The Ragged Staff

Churchill, Van Gogh and My Walks with the Black Dog

In most parts of life, familiarity is a precursor to confident expression. I have devoted my life up to this point to the study of law, politics and many minor incidentally interesting things which have come across my way. My passion for learning and inborn aptitude for holding such ideas in my mind has lent itself to eagerly sharing endless little details and long, complex stories which have bored my friends and family to no end. Having these long years of quiet reading and solitary thinking inside creates an unceasing need to get them out, to put them into the world and show that yes, I have thoughts on most any topic which might come up in the Great British Pub Chat, or that stumps the poor sweating game show finalist on Saturday night TV. A passion for knowing simply goes hand in hand with a passion for being known. 

One of the most captivating things which has consumed my precious time to little real benefit has been the application of uniquely 21st Century medical diagnoses to major historical figures. A fraught exercise to be sure but one which, in my experience, can make some of the most impenetrably visionary minds of our collective past seem more human, more relatable. The idea that da Vinci might have had some combination of autistic spectrum disorder and ADHD makes more sense to me than the thought of a purely genius mind driven to frustration by the limitations of his time and unable to complete his great works only out of the mundane distraction of daily life. But who can say? Perhaps our tendency to label the genius of the past as neurodivergence is nothing more than a response to our own inferiority, our own incredulity that a person, living in a time of religious fanaticism and working against the tide of mainstream power politics could possibly produce something which even now, inspires more strong feelings than the computer- assisted masterpieces of our time. Putting aside the sceptic’s beige- coloured glasses for a heartbeat, I encourage the reader to think of their own struggles. I find that, anecdotally at least, some of my greatest inspirations have hit me at times of real darkness in my life. Perhaps the same is true for you; certainly a pattern emerges which connects suffering to beauty. 

It might well be that there is no causal reality to base that claim on, it’s not something that I’ve tried to verify, because to me the idea in itself is satisfying. Before I moved to London I visited the National Gallery for a day with my partner, and while many great pieces left something of an impression, the crowd was thickest around one painting in particular: Sunflowers. One of the most famous works of art in all of humanity’s long history, this is not my favourite Van Gogh, but it’s one of only a handful which I’ve seen in person, and it resonates with me. There are many qualities which have allowed it to hold the public’s attention in such a strange and enduring way, but to me the biggest draw is the story behind it, and behind the poor man’s whole body of work. The idea of a truly tortured soul, alone in a world which would not understand him, putting forth his vision in a form which is simplistic, yet so otherworldly, darkly comedic and often haunting, before surrendering to, as he perceived, powers greater than the purely terrestrial, is the stuff of Shakespeare. The fact that he would, within a century be regarded as a central figure in the human creative canon makes his pained life an unspeakable tragedy, and that fact hangs over his every work, it’s there to see in each exaggerated brushstroke and every splash of shocking colour. 

So much mystery still surrounds the life, and indeed death, of Van Gogh, but there’s no question that despite the beauty it inspired, his torment was a curse which eventually got the better of him, and I both pity and admire him for it. Others, in contrast, have lived with some strange spectre and presented an outwardly contented face to posterity; think of William Blake and his visions, a positive and comforting force throughout his life, but sure evidence to us that something was amiss with his senses. What this shows is that, firstly, we all experience these mental abnormalities in our own way, and the outcomes will vary for infinite small, but consequential reasons. I tend to believe, however, that there’s a deeper symbolism to be found here, some fact of the universe, or norm- defying tendency of the modern human condition that rewards, or even requires a person to slip the bounds of the straightforwardly healthy and cooperative mind in order to reach out for the truly novel creative experience. I have no illusions that this is not, in itself, anything new. The idea that ‘madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin’ is so commonplace in entertainment today as to have become cliche, and in truth the whole premise that a slightly unbalanced edge is a bona fide necessity for artistic achievement is a little too deterministic to be convincing anyway. The point I had in mind at the outset of this exercise was more along the lines that, in times of great difficulty for me, I’ve often found it comforting to remember those great minds to have come before me that have shown signs of similar trouble, and gone on regardless to accomplish great, important things. 

