Two artists, separated by time and circumstance, yet united by passion, struggle, and the unwavering belief that art transcends all barriers.
Like van Gogh, I never set foot in an art school. While he was largely self-taught, sketching and painting his way through various European cities, I pursued economics at public university—a practical choice born from financial necessity rather than passion. Van Gogh came from a middle-class family with cultural connections, yet still struggled financially throughout his artistic career. I, however, grew up on a family farm with uneducated parents, learning the harsh realities of poverty from childhood. For both of us, art wasn't just a calling—it was a refuge from economic uncertainty.
Art was my sanctuary from the very beginning, just as it was for van Gogh, but where he had the privilege of dedicating himself to his craft despite financial hardship, I had no money for paints or supplies, no time between farm work and studies. Van Gogh began painting seriously in his late twenties; I was forced to delay my artistic journey even longer, working a kaleidoscope of jobs across two countries just to survive.
My path reads like a modern nomad's resume: in Japan, I worked everything from office jobs at mechanical systems companies to pre-dawn shifts making Danish pastries and croissants at department store bakeries, tutoring students, assisting at small accounting firms, and delivering newspapers through quiet streets. When I moved to America, the hustle continued—computer lab technician at PCC, caring for individuals with disabilities at Easterseals, serving as an Asian language operator for a major telephone company until it shuttered, day trading stocks in the volatile market, driving for rideshare companies until deactivation ended that chapter too.
Relied heavily on his brother Theo's financial support throughout his artistic career
Had to be my own patron, strategically choosing flexible work to preserve time for art
Each job except the jobs from big companies was short-lived by necessity or circumstance—many times completely out of my control, driven by pure survival rather than choice. While some positions I could select for flexibility to preserve time for art, others I simply had to endure to make ends meet. Unlike van Gogh, who relied heavily on his brother Theo's financial support, I had to be my own patron, taking whatever work was available. Even in jobs I didn't choose, I refused to let them define me or turn me into another corporate machine. Every position, whether chosen or forced upon me, taught me something new, introduced me to different people, different struggles, different perspectives that would later inform my artistic vision.
Influenced by French philosopher René Descartes, I learned to doubt everything and search for the essence, the core truth. This philosophical approach made me intellectually hungry and drove me to seek knowledge everywhere. College wasn't just about economic theories from textbooks—I was a voracious reader, devouring poetry, novels, biographies, philosophy, psychology, and anything that could expand my understanding of the human condition. I particularly enjoyed reading biographies of fascinating figures like Van Gogh (I visited his museum in Amsterdam), Richard Feynman (I visited Caltech in Pasadena many times and talked to grad students there), Albert Einstein (I visited Ulm, his birthplace in Germany), Margaret Mead (I visited the American Museum of Natural History in New York), and other famous people throughout history. This hunger for truth led me to listen intently to anyone I believed had wisdom—professors, counselors, professionals—yet I was often frustrated by their superficial answers to deeper questions. Interacting with students, faculty, and administrative workers helped me grow during college. I even took certification courses toward becoming a teacher, though I eventually dropped out because I didn't have enough time for the extra units and credits required. However, I genuinely enjoyed subjects like child development and other aspects of the program. I visited churches, temples, and shrines, hanging on every word from preachers. I even attended radical activist meetings during my college years. This intellectual hunger taught me to question and analyze; these survival jobs taught me how the world actually works. Van Gogh learned about human suffering through his work as a preacher among coal miners; I learned it through both philosophical inquiry and the daily grind of economic survival across two different cultures.
Here lies the most significant divergence between van Gogh and myself. While he battled severe mental illness—the episodes that drove him to cut off his ear, the psychotic breaks that led to his hospitalization—I have never suffered from bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, or any major mental illness. This isn't to diminish his struggle or elevate my own, but to highlight a fundamental difference in our journeys.
However, I do battle depression—specifically stress-related depression that comes in waves. The constant uncertainty of "where will my next meal come from?" creates a persistent anxiety that disrupts sleep and clouds optimism. It's the depression of survival, not of chemical imbalance. While van Gogh's illness was internal and consuming, mine is circumstantial and reactive.
Despite the financial stress, the job instability, and the delayed artistic career, I remain fundamentally optimistic. This optimism isn't naive—it's earned through experience. Every major goal I've set in my past has been achieved, even if the path was longer and more circuitous than planned. Van Gogh painted with the urgency of someone who sensed his time was limited; I create with the confidence of someone who has survived every challenge thrown at him.
Created 2,000 artworks in just over a decade. Genius recognized posthumously.
Playing the long game, building recognition through persistence and longevity.
Where van Gogh's art was born from internal torment and external rejection, mine emerges from resilience and adaptability. His genius was recognized posthumously; I'm building recognition through persistence and longevity. He created 2,000 artworks in just over a decade; I'm playing the long game, letting life experience deepen my artistic perspective.
We are both late bloomers in our own ways, but where his story was tragically cut short, mine continues to unfold. The artist within me never died because, unlike van Gogh, I learned early that survival and art can coexist—they just require different strategies, different timelines, and most importantly, different definitions of success.
Continue exploring my artistic journey
Back to Home