That Time I Saw Starry Night in Person

And the sad truths it taught me about myself.

Hi there!

About two years ago, my bestie and I had the privilege of getting to go to the Met Museum to check out Vincent Van Gogh's Cypress paintings. I knew it was going to be depressing and resonate with me on a lot of levels, but I didn't realize how hard it would actually hit me and that I’d still be thinking about it today.

Van Gogh has always, unfortunately, been the poster child for "crazy artist paint good" and it's a stereotype that I really hate. I wish that he would get more credit for the amount of actual work that he put into his concepts and developing his techniques. He didn't just magically make paint appear on a canvas in an aesthetically pleasing way through the sheer power of "being batshit crazy." He practiced his craft. A lot. Like a normal person who wants to get better at something they enjoy doing.

The Starry Night, June 1889. Photo taken at the Met Museum in June 2023.

Maybe this is me projecting my own feelings about art through Van Gogh, but the Cypress collection felt strangely ominous. Not just because they were a huge percentage of what he painted towards the end of his life, but because I got a sad sense of desperation with each piece.

I felt like his obsession with trying to capture the essence of the cypresses was literally haunting him. Once again, probably my own projection, but I got the impression that he felt like if he could make the perfect cypress painting, his life would be completely changed and all of his problems would suddenly be solved and he would magically be happy and never suffer ever again.

And even though he came out with some of the most breathtaking, memorable pieces I've ever seen, I think he realized that at the end of the day, he was still himself with all of his problems, mental illness and loneliness, but with a few more lovely paintings under his name. That's the sort of feeling that leaves you empty and makes you feel guilty for feeling so empty.

Country Road in Provence by Night, May 1890. Photo taken at the Met Museum in June 2023.

I bring this up because I know what that kind of crash feels like and it’s something people rarely talk about.

It happened to me after my first Sacrimony campaign for Issue #1 back in 2021. I was happy and relieved that the campaign was a success and I was super grateful to all the people who showed up for it, but something felt off. As happy as I was about it, I felt like I should somehow be... happier. And for much longer than I was actually happy.

Like, this amazing good thing happened and I should somehow be permanently happy and nothing should bother me ever again.

I started wondering if I was 'broken' because I didn't feel a life-changing amount of happiness. It hit me that I was still the same person I was before the Kickstarter, just with a new book. I wasn't some sort of "better" version of myself and it was hard to process. I didn’t even feel particularly “successful” because, afterall, doesn’t “success” mean all of your problems are fixed and financial woes are all taken care of? One Kickstarter wasn’t going to do that and I wasn’t sure if the next Kickstarter could do that. Or the next. Or the one after that.

For the sake of clarity, after fees, dropped/cancelled backers, printing and shipping, I really only get to keep maybe 25-30% of whatever I make on Kickstarter, which at the end of the day… isn’t a whole lot. Especially for how much months of work goes into making just one comic.

Anyway, I think our perceptions of what we think success "should" feel like versus whatever it actually does feel like (or if it even truly exists) is tremendously warped. We need to redefine what our version of "success" really is.

(I also acknowledge that I still don’t have my own proper clear definition of success and I’m working on it.)

While I’m really grateful that there are a handful of people who enjoy my comics, it’s been liberating to not let my art define my self worth anymore. Numbers (social media followers, backer counts, funds raised on Kickstarter) have always been the biggest source of my distress and finding a way to not have to rely on it anymore has made my life so much more pleasant.

So while I may not (or ever be) a “successful” comic creator, I feel like I’m at least succeeding in living a life that brings me peace. And that’s what matters most to me.

Do you have any particular metrics for “success?” Or if you don’t, either way, I’d love to hear about it.

Thanks so much for reading this deeply personal thing,
-M

Somewhat related, my pal WrittenWritRalf of Bitten Apple TV has written an interesting thought piece on the hero’s journey.