Ever Yours

by Vincent Van Gogh

  I painted a few more studies of our garden when there was snow on it.

  The landscape has changed greatly since then — we now have magnificent evening skies of lilac and gold, above the tonal silhouettes of the houses between the masses of the coppices, which are a ruddy colour, above which rise slender black poplars — while the foregrounds are blanched and bleached green, varied by strips of black earth and dry, pale reeds along the sides of the ditches. I see all that, too — I find it as superb as anyone else — but what interests me even more is the proportion of a figure, the division of the oval of a head, and I have no grasp on the rest until I have more mastery of the figure. In short — the figure first — for my part, I can’t understand the rest without it, and it’s the figure that creates the mood. I can understand, though, that there are people like Daubigny and Harpignies and Ruisdael and so many others, who are absolutely and irresistibly carried away by the landscape itself; their work is totally satisfying because they themselves were satisfied by sky and soil and a pool of water and a bush. However, I think what Israëls said about a Dupré is a mighty clever saying — it’s just like a painting of a figure.

  Regards, and thanks again for the illustrations.

  Yours truly,

  Vincent

  484 | Nuenen, on or about Monday, 2 March 1885 | To Theo van Gogh (D)

  My dear Theo,

  Thanks for the prompt dispatch of the money for this month, arriving promptly like that actually helps me more. Thanks, too, for the splendid woodcut after Lhermitte — one of the few things by him that I know, for I saw only these — a troop of girls in the wheat — an old woman in church — and a miner or some such in a little bar, and Harvest by him, and otherwise never anything, and nothing ever as much reflecting his actual manner as these woodcutters.

  If Le Monde Illustré prints a composition by him every month — this is part of a series of ‘Rural months’ — it would give me mighty great pleasure to collect this whole series, and I’d really like you to send them every time.

  Because obviously I never see anything here, and after all I do need to see something really beautiful now and then, and so another time feel free to keep back 20 francs, say, but send me things like this when they appear in the illustrated magazines.

  Now as to when you write that if I had something ready that I thought was good, you would try to enter it for the Salon — I appreciate your wanting to do this.

  This in the first place — and then further that if I’d known it 6 weeks earlier, I would have tried to send you something for this purpose.

  Now, though, I don’t have anything that I would care to send in. Recently, as you know, I’ve painted heads almost exclusively. And they are studies in the true meaning of the word — that is, they’re meant for the studio.

  Nonetheless, this very day I’ve started to make some that I’ll send you.

  Because I think it possible that it might be of use, when you meet a good many people on the occasion of the Salon, if you had something you could show — albeit only studies.

  So you’ll receive heads of an old and a young woman, and probably more than one of these two models. Given what you write of your feelings about various conceptions of heads, I think that these, which come straight out of a cottage with a moss-grown thatched roof, won’t appear to you to be absolutely inappropriate, although they’re studies and nothing else. If I’d known 6 weeks earlier, I would have made a woman spinning or spooling yarn — full length — of them.

  To return for a moment to that question of the female heads in the Jacquet genre, not the earlier ones but of the present day. The reaction against them — certainly with a motive — by people who paint heads of girls like our sisters, for instance — I can well understand that there are painters who do such things — Whistler did it well several times — Millais, Boughton — to mention only people by whom I saw something of the sort in the past. I know little by Fantin-Latour, but what I saw I thought very good. Chardinesque. And that’s a lot. For my part, though, I’m not the sort of character who has much chance of getting on a sufficiently intimate footing with girls of that sort that they’re willing to pose. Particularly not with my own sisters. And am possibly also prejudiced against women who wear dresses. And my province is more those who wear jackets and skirts.

  Though I think what you say about it is true — namely that it’s perfectly possible to paint them — and it has a raison d’être as a reaction against the present-day Jacquets and Van Beers &c.

  Just this, though — Chardin (let’s sum up the aim of the reaction in his name, Fantin-Latour, at least, would approve), Chardin was a Frenchman and painted French women. And in my view, respectable Dutch women like our sisters really do extraordinarily often lack the charm that the French frequently have.

  Consequently, the so-called respectable element among Dutch women isn’t really so very attractive — to paint or to think about. But certain common servant girls, on the other hand, are very Chardinesque.

  At present I’m painting not just as long as there’s light, but even in the evening by lamplight in the cottages, if I can somehow make things out on my palette, in order to capture if possible something of the singular effects of lighting at night, for instance with a large shadow cast on the wall.

  I’ve certainly not seen anything in the last few years as fine as those woodcutters by Lhermitte.

  How his little figures in that composition are felt and wanted.

  Thanks again for it.

  Yours truly,

  Vincent

  The Chardinesque is, it seems to me, a singular expression of simplicity and of goodness — both through and through, and I find it a little hard to believe that one would find it in our sisters, say, either one of them. But if Wil were a Frenchwoman rather than a minister’s daughter, she could have it. But as good as always sails to the opposite point of the compass.

