That Conor McGregor Quote About Vincent Van Gogh

I'm something of an art casual, so I don't really know much about it, but I do know I always liked Vincent Van Gogh. I'm also something of an MMA casual, so I don't really know much about it, but I do know I always liked Conor McGregor, and I especially always liked his famous quote about the aforementioned painter. In many ways to follow MMA, or perhaps any individual sport, is quite an interesting thing in that you find it is much more dynamic than any team sport. Following entire teams all throughout the years or even decades is starkly different than following individual fighters throughout what is often a rocky career in a rocky sport, in which time alone stands undefeated. Thus, in many ways to follow a fighter's career is more like following an artist – sometimes you like him a lot, other times less so, sometimes he's in his prime, other times he stumbles a little bit. And then when you look back at the fighter's entire career, from beginning to end, you find it similar to looking at an artist's life, a painter maybe, even one who risked everything for his art. And so at the end of it all the question is, like always, was it worth it?... Those who have never tried will say no, or rather they say it wouldn't have been worth it had they tried, which could be a tremendous loss in its own right. But others, such as Conor himself, will always say yes, even on the day they lose their minds.

I've lost my mind doing this game, yeah? Like Vincent Van Gogh. He dedicated his life to his art, and lost his mind in the process. That's happened to me. But fook it!... When that gold belt is around my waist, when my mother has a big mansion, when my girlfriend has a different car for every day of the week, when my kids' kids have everything they ever want, then it will pay, then I'm happy I lost my mind, yeah? I'll die a crazy old man!

I suppose in many ways you might not expect such eloquence from a fighter, but if you're gonna expect it from anyone it might as well be an irishman. And I suppose if you're gonna lose your mind doing any game it might as well be the art of fighting. All the cuts and bruises, the shattered teeth, the detached retinas, the cauliflower ears, the liver shots, the broken wrists and ankles, the weight cuts, the this and the that and the whatever else I'm now forgetting... In many ways it's hardly worth it, and in what is quite a fascinating difference compared to other sports, these men and women dedicate their lives to something that most of us actively seek to avoid. It almost makes no sense but they do it anyway, because as I often say and think it should be said, it's not so much a question of suffering. It should go without saying that, whatever you do in life, you will indeed suffer, that much is true. So the question is, the cause of your suffering, will it be worth it?

A young Conor McGregor always had the undying belief that, yeah, it will all be worth it, and he's been proven correct by becoming the biggest superstar this sport has ever seen. But being the biggest, I suppose, also implies being the loudest and the most unpredictable. And if Conor does indeed predict these tings, then he might likewise be correct about one day becoming a crazy old man. But since he no longer needs to predict his success he's already well ahead of Vincent Van Gogh, who only became insanely famous, and indeed one of the greatest painters in history, long after his death... Was it worth it for him too then? To live miserably, to suffer and die for his art, to lose his mind along the way, all so he could leave behind a legacy he was unsure people would ever care about or listen to? I don't know. For men like Van Gogh it seems to me there's often not a conscious decision, it's almost as if the man had no choice but to paint, like it was his destiny. But then again such ideas have an unappealing side as well, in that when you consider all the negative aspects of the struggling painter's life it does seem like the man wasn't so much blessed as he was positively doomed. I guess then regardless of any destiny and free will, or whether he chose painting or painting chose him, at the end of the day you just gotta pick a thing and hold on to it. But when the time of sacrifice comes you gotta Griffith everything that stands in its way, with a much greater concern for your legacy than for your own well-being.

This also leads to another common discussion regarding art, namely this idea that artists have to suffer for their art. I'm not so sure where I stand on it exactly, haven't given it that much thought, outside of my own personal experience that is, but to me it does seem somewhat intuitive that being the best at something, that dedicating your life and blood and tears to it, it all inevitably means sacrifice, and sacrifice inevitably means that your life will be more difficult than someone who does not do those things. Then again I can see a simple life being better in so many ways, far more peaceful and steady, far less ambitious too, which in many ways means simpler, which in many ways means good. Then again again I can also conceive of a rather smart individual, perhaps born with some measure of natural talent, who can spend some hours of his day very dedicated to his work, but then the remaining hours he can dedicate to living a normal happy life. Regardless of which side is correct, I'd venture to say that most people would lean heavy on the suffering side, and regardless of where people lean, it does seem to be clear-cut that Conor and Vincent both leaned heavy on the suffering side, and they are the men who matter for the purposes of this here article. So it would appear that suffering takes a primary role in their respective lives, but it takes a completely and utterly secondary role with respect to their goals of undying legacy that they dreamt into reality.

