The Cypresses

When my husband and I visited New York City in the fall of 2000, we arrived with the typical tourist itinerary: the Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, Broadway shows, and of course, the city’s renowned art museums. Among these cultural excursions, our visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art would leave an indelible mark on us both.

I’d always considered myself familiar with Vincent van Gogh. I knew the tragic narrative of his life — his struggles with mental illness, the lack of recognition during his lifetime, having sold only one painting before his young death. I’d seen countless reproductions of his work in books and magazines, and to be honest, they hadn’t particularly moved me. His fame seemed somewhat exaggerated, his style interesting but not extraordinary.

That perception changed entirely when we turned a corner in the Met and found ourselves standing before “Cypresses” with about a dozen strangers — some with tears in their eyes.

The painting stopped us both in our tracks. We, too, stood speechless, jaws literally dropped, as though we’d encountered something not just beautiful but otherworldly. The canvas seemed alive with movement, energy radiating from every brushstroke. It was as if van Gogh himself had cast a spell over the painting that ensnared all who viewed it, including me and my husband.

I think the experience demonstrated the profound difference between seeing reproductions and encountering original artwork. No printed page could truly capture the texture of van Gogh’s impasto technique — those thick, sculptural brushstrokes that give his work such distinctive dimension. No catalog could convey the luminosity of his colors, how they seem to vibrate against one another with an almost supernatural intensity.

Van Gogh painted “Cypresses” in 1889, during his stay at the Saint-Rémy asylum, a year before his death at age 37. This was a period of tremendous productivity despite his declining mental health (some say he was “going crazy”). The towering cypress trees that so captivated us were common in the Provençal landscape and held symbolic significance in the region as trees of death and mourning. Yet in van Gogh’s interpretation, they pulse with vitality.

Van Gogh’s turbulent personal life is nearly as famous as his art — particularly the infamous incident in December 1888 when, during a psychotic episode, he cut off part of his left ear with a razor on a Sunday evening. This act of self-mutilation followed an intense argument with fellow artist Paul Gauguin and preceded one of his several stays in mental institutions. Such moments of crisis punctuated his creative life, yet somehow fueled rather than diminished his artistic output.

This is what makes his work so extraordinary — his ability to translate his unique perception of the world onto canvas despite his deteriorating mental state. The landscape isn’t depicted realistically, which makes our emotional response to it all the more surprising, since my husband and I typically gravitate toward realism in art. Yet here we were, completely overwhelmed by van Gogh’s expressionistic vision. Seeing his art took my breath away, and our eyes filled with tears, as well — another surprise to us. We just didn’t see it coming.

The irony isn’t lost on me that van Gogh, who received so little recognition or financial success during his lifetime, now draws millions to museums worldwide. Perhaps my writing will be more successful after I’m gone, though I’m not comparing myself to the brilliance of van Gogh, nor am I saying that I am struggling continued from page

with mental wellness, though some days, I wonder about my sanity.

Years later, my husband and I still discuss that moment at the Met. In a vacation filled with memorable experiences, that unexpected encounter with van Gogh’s genius stands out as transformative. It reminds us to approach art with openness, to allow ourselves to be surprised, and most importantly, to seek out in-person experiences with art whenever possible. That’s why before I die, I’ve made it my mission to see “The Starry Night” in person, wherever it may hang. I can only imagine what emotional response awaits us when we stand before those swirling stars and that vibrant, pulsating night sky — another chance to be spellbound by van Gogh’s unique vision of our world, transformed through his troubled yet brilliant eyes.