dealing with failure

What can I learn from Van Gogh in 2025?

It’s hard to think of another artist whose life has been mythologized more than Vincent van Gogh’s. But when I look past the swirling legend of the tortured genius, what I find is something more real—and more relevant to my own life as an artist in 2025: someone who loved color, nature, and people with his whole heart. Someone who kept painting, even when the world didn’t understand him.

Van Gogh’s story is often framed as a tragedy, but honestly, I see something else in it: courage. He made more than 2,000 works of art, mostly in just 10 years, and sold only one painting during his lifetime. To me, that is mind numbing. I would have given up. He did not. And the context in which he painted was that of pain: he struggled deeply—with mental illness, isolation, poverty—but he still got up, day after day, and painted. That level of commitment moves me. It reminds me that success isn’t always external. Sometimes, I think that the act of creating itself is the victory.

“What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?”

He wasn’t afraid of emotion. Van Gogh didn’t paint to impress—he painted to express. His landscapes pulse with movement. His portraits radiate empathy. There’s nothing cool or distant about his work; it’s raw, honest, and alive. In a time like ours, when irony and perfection are everywhere, his sincerity feels like a deep breath of fresh air.

He also found beauty in the ordinary—in sunflowers, in shoes, in a small room with a wooden bed. That has stayed with me. It reminds me to look closely, to stay present, to find meaning in things that might seem small.

And despite his struggles, Van Gogh never gave up on the idea that art could be healing—not just for the world, but for himself. That’s something I carry with me. The studio can be a refuge. The brush can be a lifeline.

Van Gogh’s life wasn’t easy. But it was brave. And for those of us still trying to make sense of the world through color, texture, and light, his example is a kind of compass—pointing us toward honesty, vulnerability, and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need approval to matter.

How to Handle Failure

I’ve been super busy lately. Hint: I hate being super busy unless I’m super busy painting. I hear you can have too much of a good thing, but that rule of thumb does not apply to my artwork (not so far anyway). I get lost in my artwork. It’s really my very happy place.

Until last Wednesday.

I was working on a series of three pieces that will be hung together (as a triptych). It was a pretty simple scene — mountain ranges and sky. I know how to paint mountain ranges and sky so I figured that this was going to be pretty simple. I began to apply the paint day after day and eventually, the piece entered “the ugly stage”. So far so good. See, every painting I ever have done has gone through that dreaded “ugly stage”. That stage is where most fledgling artists stop and throw their canvas against the wall and shout out some colorful French obscenities. The thing about the ugly stage is that usually, the very next day, the piece rounds the corner and begins to take on some maturity — it starts to look like what you intended it to look like. That is such an awesome thing. That turning point happens within a day or two of entering that ugly stage.

Until last Wednesday.

I could not make this painting idea work. It was boring. It was ugly and I was coming to the realization that the ugly I was seeing was not just a stage. It was really bad. I’ve heard gallery visitors tell their children, “Oh sweetie, just remember…there are NO MISTAKES in art”.

IF ONLY.

I make mistakes. What you do with the mistake is what will sink you or what will propel you as a creative person into a completely different direction. But oh man, it’s so difficult. I hate failure.

I refrained from throwing the canvases across the room, and I don’t know French swear words and I don’t say English swear words so I was really stuck. I felt so discouraged and frustrated. My painting was ugly and boring. And that is not okay. I sat with that realization and had to just admit that I was not perfect and that THAT was okay.

By the time evening came, I was ready to just scrape off what I’d begun painting and start all over again with a different idea. The “ugly stage” bested me. I think my real problem was that I wanted to just knock out something easy — so I painted mountain ranges and sky. I can do that in my sleep. It turns out that laziness and pride is not the friend of creativity. When I do the best work is when I approach a subject with joy, curiosity, respect and reverence and that is definitely not how I approached my failed triptych.

Maybe creativity needs silence to be ignited.

So at 2:30 AM, I woke up. In that very quiet and still time of the night, nothing was in my head at all. My mind was a completely blank canvas (pardon the pun). And quite unbidden, I instantly saw in my head an idea I’d never thought of before. And then I got so excited, I walked up to my attic studio and seriously contemplated starting to scrape off my old composition so I could begin the new idea right then and there. With wisdom not my own, I decided that idea was over the top and that I needed sleep so…several hours later I began to transform this triptych into something completely different than I’ve ever done before. And I’m having so much fun with it, that I’ve started an additional single painting using the same technique I’m using for the triptych!

Why moments of insight can’t come at 2:00 PM rather than 2:00 AM is unknown to me but that’s often how it works. Maybe creativity needs silence to be ignited. Maybe my heart needs stillness to be able to hear the voice of the real Creator. I don’t know. It feels mystical though.

When I’m done with these pieces. I’m so excited and continue to have so much fun doing what I do. And I’m so thankful people are willing to part with their money in exchange for one of my paintings. That is amazing and humbling.

So, more than ever, I am committed never to forget my real task: to approach every subject I paint with joy, curiosity, respect and reverence, even if it means I need to slow down and be quiet in order to make sure that happens.