This was like reading a novel already knowing the ending—that the hero will shoot himself in a cornfield at the age of 37—and we also know that his art will remain largely unappreciated during his own lifetime and only become famous, too late, after his death. The man himself, though, wasn’t quite what I’d thought.
   This book consists of a selection from the more than 750 letters Vincent van Gogh wrote to his younger brother Theo between 1873 and 1890. In them he poured out his feelings and ideas; in effect this is his autobiography. Theo meanwhile, despite struggling financially himself at times, sent money once a month, regular as clockwork—and is, in fact, the real hero of this story, not Vincent: patient beyond belief, full of love for his flawed and tragic older brother.
   The letters also give a truer picture of van Gogh’s life than the popular one. That image of him as the young artist single-mindedly following his star, overcoming near-impossible odds, is simply wrong—even into his mid-20s this was clearly a man who had no idea at all what he wanted to do in life, and who lurched from one abortive ‘career’ to another. Equally wrong is the idea that it was Vincent versus the world; in fact, he had relatives who were decently well-off, arranged employment, sent him money and so on; he knew successful painters such as Anton Mauve who equipped, partly taught and, above all, encouraged him. Nor was he an absolute original, going his own way, breaking all the ‘rules’ of art; he spent most of his short life laboriously mastering conventional drawing and painting. And he was certainly not mad, even at the end—unsociable and irritable, yes, prickly as a hedgehog (even the saintly Theo couldn’t share an apartment with him for long) but not crazy. In fact, he was rather bookish, which in my opinion makes him as sane as it gets!
   He was, though, a mass of contradictions. One thing which shines through all the misery he went through is how kind-hearted he was; in the coalfields of Belgium he shared what little bread he had with an old, ill, broken-down miner who, over months, he nursed back to health; in The Hague he took in a pregnant prostitute and her little daughter, gave them a home. Yet what also comes across is how selfish he was: when the money finally, absolutely, ran out, rather than find paid work he abandoned his surrogate family again—sacrificed them for his art. He was in the grip of one of his fixed ideas—because he was riddled with those too: about art, about life, about himself. His idea here, I think, was that if he went out and worked for a living, and only painted in his spare time, this would hold him back, slow the process of becoming an artist. What crossed my mind, often, reading these letters, is that it might have had the reverse effect: that ordinary work might have concentrated his mind and sped the whole business up. The Hague was his happiest spell (he was hugely fond of the children in particular, the closest he ever got to having a family of his own) and he should have stayed with them.
   Most of the rest, though, was a dreary slog battling, not the world, but himself. Some of the details are shocking: for example, after slicing off his left earlobe, he came out of the hospital, still convalescing and weak from loss of blood, to find he had no money whatsoever—and then went seven days without food until the next cheque arrived from Theo. He struck me as someone who didn’t really want to grow up, didn’t really want to go out into the raw adult world. In one letter he even says as much: ‘All I ask in painting is a way from escaping from life.’ Perhaps that’s the key to his whole personality.
   So these letters brought a ‘visionary’ and ‘mad’ genius rather crashing back to Earth. Or they did, at least, until the final part of the story, that brief year and a half at Arles in the south of France—because there, under the blazing sun, it did all suddenly and finally shift up a gear. This is where the ‘attacks’ began, brief bouts of derangement every few months that left him either raving or completely prostrate with depression. It was where, from the asylum at St Remy, his letters to Theo are at their most lucid, thoughtful and calm. And it was when, during the long serene spells between these attacks, he painted those sunflowers, olive groves and that night sky over the sleeping town surging with stars. ( )

To appreciate Van Gogh at all, first please rid yourself of the idea that he was insane. The argument continues to rage among doctors today about whether he was psychotic, bipolar, alcoholic, affected by absinthe, lead or foxglove, or something else. Other researchers challenge the story that it was he who cut off his own ear and claim it was actually his (fake) friend Gaughin, a theory I find totally credible especially given my understanding of Van Gogh after reading his letters to his brother Theo. Vincent had attempted to become a priest, had wanted it and his family did too, but he was perhaps too ethereal for his congregation. In his letters you see him try to express an attempt to commune with the ineffable and eventually trying to grasp his feelings by sketching. He admired the painter Millet and emulated him in his early works by sketching and painting people close to the earth. In his letters to his art dealer brother Theo, Vincent attempts to describe the feelings he's trying to capture, of something transcendent, divine, just out of reach. And he's frustrated by his inability to render exactly, to put what he sees onto the canvas. He sends his work to Theo in hopes they can be sold, but Theo was his only client during his lifetime. And he craves community and wants to start an artists' colony in Arles. He manages to attract Gaughin, who Vincent sees as a dear friend but who came across to this reader as egocentric and insensitive. These feelings of mine are exacerbated by Gaughin having left his job, his Parisian wife and five children when he determined to try to become a full-time painter and then going to Tahiti were he claims to have taken a 13-year-old girl as his wife whom he abandoned. "Dear Theo" reveals Van Gogh as a deeply spiritual man struggling to connect with people and nature, creating works of art that people were as yet unable to understand. ( )

I bought this book for myself on my 23rd birthday, after hearing it quoted at length by one of my teachers. It is not something to be read straight through as a novel; it is best read in short bursts, as the letters they are. ( )

Van Gogh's life was art. Heartbreaking. ( )

While in Toledo, Ohio I had the chance to visit a unique exhibition of works by VanGogh. Using the theme of "Fields" the special exhibit provided a rich view of the work of this interesting Impressionist artist. Having always been drawn to his artwork which includes the famous "Starry Nights", I became fascinated with his life. Dear Theo contains excerpts from the over 650 letters VanGogh wrote to his brother. Many of the letters contain details about his approach to life, nature, and painting. Readers also gain insight into the physical and psychological illnesses that ultimately led to his suicide. ( )