The interesting thing about Conor's statement is that, not counting that relatively small mention of the gold belt around his waist, most if it is directly about the well-being of his parents, his wife, his children, and his children's children. It's very much like this sacrifice is being made for glory, sure, but that glory is in turn a means to an end, with that end being his legacy. In this way the McGregor name will live on, built on the madness of a plumber lad who impulsively quit his job on a cold and damp and dark day, only to then become one of the greatest fighters in the world... For Vincent, sadly, it was never as clear. He left behind no children and died in absolute poverty, only to become a legend well after his death. His legacy is his art, and his art is his legacy, and we can never know if he died with the soulful optimism that one day his suffering would pay. I suppose we can pretend to, we can act as if he is immortal because to us he is, but from his perspective, assuming that in death there isn't much more than a great big void, then things look a tad bleak. But even in that bleakness I think it takes tremendous soul to live and suffer and die for what you believe in. Stardom and success might even be secondary, and suffering, though certain, is meaningless compared to whatever it is you are prepared to lose your mind for.

And then at the end of it all you will one day find yourself alone, just for a little while, and a thought will pierce your mind, a sudden deep breath that will make you ask yourself, was it all worth it? On that day you'll be faced with a tough decision, regardless of whether or not you did risk it all and went a little mad for your art. On that day you will be faced with all the glories and all the ghosts of your past... When Conor was indeed confronted with that moment, though not alone, roughly eight years after improvising his wistful quote, he said,

Ya know, yeah, I... It's been some ride. I've got it done and I'm up here, mad as a brush, you know what I mean? I've been through it all, my friend, you know, I appreciate that and it's been a wild ride for me, it's not been easy at times but fo... you know, what a life, and I tell ya what, I wouldn't want it to be any other way.

So I dunno... In many ways I don't have much more to say, but having duly noted that I should write something down about Conor McGregor's soulful Vincent Van Gogh quote, I figured I couldn't let it go. As for Vincent, let's just hope losing his mind was as worth it for him as it was for us, as for Conor, there's not much to say about his art that hasn't been said by someone more knowledgeable than me, and as for me I just hope I can find a way to put in the work, so I can then face all challenges and endure all suffering, even if like this dutchman and this irishman I have to one day die a crazy old man who will then be leaving behind him some kind of legacy... And in the meantime I have to endure and hope that a red panty night will one day come for me too.

Comments

A Minha Interpretação Pessoal de “Às Vezes, em Sonho Triste” de Fernando Pessoa

Já há muito tempo que não lia nada que o Fernando Pessoa escreveu, e talvez por esse motivo, mas principalmente porque buscava ideias sobre as quais escrever aqui, decidi folhear um livro de poemas dele. E enquanto o fiz, tomei especial nota das marcas que apontei na margem de algumas páginas, significando alguns poemas que gostei quando os li pela primeira vez, há cerca de sete anos atrás. Poderia ter escolhido um poema mais nostálgico ou até mais famoso, mas ao folhear por todo o livro foi este o poema que me fez mais sentido escolher. Agora leio e releio estes versos e comprometo-me a tecer algo que não me atreverei a chamar de análise, porque não sou poeta nem crítico de poesia. Mas como qualquer outro estudante português, fui leitor de Fernando Pessoa e, ainda que talvez mais a uns Fernandos Pessoas do que a outros, devo a este homem um bom pedaço dos frutos da minha escrita, que até à data são poucos ou nenhuns. Mas enfim, estou a divagar... O que queria dizer a jeito de introduç...

