The Art of Suffering: Artaud, Van Gogh, and the War on the Mind

Vincent van Gogh, The Potato Eaters, 1885, oil on canvas, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

To write an apologia, to lay blame on Theo, and to frame madness as artistic expression marked a turning point in the dialogue Antonin Artaud ignited in 1947 when he boldly declared Vincent van Gogh "the man suicided by society."

With the death of the phenomenal painter and later his apologist, the French surrealist and writer Artaud, society was left with a lingering question that continues to challenge art critics today: What is the role of madness in artistic genius, and to what extent does society contribute to the suffering or downfall of visionary artists? He expressed, "No one has ever written, painted, sculpted, modeled, built, or invented except to get out of hell," urging us to reconsider what transforms an artist into a maestro—and how mental illness, rather than merely a deterrent, may serve as a distorted lens of genius.

De Maulmin, V. (2020, November 19). Van Gogh-Artaud : la fraternité des maudits. Connaissance Des Arts.

Though contentious, Artaud’s perspective raises a difficult question: does mental illness solely hinder the artist, or can its influence, however painful, also shape the art in meaningful ways? Was it Van Gogh, Edvard Munch, Edgar Degas, or perhaps even Michelangelo who first dissolved the boundary between brilliance and madness? And in the end, was Van Gogh destroyed by his illness, or did society deliver his death by refusing to understand him?

The spectral figure of Artaud emerged from the ruins of postwar Europe not only to defend the painter but also to blame the society that had failed him. Although people can admit that his work reads less like criticism and more like prophecy tinged with mania, there is no doubt that his point remains strong today when there is such erasure of complexity within the world of visual expression. For myself, and perhaps for others, the accusations and partial elegy serve as a political drive to indict the state, doctors, and even Van Gogh’s loved ones for murdering a man under the guise of care.

Artaud argued that psychosis was not a defect but a language—painful, volatile, ecstatic—and one that society refused to hear. Van Gogh was "suicided," not in the literal sense, but by the crushing weight of institutional abandonment, cultural incomprehension, and the medicalization of his brilliant imagination.

Why this matters today is open to debate, but considering Artaud’s tragic path, it is worth mentioning that he knew Van Gogh’s cage all too well. After spending over 15 years in psychiatric asylums, Artaud was not only prepared to write in defense of the Dutch painter but also to express his own agonies.

A key takeaway from both virtuosi is the importance of relation—the personal connection that ties one to art. While one committed brush to canvas, the other committed visions to paper and stage; we are able to see the passion in both of them. Vision and complexity were central to Artaud’s reinterpretation of Van Gogh because they allowed him to see beyond the narrow medical analyses that had long confined the artist’s legacy. While most critics and historians reduced Van Gogh's art to a product of madness or romantic suffering, Artaud perceived a deeper, more radical force at work: a visionary intelligence in conflict with a world too rigid to contain it. His insight was not based on biography or brushstroke alone, but on a philosophical and intuitive appreciation for Van Gogh’s intensity. In writing Van Gogh: The Man Suicided by Society, Artaud rejected the clinical vocabulary used to pathologize the painter and embraced the idea that Van Gogh’s "insanity" was, in fact, a heightened sensitivity to the contradictions and cruelty of life. This broader vision allowed Artaud to present Van Gogh not as a victim of mental derangement but as a soul broken by a society unwilling to confront the truths he embodied.

For a moment, set aside the voices of art critics, academic analysis, and any external viewpoints. Instead, ask how art speaks to you, how its forms, textures, and movements translate into your own life. Art was never meant to be decoded or solved; it is above all a feeling. Artaud looked at Van Gogh not as a case study but as a soul that spoke to him and identified his own agonies that tormented him for life in the textures of his painting. But when suffering is translated into art, it should not be condemned—rather, it deserves to be analyzed on its own terms, with care. 

The complexity portrayed in art parallels the mind and vision that produce it. A worthwhile challenge lies in approaching any art form through its layers and judging its complexity not at face value but with consideration of the background that shaped it.

Perhaps the moment has come to approach art with the same depth, seriousness, and openness.