he would become: a person who felt deeply, who gave too much, and who suffered for it. The church authorities thought he was too intense, and they took away his position, but the miners remembered him, and they loved him, because he had shared their life. I think that experience shaped his painting, because it taught him to look at poor people with respect, and to paint them with dignity, not with pity. The Potato Eaters is a painting that comes from that experience, and it is a painting that shows the dignity of hard work, and of a simple meal, shared by a family.

I also think about the way his paintings are loved today, by children, by people who have never been to a museum, and by people who know nothing about art, and I wonder what Vincent would think if he could see it. He would be amazed, I think, and he would be happy, and he would also be confused, because the world that ignored him is now the world that loves him, and the paintings that did not sell are now worth millions. I wish he could have known, while he was alive, that his work was beautiful, and that it would be loved, because that knowledge might have saved him, or at least made his last years a little less lonely. That is the tragedy of his life, and it is a tragedy that we should remember, because it reminds us to value artists while they are alive, not only after they are dead.

I want to be honest about his illness, and about the way it is often romanticised, because I think that romanticising is wrong. People say that Van Gogh was a mad genius, and that his art came from his madness, and that is a simple, cruel idea, that makes his suffering seem like a gift. It was not a gift. It was an illness, and it made his life harder, and it killed him, and his art came from his hard work, his study, and his love of colour, not from his illness. I think we should remember him as a worker, as a man who painted every day, who studied, and who tried, even when he was ill, and who kept going, because he believed in his work. That is a more honest, and a more respectful, way to remember him.

Finally, I want to say something about the sunflowers, and about why they are so loved. They are simple flowers, in a vase, painted in yellow, and they are not a grand subject, like a history painting, or a portrait of a king. They are ordinary, and Vincent painted them with such love, and with such energy, that they seem alive, as if they are turning towards the sun, even on a canvas. That is the magic of his art: he took an ordinary thing, a flower, a room, a night sky, and he made it extraordinary, by looking at it closely, and by painting it with all his heart. I try to look at ordinary things a little more closely because of him, and to find the beauty in them, even when they seem simple.

What I take from Vincent’s life, in the end, is a lesson about persistence. He painted for ten years, he sold almost nothing, he was poor, he was ill, and he kept painting, because he believed in his work, even when no one else did. That is a kind of faith that I admire deeply, because it is easy to keep going when people praise you, and it is very hard to keep going when they ignore you. Vincent kept going, and his work survived, and it is now loved by millions of people who never met him. That is a lesson for anyone who is doing creative work, or any work, and who feels unappreciated: keep going, do the work, and trust that it matters, even if the world does not see it yet. Vincent’s work mattered, and it still matters, and that is why I will never forget him. I also think about the way his paintings are used today, on posters, on mugs, on calendars, and on the walls of children’s bedrooms, and about how that popularity would have amazed him. He sold almost nothing in his lifetime, and now his Sunflowers are on a coffee mug, and his Starry Night is on a poster in a student’s room, and that is a strange kind of fame, but it is also a beautiful one, because it means that his work belongs to everyone, not only to museums, and not only to rich collectors. He painted for ordinary people, for peasants, for a small room, and for a night sky, and ordinary people still love his work, and that is exactly as it should be. I also think about the way Van Gogh’s paintings are taught to children, and about how a child who has never been to a museum can look at a Sunflower, or a Starry Night, and feel something, and know that it is beautiful, without needing anyone to explain it. That is the power of his art: it speaks directly, to anyone, in any language, and in any country, and it does not need a degree, or a guidebook, to be understood. He painted for ordinary people, and ordinary people still love his work, and that is the best tribute an artist can receive, better than any prize, or any sale, or any review.

Frequently Asked Questions

When and where was Vincent van Gogh born?

Vincent van Gogh was born on 30 March 1853 in Zundert, a village in the Netherlands, the son of Theodorus van Gogh, a Protestant pastor, and Anna Cornelia Carbentus. He was the eldest of six children and grew up in a parsonage next to the church.

When did Van Gogh start painting?

Van Gogh did not start painting until he was twenty-seven years old, in 1880, after failing as an art dealer, a teacher, a bookseller, and a preacher. In the ten years that followed, until his death in 1890, he produced more than two thousand works.

Who was Theo van Gogh and why was he important?

Theo van Gogh was Vincent’s younger brother, who worked in the art business in Paris and believed in Vincent when no one else did. Theo sent Vincent money every month so he could live and paint, and their letters to each other are now famous as a record of Vincent’s life and ideas.

What are Van Gogh’s most famous paintings?

His most famous paintings include The Potato Eaters, Sunflowers, The Starry Night, Irises, The Bedroom, and Wheatfield with Crows. The Starry Night, painted in 1889 in the asylum at Saint-Remy, and Sunflowers, painted in Arles in 1888, are among the most loved images in the world.

What happened between Van Gogh and Paul Gauguin in Arles?

Gauguin came to live with Van Gogh in the Yellow House in Arles in October 1888, and for two months they painted together, but they argued, and in December 1888 Van Gogh suffered a mental crisis and injured his own ear. Gauguin left Arles and never saw Van Gogh again.

When did Vincent van Gogh die?

Vincent van Gogh died on 29 July 1890 in Auvers-sur-Oise, France, at the age of thirty-seven, after suffering a gunshot wound. He died two days later with his brother Theo at his side, and he was buried in Auvers, where Theo was later buried beside him.