So if you’ve reached the point where you have to make trips like that without ever having any peace and quiet, truly that takes away my appetite to recover my own tranquillity.
And if you agree to these proposals, well and good — but then ask those Goupils to take me on again at my previous salary and take me with you on these trips. People are worth more than things and for me, the more trouble I go to over paintings the more paintings as such leave me cold. The reason I try to make them is to be among artists. You’ll understand — it would grieve me to drive you to earn money, let’s rather stay together in any case — where there’s a will there’s a way, and I feel you’ll cure yourself for a good many years if you cure yourself now. But don’t wear yourself out now, either for me or for others. You know the portrait of Six as an old man, a man who is leaving, his glove in his hand, well, live until you leave like that, that’s how I see you, married, with a solid position in Paris. You’ll play a good role that way. Think it over and consult Gruby before accepting such a proposal.
Ever yours,
Vincent
616 | Arles, Monday, 28 or Tuesday, 29 May 1888 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear Theo,
I thought of Gauguin and here we are — if Gauguin wants to come here there’s Gauguin’s fare, and then there are the two beds or the two mattresses we absolutely have to buy.
But later on, as Gauguin’s a sailor, there’s a likelihood we’ll manage to make our grub at home.
And the two of us will live on the same money as I spend on myself alone.
You know I’ve always thought it ridiculous for painters to live alone &c. You always lose when you’re isolated.
Well, it’s in response to your wish to help him out.
You can’t send him what he needs to live on in Brittany, and me what I need to live on in Provence. But you may agree that we should share, and set a sum of, let’s say, 250 a month if every month, in addition to and apart from my work, you were to have a Gauguin.
As long as we didn’t exceed that amount, wouldn’t there even be a benefit? Besides, I’m speculating about joining forces with others.
So herewith rough draft of a letter to Gauguin, which I’ll write if you approve, with the changes that will doubtless have to be made to turns of phrase. But I wrote that way first. Think of it as a simple business arrangement, that’s best for everyone, and let’s treat it straightforwardly that way. Only, given that you’re not in business on your own account, you may, for example, think it right that I take it upon myself, and Gauguin would join forces with me as a pal.
I thought that you had a wish to come to his aid, as I suffer myself at the thought that he’s in a tight corner — something that won’t change overnight.
We can’t offer better than that, and others wouldn’t do as much.
For my part, it worries me to spend so much on myself alone, but to find a remedy for that there’s none other than that of finding a wife with money or pals who associate with one another for paintings. Now I don’t see the wife, but I do see the pals.
If that suited him, wouldn’t do to keep him waiting.
This would be the beginnings of an association, then. Bernard, who’s coming to the south too, will join us, and be sure of this, I still see you in France, at the head of an association of Impressionists. And if I could be useful in putting them together, I’d willingly see them abler than myself. You must feel how much it vexes me to spend more than they do; I have to find a partnership that’s more advantageous, both to you and to them. And that’s how it would be. However, think it over carefully, but isn’t it true that in good company you could live on little as long as you spent your money at home?
Later on there may be days when we’ll be less hard up, but I’m not counting on it. It would please me so much if you had the Gauguins first. I’m not good at cooking &c., but they’ve had different training in that, having done their service &c.
Handshake and best wishes to Koning, after all, it’s a source of satisfaction for you to deliver him in good condition, which might not have been the case if you hadn’t taken him with you. It’s also satisfactory that the Goupils have been interested in taking that room you suggested.
Ever yours,
Vincent
Has Tersteeg come to Paris yet?
In order to prepare things, and to expand on this letter, I’m writing to Gauguin, but without saying anything about all this, just to talk about work.
You have to think it over very, very, very carefully before starting to travel. It seems so likely to me that your job is to stay in France.
[Appendix: draft letter to Paul Gauguin]
My dear old Gauguin,
I’ve thought of you very often and if I’m only writing now it’s because I didn’t want to write empty phrases.
The deal with Russell hasn’t come off yet, but Russell has bought some Impressionists all the same, Guillaumin and Bernard and — wait for your moment — he’ll come of his own accord, but I couldn’t press the point further, having had two refusals, but always with a promise for the future.
Wanted to write now to tell you I’ve just rented a four-room house here in Arles.
And that it seems to me that if I find another painter who feels like getting the most out of the south, and who like me was sufficiently absorbed in his work to be able to resign himself to living like a monk who’d go to the brothel once a fortnight — apart from that, bound up in his work and not inclined to waste his time — then the thing would be good. On my own, I suffer a bit from this isolation.
So I’ve very often thought about talking to you about it straight out.
You know that my brother and I have a high regard for your painting and that we’d very much wish to know you were a little at your ease. But all the same, my brother can’t send money to you in Brittany and at the same time money to me in Provence. But would you like to share with me here? Then by joining forces, there would perhaps be enough for two; I’m sure of it, even.
Having once attacked the south, I see no reason to give it up.
I was ill when I came, I’m better now and in fact, I feel rather attracted to the south, where outdoor work is possible almost all the year round.
Living here seems more expensive, though, but isn’t it also the case that the opportunities for gaining paintings are greater? In any event, if my brother were to send us 250 francs a month for both of us, would you like to come, and we would share. But in that case we’d have to make up our minds to eat at home as much as possible; we’d take on some kind of charwoman for a few hours a day, avoiding all the costs of a hotel that way.
And you would give my brother one painting a month, while you’d be free to do whatever you liked with the rest.
Now the two of us would start exhibiting in Marseille straightaway, thus opening the way for other Impressionists as well as for ourselves.
We mustn’t forget that there would now be the cost of travel and of buying a bed, which would also have to be paid for with paintings.
