Some people have a way of seeing the world that is unique and lasting, even if in their lifetime it was not fully appreciated. Vincent Van Gogh was one of these individuals, and when I heard that a group had created an interactive exhibit, I knew it was on my immediate list of must-sees.

My sister has always been a Van Gogh fan, and since she's staying at the Allen Hotel this week and the next, we finally got tickets to the exhibit at Pier 36. It was also my first time back in NYC since I moved out in November of last year. The show was amazing and moved over many parts of his oeuvre so that I had more of an appreciation for his earliest paintings as well as the later, well-known ones, and the music was a wonderful set of songs carefully curated to correspond to each period. 

Some of his most famous paintings (Almond Blossom, The Thresher (after Millet)) were done from the psychiatric hospital he was in for a year, gazing out the window for inspiration. I left with a new appreciation for expressing exactly where and when you are and that even static views can have movement, which I'm trying to hold on to.

For me, the visit to the city was more painful than I anticipated, however. I can't walk nearly as far as I used to since I'm so out of shape, but I felt at peace in a way that I can't in the suburbs. The diversity, the ever-changing neighborhoods, the constant activity and noise are things that irritate a lot of suburbanites. To me that is home, somewhere that offers more options in an hour to do...well...anything than in days spent elsewhere. NYC is the place where I knew the rhythms and could retreat to the calm of my apartment, or choose to go somewhere completely new despite having lived there over a decade.

Now I live a life watching through suburban windows with loss and regret. There is movement for me, another application to Costco, stalking the library job lists, considering the programming course, trying to figure out if there's anything else that pays a living wage around here. I have to remember that Van Gogh produced masterpieces even while in the asylum. That even within a static snapshot of my life while I'm somewhere I do not want to be, whorls and brushstrokes of possibility can come from that and lead to something great. Or at least a sketch of something decent.