Write to me soon, still same address, Restaurant Carrel, Arles. Handshake.
Ever yours,
Vincent
602 | Arles, Tuesday, 1 May 1888 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear Theo,
Thank you very much for your letter and the 50-franc note it contained. It’s not in black that I see the future, but I see it bristling with many difficulties, and at times I wonder if these won’t be stronger than I am. This is especially so at times of physical weakness, and last week I suffered from a toothache that was so agonizing that it made me waste time quite in spite of myself. Nevertheless, I’ve just sent you a roll of small pen drawings, a dozen I think. That way you’ll see that even though I’d stopped painting I haven’t stopped working. Among them you’ll find a hasty croquis on yellow paper, a lawn in the public garden at the entrance to the town. And in the background a house more or less like this one.
[Sketch 602A]
602A. The Yellow House
Ah, well — today I rented the right-hand wing of this building, which contains 4 rooms, or more precisely, two, with two little rooms.
It’s painted yellow outside, whitewashed inside — in the full sunshine. I’ve rented it for 15 francs a month. Now what I’d like to do would be to furnish a room, the one on the first floor, to be able to sleep there. The studio, the store, will remain here for the whole of the campaign here in the south, and that way I have my independence from petty squabbles over guest-houses, which are ruinous and depress me. In fact, Bernard writes me that he too has a whole house, but he has it for nothing. What luck. I’ll certainly make another drawing of it for you, better than the first croquis. And at this point I dare tell you that I intend to invite Bernard and some other people to send me canvases to show them here if the opportunity arises, and it will certainly arise in Marseille. I hope I’ve been lucky this time — you understand, yellow outside, white inside, right out in the sun, at last I’ll see my canvases in a really bright interior. The floor’s made of red bricks. And outside, the public garden, of which you’ll find two more drawings.
The drawings, I dare assure you, will become even better.
I’ve had a letter from Russell, who has bought a Guillaumin and 2 or 3 Bernards. I’m extremely pleased about that, he also writes that he’ll exchange studies with me. I wouldn’t be afraid of anything unless it was this bloody health. And yet I’m better than in Paris, and if my stomach has become terribly weak that’s a problem I picked up there, probably due mainly to the bad wine, of which I drank too much. Here the wine is just as bad, but I only drink very little of it. And so the fact is that as I hardly eat and hardly drink I’m very weak, but my blood is improving instead of being ruined. So once again, it’s patience I need in the circumstances, and perseverance.
Having received the absorbent canvas, I’m starting these days a new no. 30 canvas that I hope will be better than the others. Do you remember in La recherche du bonheur the chap who bought as much land as he could run round in a single day? Well, with my orchard decoration I’ve been that man, more or less, half a dozen out of a dozen I have anyway, but the other 6 aren’t as good, and I’m sorry I didn’t rather do 2 of them instead of the last 6. Anyway, I’ll send you ten or so in the next few days anyway.
I bought 2 pairs of shoes, which cost me 26 francs, and 3 shirts that cost me 27 francs, which meant that despite the 100 note I wasn’t enormously rich. But in view of the fact that I plan to do business in Marseille, I definitely want to be well turned out, and I don’t intend to buy anything but good quality. And the same for work, it will be better to do one painting fewer than to do it less well.
Should it come about that you had to leave those gentlemen, don’t think that I have doubts about the possibility of doing business all the same, but we mustn’t be caught unawares, that’s all, and if it drags on a bit longer that’s actually for the better.
As for me, if a few months from now I’m ready for an expedition to Marseille, I’ll be able to do things with more self-assurance than if I arrived there having run out of breath. I’ve seen MacKnight again, but still nothing of his work. I still have colours, I have brushes, I still have plenty of things in stock. But we mustn’t waste our powder.
I think if you were to leave those gentlemen, for my part I’d have to manage to live without spending more than, for example, 150 francs a month. I couldn’t do it now, but you’ll see that in 2 months I’ll be set up like that. If then we earn more, so much the better, but I want to ensure that.
So, if I had some very strong broth, that would get me going right away, it’s dreadful, I’ve never been able to get even any of the very simple things I’ve asked those people for. And it’s the same everywhere in these little restaurants. Yet it’s not hard to boil potatoes. Impossible.
And no rice or macaroni either, or else it’s ruined with fat or they don’t do it, and make the excuse: it’s for tomorrow, there’s no room on the stove, &c.
It’s silly but true all the same that that’s why my health is poor.
All the same, it cost me a lot of agonizing to bring myself to make a decision, because I said to myself that in The Hague and in Nuenen I’d tried to take a studio and I said to myself that it had turned out badly. But many things have changed since then, and as I feel I’m on firmer ground — let’s go ahead. Only we’ve already spent so much money on this bloody painting we mustn’t forget that it has to come back in paintings. If we dare believe, and I’m sure of it, that Impressionist paintings will go up in value, we’ve got to do lots of them and keep the prices up.
All the more reason why we should calmly take care of the quality of the thing and not waste time. And after a few years, I can see the possibility that the capital laid out will come back into our hands, if not in cash, then in value.
