Well, and notwithstanding, it was in this extreme poverty that I felt my energy return and that I said to myself, in any event I’ll recover from it, I’ll pick up my pencil that I put down in my great discouragement and I’ll get back to drawing, and from then on, it seems to me, everything has changed for me, and now I’m on my way and my pencil has become somewhat obedient and seems to become more so day by day. It was poverty, too long and too severe, that had discouraged me to the point where I could no longer do anything.
Another thing that I saw during that excursion was the weavers’ villages.
The miners and the weavers are something of a race apart from other workmen and tradesmen, and I have a great fellow-feeling for them and would count myself happy if I could draw them one day, so that these types, as yet unpublished or almost unpublished, could be brought to notice. The man from the bottom of the abyss, ‘de profundis’, that’s the miner; the other one, with a dreamy, almost pensive, almost a sleep-walker’s air, is the weaver. And now it’s roughly 2 years that I’ve been living with them, and to some extent I’ve learned to know their original character, mainly that of the miners at least. And more and more I find something touching and even heart-rending in these poor and obscure workers, the lowest of all, so to speak, and the most looked down upon, which one usually pictures through the effect of a perhaps vivid but very false and unjust imagination as a race of criminals and brigands. There are criminals, drunkards, brigands here as elsewhere, but that’s not at all the true type.
In your letter you spoke to me vaguely about coming to Paris or the surrounding area. Sooner or later, when it would be possible and when I felt like it. Of course, it would be my great and ardent desire to come either to Paris or to Barbizon or somewhere else. But how could I do it, because I don’t earn a sou, and although I work hard it’ll take more time yet to reach the level of being able to think of such a thing as coming to Paris. Because in truth, to be able to work as one should, it would take at least about a hundred francs a month; you can live on less, but then you’re hard up, far too much so in fact.
Poverty prevents good minds succeeding; that’s Palissy’s old proverb, in which there’s truth, and which is entirely true if one understands its real purpose and import.
For the moment I can’t see how the thing would be practicable, and it’s better that I stay here, working as I can and will be able to, and after all, it’s cheaper to live here.
However, I’d be unable to continue much longer in the little room where I am now. It’s tiny as it is, and there are two beds, the children’s and mine. And now that I’m doing the Bargues, quite big sheets, I couldn’t tell you what a nuisance it is to me. I don’t want to bother the people in their household arrangements; and also they’ve told me that as far as the other room in the house goes, there was no way for me to have it, even if I paid more, because the wife needs it to do her washing, which in a miner’s house has to be done almost every day.
So I would like simply to take a little workman’s house; that costs 9 francs a month on average.
I couldn’t tell you how much (despite the fact that every day new difficulties present themselves and will continue to present themselves), I couldn’t tell you how happy I feel to have taken up drawing again. It had already been on my mind for a long time, but I always saw the thing as impossible and beyond my reach. But now, while feeling both my weakness and my painful dependence in respect of many things, I’ve recovered my peace of mind, and my energy is coming back day by day.
Now, about coming to Paris. If we found an opportunity to get in touch with some decent, valiant artist, it would be extremely advantageous for me, but, to go there just like that, it would only be a repetition on a large scale of my trip to Courrières, where I’d hoped perhaps to meet some living being of the Artist species, but where I didn’t find one. For me it’s a matter of learning to draw well, to be master either of my pencil or my charcoal or my brush; once that’s achieved I’ll do good things almost no matter where, and the Borinage is every bit as picturesque as old Venice, as Arabia, as Brittany, Normandy, Picardy or Brie.
If I’m doing the wrong thing, the fault is mine. But one can very certainly find more easily at Barbizon than elsewhere, if one perhaps were to have this happy encounter, the opportunity to fall in with some more advanced artist who would be for me truly a Heaven-sent angel, let it be said seriously and without any exaggeration.
So if, sometime, you were to see means and opportunity, think of me; while waiting I’ll stay quietly in some little workman’s house, where I’ll work as best I can.
You also speak to me of Meryon; what you say about him is very true, I am indeed slightly acquainted with his etchings. Would you like to see something curious — put one of his so precise and so powerful scratches beside any print by Viollet-le-Duc or by anyone at all who does architecture. Then you’ll see Meryon in full light because of the other etching, which will serve, if I may be so free, as a foil or contrast. So what do you see, then? This. Meryon, even when he’s drawing bricks, granite, the iron bars or the parapet of a bridge, puts something of the human soul, shaken by I know not what heartache, into his etching. I’ve seen drawings of Gothic architecture by V. Hugo. Well, without having Meryon’s powerful and masterly execution, there was something of the same sentiment. What is this sentiment? It has some kinship with that which Albrecht Dürer expressed in his Melancholy, which in our times James Tissot and M. Maris also have (however different these two may be one from the other). Some profound critic rightly said of James Tissot ‘He’s a soul in need’. But in any event, there’s something of the human soul there; it’s for that reason that that is great, immense, infinite, and put Viollet-le-Duc beside it, it’s stone, and the other (namely Meryon), that’s Spirit. Meryon must have had such a power to love that now, like Dickens’s Sydney Carton, he loves the very stones of certain places. But it’s also found more and better, in a nobler, worthier and, if I may be allowed to say so, more Evangelical tone — the precious pearl, the human soul revealed — in Millet, in Jules Breton, in Jozef Israëls. But to return to Meryon, he has also, it seems to me, some distant kinship with Jongkind and perhaps Seymour Haden, because at certain moments these two artists were very strong. Wait, perhaps you’ll still see that I too am a worker, although I don’t know in advance what will be possible for me; nevertheless, I do hope to make some scratch yet in which there might be something human. But first I have to draw the Bargues and do other things that are rather tricky. The way is strait and the gate is strait and there are few that find it.