  487 | Telegram, sent from Eindhoven, Friday, 27 March 1885 | To Theo van Gogh, c/o 19 boulevard Montmartre, Paris (F)

  Our father fatal stroke, come, but it is over.

  Van Gogh

  490 | Nuenen, Monday, 6 April 1885 | To Theo van Gogh (D)

  My dear Theo,

  I’m still very much under the impression of what has just happened — I just kept painting these two Sundays.

  Herewith another scratch of a man’s head and one of a still life with honesty in the same style as the one you took with you. It’s rather larger, though — and the objects in the foreground are a tobacco pouch and a pipe of Pa’s. If you think you’d like it, of course you’re right welcome to have it.

  Ma looks well, and writing many letters provides some distraction for the time being. But, of course, still very sad. Cor has just gone back to Helmond.

  I don’t know whether you still remember that in January, when the snow was lying on the fields and the sun rose red in the mist, I wrote to you that I’d almost never started a year in a gloomier mood. It’s certain that there’ll be a whole lot more trouble for all of us.

  Of course you’ll understand that it’s not for my convenience that I’ll go and live in the studio.

  It will make things even more difficult for me.

  But I’m convinced that it’s to their advantage for me to leave, particularly in view of Ma’s intention to take in a lodger this summer, if possible, who wanted to be in the country for his health — or should this not come about, then they’re still freer with regard to guests &c.

  However, I still very much regret the incident with Anna that decided me in this respect. What she said to you changed nothing of what she reproached me for, and however absurd those reproaches were and her unfounded presumptions about things that are still in the future — she hasn’t told me she takes them back. Well — you understand how I simply shrug my shoulders at such things — and anyway, I increasingly let people think of me just exactly what they will, and say and do too, if need be.

  But consequently I have no choice — w
ith a beginning like that, one has to take steps to prevent all that sort of thing in the future.

  So I’m absolutely decided.

  It’s likely that Ma, Wil and Cor will go to Leiden next year. Then I’ll be the only one of us who’s still in Brabant.

  And I think it by no means unlikely that I’ll stay here for the rest of my life, too. After all, I desire nothing other than to live deep in the country and to paint peasant life.

  I feel that I can create a place for myself here, and so I’ll quietly keep my hand to my plough and cut my furrow. I believe that you thought differently about it, and that you would perhaps rather see me take another course as regards where I live.

  But I sometimes think that you have more idea of what people can do in the city, yet on the other hand I feel more at home in the country.

  All the same, it will still take me a great deal of effort before I imprint my paintings in people’s heads.

  Meanwhile, I have no intention whatsoever of allowing myself to be discouraged.

  I was thinking again of what I read about Delacroix — 17 of his paintings were rejected; ‘dix-sept de refusés’, he himself told his friends straight out.

  I was thinking today that they really were almighty brave fellows, those pioneers.

  But the battle has to be continued even now, and for my part I also want to fight for as much and as little as I’m worth. And so — Theo, I hope that we can continue on both sides what we’ve now started again. Awaiting or, rather, while I toil away on more important compositions, I’m sending you the studies as they come straight from the cottages. Of course people will say they’re not finished or they’re ugly &c. &c., but — in my view — show them anyway. For my part, I have a firm belief that there are a few people who, ending up in and tied to the city, retain indelible impressions of the country, and continue to feel homesick for the fields and the peasants all their lives.

  Art lovers like this are sometimes struck by sincerity, and not put off by what deters others.

  I know how I used to walk round the city for hours, looking in the shop windows, to see some little view of the country somewhere, no matter what.

  We’re now at the beginning of letting people see; I believe absolutely and utterly that little by little we’ll find a few people for it. Circumstances compel us, and gradually we’ll also be able to show better things.

  Now, at this moment, I’m very much preoccupied with paying off my paint bill, and moreover I need canvas, paint, brushes.

  Since you’ve had to do exceptional things for the people at home because of Pa’s death, I’ve come up with the following idea.

  Suppose that you don’t feel you’re in a position to give me the extra I received in spring and summer in other years, and which, by the way, I can’t do without.

  Wouldn’t you think it fair in that case if, when settling affairs, I were to reserve for myself a sum of, say, 200 francs of my share, which I’ll otherwise right willingly let the youngsters have? And would be able to let them have altogether if you can help me.

  By the way, I don’t see it as my letting them have my share — but rather that it’s because of you that they can keep my portion.

  If I go to live in the studio, I’ll inevitably have to have a cupboard built, for instance, because at present I have nowhere at all to store things, and I’ll also improve the light.

  To me, moving would be as bad as a fire — and anyway I think that we’ll stay on top of things with perseverance and effort.

  I think I’ll start painting in watercolour regularly in the evenings — as soon as I’m living in the studio — it can’t really be done in the living room here at home. Until then, I’ll go on working from the model in the evenings too.

