In the summer of 1882, Van Gogh painted an ugly painting. And yes, I get the whole “art is subjective” thing and all that, but to be frank, “The ‘Laakmolen’ near The Hague” is dull. The colors are drab, and the proportions of the windmill make it look sort of ridiculous — like an oversized toadstool in a children’s book.
But then there’s this: in front of a small sign reading “Melk Te Koop” (Milk for Sale), among all the browns and greys and greens, two figures stand out. One wears a bright blue coat, the other brown. They’re nearly identical. This is the artist and his brother.
When Van Gogh painted “Laakmolen,” he was living in The Hague for the second time. But this time he wasn’t working at the art dealership Goupil & Cie. Instead, he was there for himself, trying to learn how to paint and draw and simply be an artist. It wasn’t romantic. For Vincent, creativity was always a tug-of-war between joy and despair. His joy came in flashes — the smell of linseed oil, the warmth of cadmium yellow, or the sweep of thick paint on canvas. Yet, for every burst of energy, there was a succeeding collapse. His art wouldn’t sell, his materials were expensive, and his rent was due. These small, ordinary failures weighed heavily upon him.
And then, there was Theo. Theo — the younger brother and art dealer who did find success at Goupil & Cie — was, at most times, Vincent’s only believer. It is hard to overstate the significance of Theo and his love for Vincent. His support, yes, came in checks, but also in conversation, in letters that would be carefully preserved by Theo and his wife, Johanna, long after Vincent was gone.
Years before Vincent’s return to The Hague in the 1880s, he had written to Theo: “How much I’d like to have you here, what pleasant days we spent together in The Hague. I still think so often of our walk on Rijswijkseweg, where we drank milk at the mill after the rain.” That same mill, ordinary against the gray Dutch skies, became the subject of “Laakmolen.” For the Van Gogh brothers, who lived much of their lives apart from one another, corresponding in frequent letters and rare visits, that day by the windmill was more than just a regular outing. Sharing glasses of cold milk, they experienced a new, deep closeness — a quiet pact to remain by each other’s side, supporting one another even across distance.
I am not Van Gogh, and truthfully, our lives share few similarities, but I, too, have a sibling who absolutely rocks (Laura, if you’re reading this, please don’t let that go to your head). We grew up impossibly close, sometimes referring to ourselves as “twins who accidentally got sent down at different times.”
And then college came.
It’s not that we’ve lost touch or love each other any less, but I now live a life that she doesn’t see. I make jokes I know she would laugh at — and I can assure you they still get laughs — but it’s not the same if she’s not there to hear them. Now, there’s something new between us. Not distance exactly, but everything is just a little duller without her.
When Vincent left for The Hague, he couldn’t have known how many times he and Theo would see that windmill again. As it turned out, there were not many. The mill was torn down not long after. But at that point, it didn’t matter. Vincent and Theo visited their windmill again and again through words, through memory, and through the belief that one day, even if it weren’t as before, they’d reunite, the silence would fade, and the gap between them would close.
I’m sure Laura and I have our own windmill, though I haven’t figured out what it is yet. Maybe I will one day, in a warm flash of memory or a long phone call that feels like home. Maybe that’s what getting older entails: we come across precious snippets of a life that may seem oh-so-different now, but miraculously, we got to live it, and we cherish those moments for as long as we can. We build windmills with the people we love, tiny anchors that hold us steady as the world keeps moving, and hope to God that, one day, we’ll come home and find they’ve done the same.
It may be true that Van Gogh’s “Laakmolen” is not a beautiful painting. It’s still drab, awkward, and figuring itself out, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe what makes it beautiful isn’t the color or the composition, but that it holds a memory of love, a memory of milk after rain, of brothers side by side, of a moment that refuses to fade even as their lives move on.
So Laura, you absolute star, I’ll say to you what Vincent said in one of his many letters to Theo about their windmill: “I wish you well, think of me from time to time and write to me soon.”
