Donald Trump believes in nothing
Sunday I took the train to London to see an old friend. It’s been a while. And yes, because everything in these tense and perilous times is poisoned by the coming political inflection point on November 5th, it wasn’t long before I was comparing my old friend to Donald Trump. My old friend’s name is Vincent Van Gogh.
In 1880, Vincent decided to become an artist. In ten years he produced more than 900 paintings in oils and thousands of drawings in graphite, charcoal, and pen and ink. Vincent did nothing by half measures. He sacrificed everything for his art. He sacrificed his comfort, his friends, his health and finally his life. Vincent believed in art, believed in its power to inspire, to transform, to heal.
At the height of his powers Vincent was producing a canvas a day, sometimes two. Many of them were masterpieces. Despite all obstacles, despite crippling poverty, ridicule from the public and many of the few who knew him, Vincent toiled on, night and day. He believed in art, believed in it passionately, worked at it tirelessly and thanklessly. In ten years he only ever sold one painting. Even so, he believed in art. Art became his all-consuming passion. Passion and belief governed his life.
Donald Trump believes in nothing, is passionate about nothing, except perhaps money. And I’m not even sure about that. Where Vincent was born with little, Trump was born with abundance. Where Vincent worked with a kind of manic, brilliant, desperate imagination, Trump is indolent, stupid, obvious and unoriginal. Where Vincent was sublime and beautiful, Trump is absurd, ridiculous, inappropriate.
Vincent was born with nothing and given less. Yet he took what little he had and astonished the world. He bequeathed the world beauty. And unlike Trump, Vincent actually lost an ear for his sacrifice. Trump was born with everything and given more — too much more. He squandered what he had, yet some people gave him even more still. He has divided the world with a legacy of hate.
Vincent was a genius. Trump is a fool. Vincent was ignored, disparaged and unappreciated in his lifetime. Trump is lionised, feted, festooned with unearned honours and undeserved praise in his lifetime. Yet they have one thing in common. Both men are monuments to injustice, the fickle and inept caprice of fate. They are reminders of how often we are wrong about people, wrong about who we give praise to, wrong about who we revile.
Vincent Van Gogh isn’t just my friend, he’s everyone’s friend. The world is more beautiful because for 37 years he briefly lived in it. Trump is no one’s friend and he has painted the world in shades of ugly. Vincent suffered for his sanity. Trump is making us suffer for his insanity. In a little over two weeks, by the grace of Vincent, that insanity will be over. And we can dare to see the beauty in the world again. Just the way Vincent intended. And, as ever, ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters, comrades and friends, stay safe.
Robert Harrington is an American expat living in Britain. He is a portrait painter.