Stepping out of the Van Gogh Museum, I felt a sense of quiet in my heart.
I thought I would be shocked, bombarded by colors, and moved by stories, but what really remained was a deep sense of contemplation.
The yellow of the sunflowers is not bright, but burning; the look in the self-portrait is not madness, but a vigorous will to live. Standing in front of the painting, I realized that he was not a genius who suddenly appeared, but someone who still chose to create amidst chaos and misunderstanding.
His life of 37 years was hardly recognized by the market; yet, a century later, he became the reason why countless people fly to Amsterdam on a pilgrimage. That sense of temporal dislocation is shocking.
Art is not about technique, but about sincerity to the extreme.
It’s not about success or failure, but about "whether you have given yourself over."
Stepping outside the museum, the city is still bustling, but there is an added layer of depth in my heart.
The value of travel may be to suddenly see oneself in a certain exhibition room.