I began by explaining that I often enjoy talking about things which interest me, and with which I am most familiar. This, as aptly demonstrated by the whole rest of the above, is generally true, but the thing about which I am most expert by experience alone, is the exception to this habit. The one fact which has followed me from the cradle to the airy bedroom where I’m writing this, which has to a greater or lesser degree occupied my every waking moment is the subject which I have never felt able or willing to discuss openly: my mental health. I have spoken at times to friends about the fact that I, like some of the men and women who have entertained and fascinated me, have struggled with my relationship with myself, but none have ever known the full extent. My partner knows that at times I get so down I can barely speak, or eat, or sleep, but I’ve concealed the fact that even on the good days, I often cannot push myself to smile and mean it. My closest friends know that I think I’m depressed, but they think that this is a more recent problem, rather than something which I’ve carried for as long as I can remember. Even now, with the mixed blessing of anonymity, I feel a reluctance to share the grisly details, and nor will I explain why, in too many years of adult life, I’ve defaulted in my responsibility to seek proper care and attention. It’s not the place, nor the time for that. 

I find that writing is the one creative exercise which I’ve ever shown a natural aptitude for, though I lack real imagination and often get carried away with halfway irrelevant asides and rarely like the end result. I can sit at my laptop and the words come easily enough, when a chance atom of inspiration makes it down from the skies to strike me at the right time. It helps to put my thoughts in order, though an unfamiliar reader may be misled by the chaotic meander which they will find themselves being carried along with. So, when I’m faced with a problem, a knot of abstract ideas which I can’t unpick, I’ll often sit and pour them out on the page to see where they take me, but the one thing that’s never come out, until now, is the hope that all this numbness in my head has some slim chance at meaning something. 

Winston Churchill often said that he was hounded by a black dog, a periodic misery which since his youth had left him, at his worst, unable to function normally. For all his many faults, and the valid criticisms which I would make of his character, that phrase has stuck with me since I first heard it; an ominous creature has more agency than the mere dark manifestations of one’s own troubled mind, more capacity to harm, and it offers an escape from responsibility when being overtaken by it. Those who idealise Churchill now will often downplay his mental illness, they will claim that he was only being metaphorical, or his mood swings were only to be expected from a brooding genius, and had no greater significance. I find that interpretation insulting. Despite not being a particularly nice person, Churchill undoubtedly showed great talent at certain pursuits; he was a passable painter, a more than passable writer and his efforts at statesmanship are well documented. To put such a figure on a pedestal and suggest that he was, in fact, a completely healthy and functioning overachiever discredits his other display of strength and drive. To relentlessly work and achieve while carrying the weight of episodes of great suffering is far more impressive to me, than persisting against only the mundane types of worldly struggles which draw the most attention. 

The relevance of all of this to my own sad story is tentative at best. I am not an artist; I can’t draw well, or make pretty music; I’m not a statesman or a great speaker and while I enjoy writing, I don’t pretend it to be particularly pleasant or easy to read. The comfort that these idle thoughts affords me is based on the notion that, if such a string of notables can influence the way in which we view the world, and reflect their own, perhaps distorted visions forwards through to us, it might not be the end of the world, if an otherwise unnoticed, uninteresting person from an anonymous place in an upsetting time has faced a burden which those others might recognise. Because while there have been times when the very ordinariness of daily life has become far too much to bear, and the black dog that haunts me from day to day has wrapped its jaws around me, there are glimpses of sudden clarity which pierce the veil and reach me, unravelling the many uncertainties which plague me and show me a clearer path. I used to dream, as many do, of leaving behind a legacy which would inspire and astound, but as I’ve grown older and come to understand myself better, I’ve realised that the greatest accomplishment is to face the truths of your own heart and overcome the obstacles you put in your own way, because these will, in most cases, be far more intimidating than anything the real world can show you.