When was Vincent van Gogh die? It’s a question that brings us to a humid Sunday in July 1890. Specifically, July 29. He didn't just fade away in a hospital bed surrounded by flowers. No, it was much grittier than that. He died in a cramped, sweltering room on the second floor of the Auberge Ravoux in Auvers-sur-Oise, France. He was only 37.
Think about that for a second. Thirty-seven. Most of us are just starting to figure out our lives at that age, yet Vincent had already produced over 2,000 artworks. The man was a whirlwind. But by the time the clock struck 1:30 AM on that Tuesday morning, the whirlwind had stopped. He died from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Or at least, that’s the story we’ve all been told for over a century.
Honestly, the details are messy. They've always been messy.
The Timeline of July 1890
To understand the moment when was Vincent van Gogh die, you have to look at the 48 hours leading up to it. On July 27, Vincent walked into a wheat field. He carried an easel. He also carried a 7mm Lefaucheux à broche revolver. This wasn't a high-powered weapon; it was a small, pocket-sized thing often used by shopkeepers to scare off stray dogs.
He shot himself in the chest. Or the stomach. Accounts vary because, well, medical forensics in 1890 consisted of a local doctor poking at a wound with unwashed hands.
Vincent didn't die instantly. Not even close. He actually dragged himself back to the inn. Imagine the sheer willpower—or desperation—it takes to walk over a mile with a lead ball lodged near your spine. He slumped into his bed, lit a pipe, and waited. When the innkeeper, Arthur Ravoux, found him bleeding, Vincent reportedly said, "I have tried to kill myself."
The Arrival of Theo
Theo van Gogh, Vincent’s brother and his literal lifeline, rushed from Paris. He arrived to find Vincent sitting up in bed, smoking. They talked for hours. They spoke in Dutch. Theo later wrote to his wife, Jo, that Vincent seemed strangely at peace. He wasn't screaming. He wasn't even complaining much about the pain. He just wanted it to be over.
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"The sadness will last forever," Vincent supposedly whispered. That’s the line everyone quotes. It’s haunting. It’s quintessential Van Gogh.
The Controversy: Was it Actually Murder?
For a long time, the answer to when was Vincent van Gogh die was followed by a simple "suicide." But in 2011, Pulitzer Prize-winning biographers Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith dropped a bombshell. They suggested Vincent didn't shoot himself. Instead, they argued he might have been accidentally shot by a local teenager named René Secrétan.
René was a 16-year-old bully who liked to dress up as a cowboy. He had a malfunctioning gun. He frequently tormented "the crazy painter." The theory goes that René or one of his friends shot Vincent, and Vincent, ever the martyr, decided to take the secret to his grave to protect the kids.
It sounds like a movie plot, doesn't it?
The Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam doesn't buy it. They stick to the suicide narrative. Why? Because Vincent had a history of self-harm—remember the ear?—and his mental health was plummeting. He was a burden on Theo. He knew it. He felt it. Whether it was a botched murder or a desperate suicide, the result was the same: the world lost its most vibrant colorist in a dark, cheap inn room.
The Medical Reality of the 19th Century
If Vincent had been shot today, he’d be fine. Truly. A 7mm bullet from a small revolver rarely kills a man instantly. It misses the vital organs and gets stuck in the muscle or fat. But in 1890, there were no antibiotics. There was no surgery to "scrub" the wound.
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Two doctors treated him: Dr. Mazery and Dr. Gachet. Yes, that Dr. Gachet from the famous portraits. Gachet wasn't a surgeon; he was a specialist in "melancholy." He looked at the wound, decided it was too dangerous to remove the bullet, and basically told Vincent to rest.
The cause of death wasn't the bullet itself, but the infection that followed. Sepsis. It’s a slow, agonizing way to go. Your body essentially poisons itself. By the evening of July 28, Vincent slipped into a coma.
Why the Location Matters
Auvers-sur-Oise is beautiful. Even now, you can visit the Auberge Ravoux. Room No. 5 is still there. It’s tiny. Seven square meters. No furniture. It’s kept empty because, according to French tradition, a room where a suicide occurred can never be rented out again.
Standing in that room, you realize how lonely it must have been. Vincent was surrounded by the most beautiful landscapes in France, yet he spent his final hours staring at a damp wall.
The Aftermath and the Funeral
Vincent was buried on July 30, 1890. It was a small affair. His friends from Paris—painters like Émile Bernard and Lucien Pissarro—showed up. The coffin was covered in yellow flowers, mostly dahlias and sunflowers.
The local Catholic priest refused to let the funeral take place in the church because Vincent was a "suicide." So, the service happened in the inn. They carried him to the cemetery on the hill, right next to the wheat fields he had spent his last weeks painting.
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Theo was destroyed. He never recovered. Within six months, Theo was dead too. Syphilis, grief, exhaustion—it all took him. Now, the brothers lie side-by-side in Auvers, covered in a blanket of ivy. It’s perhaps the only peaceful thing about the entire story.
Why We Still Care About When Was Vincent van Gogh Die
People obsess over the date and the method because it colors how we see the art. If he killed himself, Wheatfield with Crows becomes a suicide note. If he was murdered, it’s just a painting of birds.
But honestly? The "when" and the "how" matter less than the "why." Vincent died because he was exhausted. He had poured every ounce of his soul into canvases that nobody wanted to buy. He was living on coffee, bread, and absinthe. His body was a wreck long before the bullet hit him.
When you look at his late works, the brushstrokes are frantic. They’re thick. They’re heavy. You can see a man who knows his time is running out.
Common Misconceptions to Clear Up
- He was a starving artist: Mostly true, though Theo sent him plenty of money. Vincent just spent it all on paint and canvas instead of food.
- He was "crazy": He had fits, likely a combination of temporal lobe epilepsy and bipolar disorder. But he was incredibly lucid between those fits. He wasn't a "mad genius"; he was a brilliant man struggling with a debilitating illness.
- He only sold one painting: This is a popular myth. He sold The Red Vineyard, but records suggest he may have sold or bartered others during his lifetime. Still, he was far from a commercial success.
How to Explore This History Yourself
If you’re a fan, don’t just read about when was Vincent van Gogh die—go see the context. The Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam is the obvious choice, but the real magic is in Auvers-sur-Oise.
- Visit the Auberge Ravoux: You can stand in the room where he died. It’s a somber, silent experience that puts his struggle into perspective.
- Walk the Wheat Fields: The fields behind the cemetery look exactly as they did in 1890. The crows are still there.
- Read the Letters: The correspondence between Vincent and Theo is the most honest account of an artist's life ever written. It’s better than any biography.
Vincent’s death was a tragedy, but it wasn't the end of his story. It was the beginning of his legend. He died a "failure" in the eyes of the 1890 public, but he died knowing he had changed the way we see the world.
If you want to understand the man, look at his last paintings. Look at the yellows. They aren't the colors of a man who has given up; they're the colors of a man who is desperately trying to hold onto the light.
Next Steps for Art Lovers:
To truly grasp the weight of Vincent’s final days, start by reading the "Last Letters from Auvers" (June-July 1890). These letters provide a raw, unedited look into his mental state just weeks before his death. Following that, compare the color palettes of his Saint-Rémy period to his Auvers period; you'll notice a distinct shift toward the acidic yellows and turbulent blues that defined his final weeks. Finally, if you ever find yourself in France, take the 45-minute train ride from Paris to Auvers-sur-Oise to visit the gravesite—it’s the most direct way to connect with the reality of his passing.