Thanking you for your kindness, chiefly for The bush, I shake your hand.
Vincent
I’ve taken all your collection now, but you’ll have it back later, and in addition, for your collection of wood engravings, which I hope you’re continuing, I have some very good things in the 2 volumes of the Musée Universel, which I intend for you.
160 | Brussels, Monday, 1 November 1880 | To Theo van Gogh (D)
Brussels, 1 Nov.
72 blvd du Midi
My dear Theo,
I want to tell you a few things in reply to your letter.
First of all, that I went to see Mr Roelofs the day after I received your letter, and he told me that his opinion was that from now on I should concentrate on drawing from nature, i.e. whether plaster or model, but not without guidance from someone who understands it well. And he, and others too, seriously advised me definitely to go and work at a drawing academy, at least for a while, here or in Antwerp or anywhere I could, so I think I should in fact do something about getting admitted to that drawing academy, although I don’t particularly like the idea. Tuition is free here in Brussels, I hear that in Amsterdam, for example, it costs 100 guilders a year, and one can work in an adequately heated and lighted room, which is worth thinking about, especially for the winter.
I’m making headway with the examples of Bargue, and things are progressing. Moreover, I’ve recently drawn something
that was a lot of work but I’m glad to have done it. Made, in fact, a pen drawing of a skeleton, rather large at that, on 5 sheets of Ingres paper.
1 sheet
the head, skeleton and muscles
1 "
torso, skeleton
1 "
hand from the front, skeleton and muscles
1 "
" from the back, " "
1 "
pelvis and legs, skeleton.
I was prompted to do it by a manual written by Zahn, Esquisses anatomiques à l’usage des artistes. And it includes a number of other illustrations which seem to me very effective and clear. Of the hand, foot &c. &c.
And what I’m now going to do is complete the drawing of the muscles, i.e. that of the torso and legs, which will form the whole of the human body with what’s already made. Then there’s still the body seen from the back and from the side.
So you see that I’m pushing ahead with a vengeance, those things aren’t so very easy, and require time and moreover quite a bit of patience.
To be admitted to the drawing academy one must have permission from the mayor and be registered. I’m waiting for an answer to my request.
I know, of course, that no matter how frugally, how poorly even, one lives, it will turn out to be more expensive in Brussels than in Cuesmes, for instance, but I shan’t succeed without any guidance, and I think it possible — if I only work hard, which I certainly do — that either Uncle Cent or Uncle Cor will do something, if not as a concession to me at least as a concession to Pa.
It’s my plan to get hold of the anatomical illustrations of a horse, cow and sheep, for example, from the veterinary school, and to draw them in the same way as the anatomy of a person.
There are laws of proportion, of light and shadow, of perspective, that one must know in order to be able to draw anything at all. If one lacks that knowledge, it will always remain a fruitless struggle and one will never give birth to anything.
That’s why I believe I’m steering a straight course by taking matters in hand in this way, and want to try and acquire a wealth of anatomy here this winter, it won’t do to wait longer and would ultimately prove to be more expensive because it would be a waste of time.
I believe that this will also be your point of view.
Drawing is a hard and difficult struggle.
If I should be able to find some steady work here, all the better, but I don’t dare count on it yet, because I must first learn a great many things.
Also went to see Mr Van Rappard, who now lives at rue Traversière 64, and have spoken to him. He has a fine appearance, I’ve not seen anything of his work other than a couple of small pen drawings of landscapes. But he lives rather sumptuously and, for financial reasons, I don’t know whether he’s the person with whom, for instance, I could live and work. But in any case I’ll go and see him again. But the impression I got of him was that there appears to be seriousness in him.
In Cuesmes, old boy, I couldn’t have stood it a month longer without falling ill with misery. You mustn’t think that I live in luxury here, for my food consists mainly of dry bread and some potatoes or chestnuts which people sell on the street corners, but I’ll manage very well with a slightly better room and by eating a slightly better meal from time to time in a restaurant if that were possible. But for nearly 2 years I endured one thing and another in the Borinage, that’s no pleasure trip. But it will easily amount to something more than 60 francs and really can’t be otherwise. Drawing materials and examples, for instance, for anatomy, it all costs money, and those are certainly essentials, and only in this way can it pay off later, otherwise I’ll never succeed.
I had great pleasure lately in reading an extract from the work by Lavater and Gall. Physiognomie et phrénologie. Namely character as it is expressed in facial characteristics and the shape of the skull.
Drew The diggers by Millet after a photo by Braun that I found at Schmidt’s and which he lent me with that of The evening angelus. I sent both those drawings to Pa so that he could see that I’m doing something.