Meditations on The Caretaker's “Everywhere at the End of Time”

I have always been sentimental about memory. Nostalgia was surely one of the first big boy words I learned. And all throughout my life I sort of developed a strong attachment memory, and subsequently to things, which became an obsession almost. I never wanted to see them go, even if they had lost any and all useful purpose, because they still retained a strong emotional attachment to me. I had a memory forever entwined with those old things, so I never wanted to see them go. However, in my late teens I realized I was being stupid, I realized there was no memory within the object itself, it was only in me. So I started to throw a bunch of stuff out, I went from a borderline hoarder to a borderline minimalist, and it was pretty good. I came to the realization that all things were inherently temporary. No matter how long I held on to them, eventually I would lose them one way or another, and if someone or some thing were to forcefully take them from me, I would be heartbroken beyond repai...

10 Atheist Arguments I No Longer Defend

I don't believe in God, I don't follow any religion. And yet, there was a time in my life when I could have said to be more of an atheist than I am now. In some ways I contributed to the new atheism movement, and in fact, for a little while there, Christopher Hitchens was my lord and savior. I greatly admired his extensive literary knowledge, his eloquence, his wit and his bravery. But now I've come to realize his eloquence was his double-edged sword, and because he criticized religion mostly from an ethics standpoint, greatly enhanced by his journalism background, some of the more philosophical questions and their implications were somewhat forgotten, or even dealt with in a little bit of sophistry. And now it's sad that he died... I for one would have loved to know what he would have said in these times when atheism seems to have gained territory, and yet people are deeply craving meaning and direction in their lives. In a nutshell, I think Hitchens versus Peterson wo...

Mármore

Dá-me a mão e vem comigo. Temos tantos lugares para ver. Era assim que escrevia o Bernardo numa página à parte, em pleno contraste com tantas outras páginas soltas e enamoradas de ilustrações coloridas, nas quais eram inteligíveis as suas várias tentativas de idealizar uma rapariga de cabelo castanho-claro, ou talvez vermelho, e com uns olhos grandes que pareciam evocar uma aura de mistério e de aventura, e com os braços estendidos na sua frente, terminando em mãos delicadas que se enlaçavam uma à outra, como se as suas palmas fossem uma concha do mar que guarda uma pérola imperfeita, como se cuidasse de um pássaro caído que tem pena de libertar, como se desafiasse um gesto tímido... Mas tal criação ficava sempre aquém daquilo que o Bernardo visualizava na sua mente. Na verdade não passava sequer de um protótipo mas havia algo ali, uma intenção, uma faísca com tanto potencial para deflagrar no escuro da página branca... se porventura ele fosse melhor artista. E embora a obra carecesse ...

A Synopsis Breakdown of “The Wandering King”

A collection of eight different short stories set in a world where the malignant and omniscient presence of the Wandering King is felt throughout, leading its inhabitants down a spiral of violence, paranoia and madness. That is my book's brief synopsis. And that is just how I like to keep it – brief and vague. I for one find that plot-oriented synopses often ruin the whole reading, or viewing, experience. For example, if you were to describe The Godfather as the story of an aging mafia don who, upon suffering a violent attempt on his life, is forced to transfer control of his crime family to his mild-mannered son, you have already spoiled half the movie. You have given away that Sollozzo is far more dangerous than he appears to be, you have given away that the Don survives the attempt, and you have given away that Michael is the one who will succeed him... Now, it could well be that some stories cannot be, or should not be, captured within a vague description. It could also be t...

In Defense of Ang Lee's “Hulk”

This movie isn't particularly well-liked, that much is no secret. People seem to dislike how odd and bizarrely subdued it is, especially considering the explosive nature of its titular superhero. In a nutshell, people find this movie boring. The criticism I most often hear is that it is essentially a very pretentious take on the Incredible Hulk, an ego-driven attempt to come up with some deep psychological meaning behind a green giant who smashes things. And it's tempting to agree, in a sense it's tempting to brush it off as pretentious and conclude that a film about the Hulk that fails to deliver two action-packed hours is an automatic failure. But of course, I disagree. Even when I was a kid and went into the cinema with my limited knowledge, but great appreciation, of the comics, I never saw the Hulk as a jolly green giant. At one point, the character was seen as a mere physical manifestation of Bruce Banner's repressed anger awakened by gamma radiation, but eventual...

