An artist creates from the overflow of his soul, not the expectation of applause.
But, golly, it’s fun when folks admire your stuff.
Just ask Vincent and Vincent.
If Vincent van Gogh had lived in 21st century New Jersey instead of 19th century Holland, he could have been a Tabby’s Place cat.
Like empathetic Trifecta, the sensitive Post-Impressionist felt the world’s grief and grandeur all the way to his toes.
Like Ruchi before and during lunch, Vincent whirled from the starry indigo of hope to the sunflower yellow of ecstasy.
Vincent glimpsed the enormity of love, and it inspired masterpieces.
But Vincent’s light was not admired in his own time, and it broke his heart.
If only he had been a Tabby’s Place cat, we could have loved this wounded healer.
And if only he had known another Vincent, van Gogh could have even loved the streaks of sadness.
“Sadness” is not the word that comes to mind when you meet Tabby’s Place’s Vincent.
As artwork goes, his genre is “Post-Hopeless,” with a dash of Pop. He is an enchanted Muppet, impatient with introductions. He is bored with his own history and enraptured with today.
His feathery ruff is the party costume for the gala of the living. His eyes are as gold as Warhol’s banana.
Vincent marches on air as you approach, “making muffins” as though he is finger-painting your portrait. The closer you come, the better he can see his face in your eyes, until you are gazing into each other in the gallery of soul-meets-soul.
Since this is Tabby’s Place rather than The Met, poultry is permitted in close proximity to the masterpieces. Squeeze-turkey is the finest form of art appreciation, you know.
He looks like a cat whose life has been one soft, gauzy watercolor of peace.
But Vincent has more in common with Vincent than the naked eye perceives.
Our Vincent won’t tell you this himself. He’ll be too busy showing you his majestic meatball paws, or painting you with the black satin starlight of his fur. (Bonus points if you are wearing white, the better to display his art.)
But there was a time, not long ago, when Vincent’s canvas was broken and blanched.
A street cat attracts few admirers, even if he is as handsome as happiness. But a stray shellacked with a daunting disease is not a mainstream masterpiece.
There are few gallery openings for a cat with feline leukemia virus (FeLV).
Like his namesake, our Vincent needed kind eyes to persevere beneath the sad veneer.
But unlike the other Vincent, our boy found his fans.
If FeLV is a challenging “art form,” Tabby’s Place is an avant garde gallery. We are brilliant or bonkers enough to believe that love is limitless. Anything less is a cheap reproduction, a postcard print.
A cat with FeLV may live weeks or many, many years. His life is priceless either way. His shining, starry spirit deserves fame and admiration.
And caring for him is our masterpiece.
Vincent does not manufacture magnificence so that people can tell him he’s great. No artist or lover ever does.
Our Vincent makes art because he is alive, and also so that people can present him with copious amounts of seafood. But mostly because he is alive.
I like to think that, every time we love our Vincent, another Vincent smiles, from that great art gallery where everyone is healed and whole.
The enormity of love is alive and well.
PS: And the enormity of Vincent has relocated to the forever home of his dreams. That’s right: our longhaired masterpiece has been adopted.