And now if you agree, I’ll rent or buy furniture for the bedroom. I’ll go and have a look today or tomorrow morning.
I’m still convinced that nature here is just what’s needed to do colour. And so it’s more than likely that I won’t move far from here.
Raffaëlli has done a portrait of Edmond de Goncourt, hasn’t he? That must be beautiful. I’ve seen Le Salon published by L’Illustration. Is the Jules Breton beautiful?
You’ll soon receive a painting I did for you for the first of May.
If necessary, I could live at the new studio with someone else, and I’d very much like to. Perhaps Gauguin will come to the south. Perhaps I’ll come to an arrangement with MacKnight. Then we could cook at home.
In any case, the studio is too open to view for me to think it could tempt any woman, and it would be hard for a petticoat episode to lead to a cohabitation. Anyway, moral standards seem to me less inhuman and contrary to nature than in Paris. But with my temperament, to lead a wild life and to work are no longer compatible at all, and in the given circumstances I’ll have to content myself with making paintings. That’s not happiness and not real life, but what can you say, even this artistic life, which we know isn’t the real one, seems so alive to me, and it would be ungrateful not to be content with it.
I have one big worry fewer now that I’ve found the little white studio. I looked at a whole lot of apartments without success. It will seem funny to you that the water closet is at the neighbour’s, in quite a large house that belongs to the same owner. In a southern town I think you’d be wrong to complain about it, because these facilities are few and far between, and dirty, and you can’t help thinking of them as nests of germs.
On the other hand, I have water here.
I’ll put some Japanese prints on the wall.
If there happened to be some canvases in your apartment that were in the way, this could always be used as a storeroom, that might become necessary, because you ought not to have mediocre things at your place.
Bernard has written to me and sent croquis.
I’m very pleased that you found our mother and sister well.
Is Reid going to Marseille? At the bottom
of it, perhaps, is that he loves this woman who didn’t trust us, feeling that we might perhaps not want to encourage the cohabitation. I’m inclined to believe she’s the psychological reason for his coming back. You’ll say that in that case we’ll have to consider everything he’s going to do in the future, and maintain great composure for the moment. Will you go back to Holland for the holidays? If you could do both, going to see Tersteeg and Marseille on business regarding the Impressionists, and resting at Breda between those two chores.
Have you seen Seurat again?
I shake your hand firmly, wishing you a year as full of sunshine as the weather here today. Warm regards to Koning.
Ever yours,
Vincent
If you could send me 100 francs next time, I could sleep at the studio as early as this week. I’ll also write you what arrangement the furniture dealer wants to make.
603 | Arles, Friday, 4 May 1888 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear Theo,
Yesterday I went to visit some furniture dealers to see if I could rent a bed, &c. Unfortunately they do not rent, and even refused to sell on terms of paying so much per month. This is rather awkward. Now I’ve thought that perhaps — if Koning were to leave after seeing the Salon, as I believe was his original intention, after he left you could send me the bed he’s occupying now.
We have to consider that if I sleep at the studio, that makes a difference after all of around 300 francs at the end of a year, which is otherwise spent at the hotel. I’m quite aware that it’s not possible to say in advance: I’ll stay here for such or such a length of time; however, I have many reasons to believe that a long stay here is likely.
Yesterday I was at Fontvieille, at MacKnight’s — he had a good pastel — a pink tree — two watercolours under way, and I found him working on a head of an old woman in charcoal. He’s at the stage when the new colour theories are tormenting him, and while they prevent him from doing things according to the old system, he hasn’t sufficiently mastered his new palette to be able to succeed this way. He seemed very embarrassed to show them to me, so I had to go there specially and tell him I very much wanted to see his work, and now it’s not impossible that he may come to stay with me here for a while. Then we would benefit, I think, on both sides.
I very often think of Renoir here and his pure, clean drawing. That’s just the way objects or figures are here, in the clear light.
We have a tremendous amount of wind and mistral here, 3 days out of four at the moment, always with sunshine, though, but then it’s difficult to work out of doors.
I think something could be done here in the way of portraits. People may be crassly ignorant as far as painting goes, but in general they’re much more artistic than in the north in their own appearance and their own lives. I’ve seen figures here as lovely as those of Goya and Velázquez. They know how to stick a touch of pink on a black suit, or make a white, yellow, pink or green and pink, or blue and yellow outfit, in which nothing needs to be changed from the artistic point of view. Seurat would find some very picturesque figures of men here, despite their modern suits.
Now I dare say these people here would jump at portraits. But, before daring to take the risk of throwing myself into that, I want my nervous system to calm down first, and then I want to be settled in such a way that we can receive people at the studio. And if I have to mention the big subject, by my calculations to be in good health and be acclimatized here once and for all I’ll need a year, and to establish myself I’ll need a good thousand francs. If in the first year — the current one — I spent 100 francs to live and 100 francs for this establishment per month, you can see there wouldn’t be a sou left in this budget for painting. But by the end of this year I’m inclined to believe I’d have gained both my quite decent establishment and my health. And my occupation while waiting would above all be to spend every day drawing, with two or three paintings a month in addition.
