Van Gogh Has a Broken Heart: A Review
A review of Russ Ramsey's new book, "Van Gogh Has A Broken Heart: What Art Teaches Us About the Wonder and Struggle of Being Alive"
One of the things that I do as a catechist is teach. In the church, much of my teaching comes in the form of leading the adult Sunday school class. I’ve taught on the Apostles’ Creed, the Holy Spirit, 1st and 2nd Samuel, the life of Jacob in the book of Genesis…the list goes on and on. But my favourite class that I’ve taught in a variety of contexts for nearly a decade now is one I’ve called “An Artistic Journey through the Life of Christ.” I love how immersive that class is for people. Through art, we can consider both the beauty and mystery of the work of our triune God. Through art, we are invited to engage the True, the Good, and the Beautiful. (Stay tuned: “An Artistic Journey through the Life of Christ” is coming to the Catechist’s Quill and the Theology with Dr. AM Hackney podcast in December!)
Two years ago, I was partway through another iteration of the course when a new book landed on my desk: Russ Ramsey’s Rembrandt is in the Wind. I devoured that book in two sittings and began handing it to everyone I knew. It was accessible and beautiful, and it was a perfect extension for students in my class who wanted to continue exploring the theological depths of great works of art. That summer, I hosted a book study on RiitW. Participants would read the assigned chapter through the week, and then we would gather for a meal and discussion. I would find the pieces of art that Ramsey covered in the chapters (and sometimes throw in a few more!) and screen cast them on the tv in our living room so that everyone could see them.
In reading Ramsey’s book, I discovered that I had found a kindred spirit: a pastor-theologian who loves art. And, as those who have been in my office know, Rembrandt specifically holds a special place in my life. Hanging on the wall in my office is a large print of Rembrandt’s Christ and St Mary Magdalen at the Tomb. Its place on the wall is deliberate; my desk is directly across from it, and whenever I look up from my computer, I see Rembrandt’s Jesus greeting both Mary and me with the question, “Whom are you seeking?” (John 20:11-16).
When my copy of Ramsey’s new book, Van Gogh has a Broken Heart: What Art Teaches Us About the Wonder and Struggle of Being Alive, arrived this month, I dropped other reading projects almost immediately. In ten beautiful chapters, Ramsey leads us to consider the fact that “much of the world’s great art comes from places of sadness, and I believe that’s often why we connect with it” (pg. 4). More than that, art doesn’t just show us what is ideal; instead, art shows us who we truly are: “art shows us back to ourselves, and the best art doesn’t flinch or look away” (pg. 5).
Just as art is subjective, so too will the response be to the various stories in this book. Ramsey even anticipates this by including an appendix, “I Don’t Like Donatello, and You Can Too,” and includes helpful tools for how to engage with art that doesn’t immediately resonate.
Ramsey structures his book in such a way that the reader does not have to read the chapters in order. While I did, for the sake of this review, I could see myself also jumping from chapter to chapter based on what struck me as interesting. That posture also allows the reader to not get discouraged if he reads a chapter that doesn’t resonate. He doesn’t need to give up on the book, just try a different chapter, and the beauty of that is that the reader can always come back to the other chapters later.
For me, the three chapters that resonated the most were:
“A Sort of Delightful Horror: The Hudson River School, the Beautiful, and the Sublime”
“Through a Glass Darkly: Jimmy Abegg, Edgar Degas, and Learning to See as the World Grows Dim”
“Our Personal Collections: Jeremiah’s Lament, the Works we Carry, and the Words on Which We Rest.”
In “A Sort of Delightful Horror” Ramsey considers the difference between beauty and the sublime:
“Beauty is a subset of the sublime, but the sublime is always greater than mere beauty…When we admire something for beauty alone, we admire what is pleasing, pleasurable, and desirable, and often our instinct will be to attempt to possess it. The sublime, on the other hand, cannot be possessed. It is, by nature, greater than us…Whatever makes us feel small in the universe, question our ultimate significance, experience existential helplessness, or fear the magnificent power of nature belongs to the sublime” (pg. 102-103).
Engaging with the work of Albert Bierstadt and other painters from the Hudson River school, Ramsey explores what it means to encounter the sublime, that which overpowers and overwhelms, terrifies and fascinates, whether that be in the sweeping landscapes paintings of the wild and untamed natural world, or in our lives as we encounter the indescribable glory of God as Moses did on the mountain at Sinai: “if we take Moses’ encounter with God at face value, we must conclude that one of his qualities is that his glory alone has the power to destroy us where we stand. He embodies the sublime…This is the nature of God — his glory is too wondrous to behold” (pg. 111).
In “Through a Glass Darkly” Ramsey tells the stories of various artists who lost their sight through their career. The story of Edgar Degas’ struggle with macular degeneration was new for me, and seeing the contrast between his early work and his later work, helped me appreciate his later work. I had wrongly assumed that his later work was a new abstract style, but reading the story of his degenerating eyesight helped me to appreciate his later work in a way I hadn’t before. I also found it fascinating that other artists who have experienced loss of sight changed mediums, often to forms that were much more guided by touch than by sight: O’Keefe, for example, moved to clay; Robert Morris began painting with his whole hands instead of with brushes.
Ramsey considers the theme of affliction in this chapter and offers this beautiful reflection:
“Some affliction comes suddenly and lasts only a moment. Other affliction comes as a bend in a photo or a slow dimming of the world we’ve known our entire lives. Affliction shapes us. It comes for us all—in our own personal distress or in the suffering of those we love. It has come for me before, and I know it will come again. The least we can do is pay attention” (pg. 170).
Ramsey cannot escape Rembrandt, and in his concluding chapter, he returns to him again. This time he isn’t looking at the Storm on Sea of Galilee, which was the focus of his previous book; instead he is looking at Rembrandt’s sorrowful piece, Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem. This piece is personal for Ramsey; just as Rembrandt’s Christ and St Mary Magdalen at the Tomb hangs in a prominent place in my office, Rembrandt’s portait of Jeremiah hangs in Ramsey’s home.
Both Rembrandt’s Jeremiah and the books of Jeremiah and Lamentations themselves teach us about the relationship between lament and longing. Ramsey writes:
“Why am I concluding this book by talking about ancient Hebrew poetry? In Judah’s worst moments, the words the Lord gave [to Jeremiah] to call them to repentance and restoration were filled with beauty and artistry…The Lord has no ordinary words for us. They are all gilded in beauty and glory. Why? Because even in our darkest moments, he created us to lean into who He is: beautiful and glorious. So Rembrandt’s Jeremiah, struck with grief of Jerusalem’s destruction, leans his weight on a book filled with poems about the mercies of the Lord, how they are new every monring, and how hope threads through until the end” (pg. 185).
Van Gogh Has a Broken Heart is a book that calls us to consider the beautiful sadness of the human experience. Given its themes of affliction and heartbreak, longing and hope, I can see this being a book perfect for a book study in the season of Lent, because, as Ramsey concludes, great works of art like those surveyed in this book “provide high-relief compositions of the ordinary and matter-of-fact portrayals of the transcendent. They help us see the wonder of being alive and the inevitability of having to die” (pg. 186).
Who would like to join in reading Van Gogh Has a Broken Heart as a Lenten book study this March? Let me know in the comments.