The chap with the hands-on-head pose, standing on a bridge, probably wondering if he left the stove on.
My life wasn't exactly a picnic. My childhood was just awful, picture a grim Norwegian winter and then add a liberal sprinkling of illness, a dash of bereavement, and a healthy dollop of paranoia about inheriting the family’s predisposition for insanity.
My mother and sister checked out early, which definitely put a dampener on family gatherings but all this early-onset gloom did wonders for my gloomy disposition.
Eventually I packed my bags and a few brushes with a trunk full of canvases and headed for Paris, the city of lights, love, and entirely too many people with opinions about my brushwork.
It was there I met Paul Gauguin, Vincent van Gogh and Toulouse-Lautrec who were all about emotion and expression and using colors that probably weren’t strictly accurate. I learned, absorbed and borrowed ideas like a student borrowing textbooks with no intention of ever giving them back.
They taught me to throw caution to the wind, to use color like a punch to the gut, and to never, ever be boring. Apparently, painting a nice still life of apples wasn't going to get me into the history books.
The painting that haunts my waking hours and probably yours too, if you've seen it, The Scream, and even i thought Good heavens, that's a bit much for a Thursday evening.
The rest, as they say, is a cottage industry of tortured artist, brooding genius and chap who probably needs a nap merchandise. You're welcome, Norwegian tourism board.
It turns out that trying to out-drink a small fishing village isn't conducive to long-term mental health and my brain finally decided to stage a coup. In 1908, I had a bit of a breakdown. Nothing too dramatic, just a complete unraveling of my nervous system and the doctors, bless their cotton socks, told me to stop drinking which in all honestly was like telling a fish to stop swimming. But I did. And strangely, it helped. The world became a little less loud, the colors a little less aggressive and all it took was a complete mental collapse and a vow of sobriety. Go figure.
I started exhibiting in the city's museums which was nice and moved to Ekely which was a lovely, serene place where I painted landscapes, self-portraits and generally just got on with the business of being Edvard Munch.
Then, the Nazis came along. Charming chaps. They labeled my work degenerate and banned it and tried to turn my canvases into kindling.
Towards the end of my life, the medical chaps had a field day with me, bipolar disorder, depression, schizophrenia which was all the big hits but it was a fire at an ammunition store which killed me.
Not the fire itself but when the 80-year-old me decided to standing out there on a cold, wet night, sketching it which was perhaps not the wisest decision for an octogenarian with a history of ill health. I caught a respiratory illness and died days later. A poetic end, Classic Munch.
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