  As to Anna — you mustn’t think that I’ll continue to take something like that amiss or hold a grudge about it — but only, it’s a shame that they think to do Ma a service with something like that — that’s a shame — and that’s stupid and unwise. As long as Ma and Wil are here, nothing unpleasant will happen between them and me; I don’t think so. Only it’s certain that Ma simply cannot comprehend that painting is a faith and that it brings with it the duty to pay no heed to public opinion — and that in it one conquers by perseverance and not by giving in. And — ‘I can’t give you faith’ is also the case between Her Hon. and me — just as it was and remained with Pa too.

  Anyway — I plan to make a start this week on that thing with the peasants around a dish of potatoes in the evening, or — perhaps I’ll make daylight of it, or both, or — ‘neither one’ — you’ll say. But should it succeed or should it fail, I’m going to start on the studies for the different figures. Regards, with a handshake.

  Yours truly,

  Vincent

  [Sketch 490A]

  490A. Honesty in a vase

  492 | Nuenen, Thursday, 9 April 1885 | To Theo van Gogh (D)

  My dear Theo,

  It has surprised me a little not to have received even a single word from you. You’ll say you’ve been too busy to think about it — and I can very well understand that.

  It’s already late — but I wanted to tell you once more that I whole-heartedly hope that from now on the correspondence will again become livelier than it has been recently.

  Herewith two scratches after a couple of studies that I made, while at the same time I’m working on those peasants around a dish of potatoes again.

  I’ve just come home from there — and have worked on it further by lamplight — although this time I started it in daylight.

  [Sketch 492A]

  492A. The potato eaters

  See, this is what the composition has now become. I’ve painted it on a fairly large canvas, and as the sketch is now, I believe there’s life in it.

  But I know for certain that C.M., for instance, would speak of — badly drawn &c.

  Do you know what can definitely be said to counter that? That the beautiful effects of the light in nature require one to work very fast. Now I know very well that the great masters were able both to finish and to maintain the vitality, particularly in the period of their mature experience.

  But that’s something I certainly won’t be able to do like that for the time being.

  At the point where I now am, though, I see a chance of giving a felt impression of what I see.

  Not always literally exactly — rather never exactly — for one sees nature through one’s own temperament.

  What I’d like to advise now is the following: don’t let the time slip by — let me work as much as is in any way possible — and keep all the studies from now on yourself. I’d rather not sign any of them yet, though, because I wouldn’t like to have them circulating like paintings, so that one would have to buy them back later should one make something of a name.

  But it’s good that you’re showing them, because you’ll see that some day we’ll find someone who wants to do what I’m suggesting to you, that is, make a collection of studies.

  I mean to go out regularly in the mornings and just tackle whatever I see the people doing in the fields or at home. As I do now anyway.

  You’re looking for new ideas for the art trade; the idea of being fair to the art lovers isn’t new, but it’s one that never grows old. So, too, giving security — on a purchase. And I ask you, isn’t an art lover better off when he has, say, 20 very diverse sketches by a painter for the same price that he would reasonably have to pay for one painting that was finished so that it could be put into circulation as a saleable commodity? If I were in your position, because after all you know a lot of young painters who haven’t yet made a name, I’d just try once to put painted studies on the market proper — not as paintings, but mounted somehow or other, on gilt Bristol, say, or black or dark red.

  But I spoke there about giving security.

  Not all painters make a lot of studies — but many do, and the young ones in particular have to do it as much as possible, don’t they? Anyone who owns a painter’s stud
ies can be as good as certain (at least so it seems to me) that there’s a bond between the painter and him that can’t easily be broken just on a whim.

  There are people, aren’t there, who support painters during the time when they aren’t yet earning — very well.

  But how often does it happen that such a thing ends badly — unpleasantly for both parties? On the one hand because the patron is dissatisfied about money that’s wholly wasted, or at least seems to be. On the other hand because the painter feels entitled to ask for more trust, more patience and interest than people are prepared to give. But in most cases it’s carelessness on both sides that gives rise to the misunderstandings. I hope that this won’t be the case between us. And I hope that gradually my studies will give you some new courage. Neither you nor I are contemporaries of that generation that Gigoux rightly calls ‘the valiant ones’ in that book of yours that I read.

  But maintaining the enthusiasm of those days at this time is nonetheless advisable, it seems to me, because it’s often true that fortune favours the bold, and be this as it may — about fortune or ‘la joie (?) de vivre’, that is — one must work and be bold if one really wants to live. And I say, let’s paint a lot and be productive, and BE OURSELVES WITH FAULTS AND QUALITIES — I say us — because the money from you that I know causes you trouble enough to provide for me, gives you the right, if anything good happens in my work, to consider half of it as your own creation.

  Try to talk to someone at Le Chat Noir and ask them whether they want a scratch of those potato eaters and, if so, what size, because it makes no difference to me.

  Regards, with a handshake.