Meditações sobre “Em Busca do Tempo Perdido I – Do Lado de Swann”

Estou a ler Marcel Proust pela segunda vez... Há quem diga que é comum da parte dos seus leitores iniciarem uma segunda leitura logo após a tortura que é a primeira. Quanto a mim posso dizer que seja esse o caso. Quando li este primeiro volume pela primeira vez decidi que não tinha interesse em ler os outros seis, mas depois mudei de ideias e li-os. Mas li quase como que só para poder dizer ter lido. Então o objetivo seria não mais pensar no livro mas isso afigurou-se estranhamente impossível. Surgia uma crescente curiosidade em ler sínteses ou resumos e ficava-me sempre aquela surpresa depois de ler sobre um acontecimento do qual já não tinha memória. Por isso é que me proponho agora a uma segunda e muito, muito mais demorada leitura, para que possa compreender o livro pelo menos o suficiente para dizer qualquer coisa interessante sobre ele. Em relação ao título deste artigo, do qual planeio fazer uma série, decidi usar o termo que usei porque nenhum outro me pareceu mais correto. Nã...

The Gospel According to Dragline

Yeah, well... sometimes the Gospel can be a real cool book. I'm of course referencing the 1967 classic Cool Hand Luke, one of my favorite films of all time. And, as it is often the case with me, this is a film I didn't really care for upon first viewing. Now I obviously think differently. In many ways, this is a movie made beautiful by it's simplicity. It is made visually striking by its backdrop of natural southern beauty in the US – the everlasting summer, the seemingly abandoned train tracks and the long dirt roads, almost fully deserted were it not for the prisoners working by the fields... It almost gives off the impression that there is no world beyond that road. And maybe as part of that isolation, the story doesn't shy away from grit. It is dirty, grimy and hence, it is real. Some modern movies seem to have an obsession with polishing every pixel of every frame, thus giving off a distinct sense of falsehood. The movie then becomes too colorful, too vibrant, it...

A Minha Interpretação Pessoal de “Sou um Guardador de Rebanhos” de Alberto Caeiro

Em continuação com o meu artigo anterior, comprometo-me agora a uma interpretação de um outro poema do mesmo poeta... mais ou menos. Porque os vários heterónimos pessoanos são todos iguais e diferentes, e diferentes e iguais. Qualquer leitor encontra temas recorrentes nos vários poemas porque de certa forma todos estes poetas se propuseram a resolver as mesmas questões que tanto atormentavam o poeta original. Mas a solução encontrada por Alberto Caeiro é algo diferente na medida em que é quase invejável ao próprio Fernando Pessoa, ainda que talvez não seja invejável aos outros heterónimos. Por outro lado, talvez eu esteja a projetar porque em tempos esta poesia foi deveras invejável para mim. Ao contrário do poema anterior, do qual nem sequer tinha memória de ter lido e apenas sei que o li porque anotei marcas e sublinhados na margem da página, este poema é um que li, que gostei e que apresentei numa aula qualquer num dia que me vem agora à memória como idílico. Mas em típico estilo d...

Martha, You've Been on My Mind

Perhaps it is the color of this gray rainy sky at the end of spring, this cold but soothing day I hoped would be warm, bright and the end of something I gotta carry on. Or maybe it's that I'm thinking of old days to while away the time until new days come along. Perhaps it's all that or it's nothing at all, but Martha, you've been on my mind. I wouldn't dare to try and find you or even write to you, so instead I write about you, about who I think you are, because in truth I don't really know you. To me you're just a memory, a good memory though, and more importantly, you're the very first crossroads in my life. I had no free will before I saw you and chose what I chose... Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, you would have led me down one, and yet I chose the other. But I never stopped looking down your chosen path for as long as I could, and for a fleeting moment I could have sworn I saw you standing there, and then you just faded, almost as if you ...

Paulo Seabra

Search This Blog