In — the establishment — I thus also count a complete renewal of all my linen and clothes and shoes.
And I would be a different man by the end of the year.
I’d have a home and I’d have my peace of mind about my health. And so I can hope not to collapse out of breath before my time, here.
Monticelli was physically more vigorous than I am, I think, and if I had the strength I would live like him, one day at a time.
But if he became paralyzed, and without being that much of a drinker — all the more reason why I couldn’t withstand it.
I was certainly well on the way to catching a paralysis when I left Paris. It caught up with me afterwards, right enough! When I stopped drinking, when I stopped smoking so much, when I started reflecting on things again instead of trying not to think — my God, what melancholias and what dejection. Working in this magnificent nature kept up my morale, but there too, after a certain amount of effort I didn’t have the strength.
Ah well, that’s why when I was writing to you the other day I said that if you left the Goupils you would probably feel better in terms of morale but the recovery would be very painful. While the sickness itself, you don’t feel it.
My poor friend, our neurosis &c. surely also comes from our rather too artistic way of life — but it’s also a fatal inheritance, since in civilization we go on becoming weaker from generation to generation.
Take our sister Wil, she has neither drunk nor led a wild life, and yet we know a photograph of her in which she has the look of a madwoman. Isn’t that proof enough that if we want to look the true state of our temperament in the face we have to range ourselves among those who suffer from a neurosis that goes back a good long way.
I think Gruby’s in the right in these cases: eat well, live well, see few women, in a word live in anticipation just as though one already had a brain disease and a disease of the marrow, not to mention neurosis, which really does exist.
Certainly that’s taking the bull by the horns, which isn’t a bad policy.
And Degas — does that and is successful. All the same, don’t you feel, as I do, it’s awfully hard?
And in short doesn’t it do us a tremendous amount of good to listen to the wise advice of Rivet and Pangloss, those splendid optimists of the true and jovial Gallic race who leave you your self-esteem? Yet, if we want to live and work, we must be very careful and look after ourselves. Cold water, air, good simple food, wear the right clothes, sleep in a good bed and don’t have worries. And not letting yourself go with the women and real life to the extent you might like to.
I’m not set on sleeping at the studio but IF I went to sleep there, it would be if I could see the possibility of establishing myself more or less for good and for a long period of time. Having no need at all now of space at the hotel, since I have the studio elsewhere, I’ll tell the people it’s 3 francs a day, take it or leave it. And consequently there’s nothing pressing. But if it’s all the same to you, send me 100 francs anyway next time, as I’d also like to have some drawers made, the way I had shirts and shoes made, and as I have to have almost all my clothes cleaned and mended. Then they’ll still be perfectly good. This is urgent, in case I’d have to go to Marseille or see people here. With all these precautions we’re taking now we can be more certain of being able to hold out in the long term and of putting our work in order.
There are about ten canvases, for which I’m looking for a crate and which I’ll send you in the next few days.
I shake your hand firmly, and Koning’s too. I had a postcard from Koning to say he’d received a letter to collect the paintings from the Independents. But of course he just had to collect them, what can I do about it?
Ever yours,
Vincent
(It goes without saying that if at your home there were canvases that were taking up too much space you could send them here by goods train and I’d keep them in the studio here. If that isn’t yet the case it will be later, so I keep quite a few studies here that don’t seem good enough to me to be sent to you.)
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nbsp; 609 | Arles, Saturday, 12 May 1888 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear Theo,
I’m writing you another few lines to tell you that I’ve been to see the gentleman whom the Arab Jew in Tartarin calls ‘the shustish of the beace’. I still got 12 francs back and my host was reprimanded for keeping my trunk; as I wasn’t refusing to pay, he had no right to hold it. If they’d found in favour of the other party, that would have done me harm, because he wouldn’t have failed to go around saying that I had not been able or not been willing to pay him, and that he’d been forced to take my trunk. Whereas now — because I left at the same time as him — he said as we went that he’d been angry but hadn’t really wished to insult me. But that’s just what he was trying to do, probably seeing that I had seen enough of his shack — and that he couldn’t make me stay — he’d have gone to tell tales where I am at the moment. All right. If I’d wanted to get the actual reduction, I’d probably have claimed more in damages, for example. If I let myself be annoyed by just anybody I’d soon not know where to turn, you understand.
I’ve found a better restaurant where I eat for 1 franc.
My health’s been better these days.
Now I have two new studies like this:
[Sketch 609A]
609A–B (top to bottom). Farmhouse in a wheatfield; View of Arles with irises in the foreground
You already have a drawing of it, a farmhouse beside the wide road in the wheatfields.
[Sketch 609B]
A meadow full of very yellow buttercups, a ditch with iris plants with green leaves, with purple flowers, the town in the background, some grey willow trees — a strip of blue sky.
If they don’t mow the meadow I’d like to do this study again, because the subject matter was really beautiful and I had trouble finding the composition. A little town surrounded by countryside entirely covered in yellow and purple flowers. That would really be a Japanese dream, you know.
Ever Yours Page 77