Write to me again soon. Address 72 blvd du Midi. I’m staying in a small boarding-house for 50 francs a month and have my bread and a cup of coffee here, morning, afternoon and evening. That isn’t very cheap but it’s expensive everywhere here.
The Holbeins from the Modèles d’apres les maitres are splendid, I notice that now, drawing them, much more than before. But they aren’t easy, I assure you.
That Mr Schmidt was entangled in a money matter which would involve the Van Gogh family and for which he, namely Mr S., would be justly prosecuted, I knew not the slightest thing about all that when I went to see him, and I first learned of it from your letter. So that was rather unfortunate, though Mr Schmidt received me quite cordially all the same. Knowing it now, though, and matters being as they are, it would perhaps be wise not to go there often, without it being necessary deliberately to avoid meeting him.
I would have written to you sooner but was too busy with my skeleton.
I believe that the longer you think about it the more you’ll see the definite necessity of more artistic surroundings for me, for how is one supposed to learn to draw unless someone shows you? With the best will in the world one cannot succeed without also coming into and remaining in contact with artists who are already further along. Good will is of no avail if there’s absolutely no opportunity for development. As regards mediocre artists, to whose ranks you think I should not want to belong, what shall I say? That depends on what one calls mediocre. I’ll do what I can, but in no way do I despise the mediocre in its simple sense. And one certainly doesn’t rise above that level by despising that which is mediocre, in my opinion one must at least begin by having some respect for the mediocre as well, and by knowing that that, too, already means something and that one doesn’t achieve even that without much effort. Adieu for today, I shake your hand in thought. Write again soon if you can.
Vincent
164 | Brussels, Saturday, 2 April 1881 | To Theo van Gogh (D)
2/4-81
72 blvd du Midi Bruxelles
My dear Theo,
In answer to your two good letters and prompted by a visit from Pa, which I’d been looking forward to for some time, I have a few things to tell you.
And this, first of all. I heard from Pa that you’ve already been sending me money without my knowing it, and in doing so are effectively helping me to get along. For this accept my heartfelt thanks. I have every confidence that you won’t regret it; in this way I’m learning a handicraft, and although I’ll certainly not grow rich by it, at least I’ll earn the 100 francs a month necessary to support myself once I’m surer of myself as a draughtsman and find steady work.
What you told us about the painter Heyerdahl has greatly aroused the interest of both Rappard and myself.
Because the former will no doubt write to you about it himself, I address this question only because it concerns me personally, to some extent.
Your remarks about the Dutch artists, that it’s doubtful whether they’d be able to give clear advice on the difficulties of perspective &c. with which I’m wrestling, I find in a certain sense quite correct and true. At any rate, I whole-heartedly agree with you that someone like Heyerdahl, because he seems to be such a highly cultivated man, would be far preferable to some others who might not have the ability to explain their way of doing things to anyone else, or to give one the guidance and advice that’s so necessary.
You speak of Heyerdahl as one who takes great pains to seek ‘proportions for the purpose of design’, that’s precisely what I need. Many good painters have no idea, or almost no idea, what ‘proportions for the purpose of design’ are, or beautiful lines or distinctive compositions, and ideas and poetry. Yet these are important questions which Feyen-Perrin and Ulysse Butin and Alphonse Legros, not to mention Breton and Millet and Israëls, take very much to heart and never lose sight of.
Many Dutch painters would un
derstand nothing, absolutely nothing, of the beautiful work of Boughton, Marks, Millais, Pinwell, Du Maurier, Herkomer, Walker, to name but a few artists who are true masters as ‘draughtsmen’, over and above their qualities in other directions.
Many, I say, shrug their shoulders at such work, just as many — even among the painters here in Belgium, who should know better — do at the work of Degroux. I saw 2 things by Degroux this week that I didn’t know yet, namely a painting, The conscript’s departure, and a drawing in vertical format, The drunkard, two compositions that so much resemble Boughton that I was struck by the resemblance, as of two brothers who had never met each other but were nevertheless kindred spirits.
So you see that I share your view of Heyerdahl, that I’ll consider myself fortunate if you can put me in touch with that man later on, that I certainly won’t insist on having my way about going to Holland, not, at least, if I have the prospect of going to Paris later on and can more or less count on it.
In the meantime, though, what should I do? What would you think best? I can carry on working at Rappard’s for a week or so, but then he’ll probably be leaving. My bedroom is all too small and the light isn’t good, and the people would object to my shutting out some of the light coming in through the window, I’m not even allowed to hang my etchings on the wall or my drawings. So when Rappard leaves here in May I’ll have to move, and in that case I’d very much like to work in the country for a while, Heist, Kalmthout, Etten, Scheveningen, Katwijk or wherever. Or even, which is closer, Schaarbeek, Haren, Groenendaal. But preferably a place where there’s a chance of coming into contact with other painters, and if possible of living and working together, because that’s cheaper and better. The cost of accommodation, no matter where, is at least 100 francs a month, anything less means suffering deprivation, either bodily or through a lack of indispensable materials and tools.
Ever Yours Page 20