I think some of the greatest and most universally applauded Art is the bastard child of sorrow. I deliberately utilize the word “bastard” because sorrow never sticks around. It visits every now and then, to impregnate the artist with negative emotions from which art is born. A true artist is one who can transform their suffering into other forms of emotion through creative and imaginative expression. Some leave their pain on the canvas so you can vicariously live through it like Picasso’s Guernica and others hide it like Jackson Pollock’s abstract work. I use the word art broadly, not just painters, but authors, musicians, actors and performers.
Tragedy&sorrow usually trumps comedy&joy when it comes to art. I don’t know why. And the more tragic the life stories of the artist, the more poignant and revered their output. Van Gogh was a downtrodden and deeply misunderstood outcast. Virginia Woolf suffered depression. Picasso's philandering was a clear indication of an unfulfilled yearning for love. B.B. King sang, “Nobody loves me but my mother, and she could be jivin', too.” Richard Pryor set himself on fire after freebasing cocaine and drinking 151-proof rum. Marlon Brando escaped domestic abuse. Charlie Chaplin’s mother was in a mental asylum. I could go on, but I won’t.
In Picasso’s own words “The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.”
I mean look at this list of the worlds most expensive
paintings! They are all pretty sombre.
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