The Van Gogh experience

When the infant child of Theodorus Van Gogh was born in the Netherlands in 1853, he was given the name Vincent. It was a name that had been used in the family for several generations. His grandfather was called Vincent and he had an uncle called Vincent. As was traditional in Irish society at the time, the first-born son was called after his paternal grandfather. The name Vincent had, however, been given to a child that had been still-born, exactly a year before. It was not uncommon then, in Ireland, or apparently in the Netherlands, to re-use the names of children who had died as infants. Vincent’s family had a long tradition of artists and clergymen. His father was a Minister in the Dutch Reformed Church and he himself was to spend a period as a Church Minister in a poor mining district.

It has been told that Vincent’s still-born older brother was buried near to his father’s church and given a memorial stone. It read simply that here had been laid the body of Vincent Van Gogh. The story relates how Vincent used to pass by and read the stone with these or similar words carved on it every time he attended his father’s church. It apparently had a profoundly unsettling effect on the youthful Vincent. He inwardly shuddered as he read the stone-carved words that appeared to announce his fate. The experience of seeing one’s own name in such a context is sometimes called the ‘Van Gogh experience’.

I inherited my now late uncle’s name and I have only to go to Kilcurry graveyard to have my own Van Gogh experience and see my name on a gravestone. Recently, however, I had the pleasant experience of blessing a new extension to one of our local Primary Schools and part of the celebrations included the unveiling of a marble stone into which my name had been carved as having blessed the building. It was not an unsettling experience but I found it thought-provoking to think that someone had carved my name in such a permanent manner, and that I would see, each time I pass by it in the future.

These broody thoughts were perhaps provoked by the themes of the season. My priestly preoccupations this time of year revolve around the celebration of All Saints and All Souls Days and the celebration of Hallow-E’en that precedes them. November is remembrance time in the rhythm of the Church Year. Our festivals and rituals are not a morbid remembering but rather a wholesome way of dealing with the realities of transient life so that we can return to life with greater depth and intensity.

The turning back of the clock to ‘winter-time’ and the resulting darker evenings provide their own cue to such thoughts of transience. Outside, the first sting of frost and the drift of fallen leaves into sheltered corners are nature’s way of reminding us of the perennial cycle of life and death. The decay of another year is signalled by the dropping of nature-polished chestnuts, the frenetic acorn gathering of shy squirrels and the artistry of a leaf canopy painted from nature’s palette in shades of yellow, rust and ginger. At night, the spirits of Hallow E’en are chased away by the whistle and the sharp explosive sounds of fireworks.

Back inside the school building there were few such thoughts. The students went through their well-practiced paces with the exuberant joy of the very young. The most junior pupils looked on with a mixture of puzzlement and joy, even as they joined wholeheartedly in the singing, stopping occasionally to yawn or to throw themselves into some gesture of uninhibited participation. They were burdened neither with the weight of years nor with heavy thoughts as to what the future might hold for them. An invited guest confided in me that she found the scene deeply moving, making her want to cry both for joy in the present moment and in tearful anticipation of the realities of life that lay ahead of the children.

As we congregated around the tea and sticky-buns afterwards, the talk was of Recession and of re-structuring our expectations, individually and collectively. In the world of economics it seems that nothing is written in stone but rather in sand. A high tide can erase the carefully-constructed castles that we built in our summer days. A storm can wipe the slate clean of all traces of our plans and projections. It seemed as if we were imaginatively walking by a representation of our future prominently placed before our eyes in a manner that we could not avoid. We had our collective ‘Van Gogh experience’ and we too shuddered inwardly.