You are, of course, free to correspond with my brother about this matter, but I warn you that he’ll most probably refuse to take responsibility for it.
He’ll just assure you that the only means we’ve found up to now of helping you in a more practical way would be this arrangement, if it suits you. We’ve thought about it a good deal. It seems to me that what you need for your health’s sake is peace and quiet above all. If I’m wrong, and if the heat in the south turned out to be too much — well — we’d have to see. For myself, so far I feel very well in this climate. There’s plenty more I could tell you — but here we are, business first. Reply to both of us soon.
619 | Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, on or about Sunday, 3 or Monday, 4 June 1888 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear Theo,
I’m writing to you from Saintes-Maries on the Mediterranean at last — the Mediterranean — has a colour like mackerel, in other words, changing — you don’t always k
now if it’s green or purple — you don’t always know if it’s blue — because a second later, its changing reflection has taken on a pink or grey hue.
It’s a funny thing, the family — quite unintentionally, and despite myself, I’ve often thought here from time to time of our uncle the seaman, who has certainly seen the shores of this sea many times.
I’ve brought three canvases and I’ve covered them — two seascapes — a view of the village — and some drawings which I’ll send you by post when I get back to Arles tomorrow.
I board and eat for 4 francs a day — they started by asking 6.
As soon as I can I’ll probably come back to do some more studies here.
The beach here is sandy, no cliffs or rocks — like Holland — without the dunes and with more blue.
You eat better fried fish here than beside the Seine — only there isn’t fish to eat every day, as the fishermen go off to sell in Marseille. But when there is some it’s darned good. If there isn’t any — the butcher’s is no more appetizing than Monsieur Gérôme’s fellah butcher’s — if there’s no fish it’s rather hard to find something to eat here, it seems to me.
I don’t believe there are 100 houses in this village or town.
The main building after the old church, an ancient fortress, is the barracks. And what houses at that — like those on our Drenthe heaths and peat bogs, you’ll see some specimens in the drawings.
I have to leave my three painted studies here, because of course they aren’t dry enough to subject them to 5 hours’ jolting in a carriage with impunity.
But I expect to come back here.
Next week I’d like to go to Tarascon to do two or three studies.
If you haven’t already written I’ll expect your letter in Arles, of course.
A very handsome gendarme came to interview me here. And the priest too — people can’t be too bad here, because even the priest seemed almost like a decent fellow.
Next month will be the public bathing season.
Number of bathers varies from 20 to 50.
I’m staying till tomorrow afternoon, have still got some drawings to do.
I took a walk along the seashore one night, on the deserted beach. It wasn’t cheerful, but not sad either, it was — beautiful.
The sky, a deep blue, was flecked with clouds of a deeper blue than primary blue, an intense cobalt, and with others that were a lighter blue — like the blue whiteness of milky ways. Against the blue background stars twinkled, bright, greenish, white, light pink — brighter, more glittering, more like precious stones than at home — even in Paris. So it seems fair to talk about opals, emeralds, lapis, rubies, sapphires. The sea a very deep ultramarine — the beach a mauvish and pale reddish shade, it seemed to me — with bushes. In addition to half-sheet drawings I have a large drawing, the pendant of the last one.
More soon, I hope. Handshake.
Ever yours,
Vincent
620 | Arles, on or about Tuesday, 5 June 1888 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear Theo,
Many thanks for your kind letter and the 50-franc note that was enclosed with it.
We’ll still have to write to Gauguin. The problem is this bloody journey, since we urge him to make it, and afterwards we’d be in an awkward position if it doesn’t suit him. I think I’ll write to him today and will send you the letter.
Now that I’ve seen the sea here I really feel the importance there is in staying in the south and feeling — if the colour has to be even more exaggerated — Africa not far away from one.
I’m sending you by same post some drawings of Saintes-Maries. I did the drawing of the boats as I was leaving, very early in the morning, and I’m working on the painting, a no. 30 canvas with more sea and sky on the right.
It was before the boats cleared off; I’d watched it all the other mornings, but as they leave very early, hadn’t had time to do it.
I have another 3 drawings of huts that I still need and which will follow; these ones of the huts are a bit harsh, but I have some more carefully drawn ones. I’ll make you a consignment of rolled-up paintings as soon as the seascapes are dry.
Do you see the cheek of these idiots in Dordrecht, do you see that self-importance, they’re very happy to condescend to Degas and Pissarro — of whose work they’ve seen nothing, by the way, any more than of the others.
But it’s a very good sign that the young ones are furious, perhaps it proves that there are some old ones who’ve spoken well of it.
About staying in the south, even if it’s more expensive — Look, we love Japanese painting, we’ve experienced its influence — all the Impressionists have that in common — and we wouldn’t go to Japan, in other words, to what is the equivalent of Japan, the south? So I believe that the future of the new art still lies in the south after all.
But it’s bad policy to live there alone when two or three could help each other to live on little.
I’d like you to spend some time here, you’d feel it — after some time your vision changes, you see with a more Japanese eye, you feel colour differently. I’m also convinced that it’s precisely through a long stay here that I’ll bring out my personality. The Japanese draws quickly, very quickly, like a flash of lightning, because his nerves are finer, his feeling simpler. I’ve been here only a few months but — tell me, in Paris would I have drawn in an hour the drawing of the boats?
Not even with the frame. Now this was done without measuring, letting the pen go. So I tell myself that gradually the expenses will be balanced by work. I’d like us to earn a lot of money to bring good artists here who too often get despondent in the mud on the Petit Boulevard. Fortunately it’s extremely easy to sell the right sort of paintings in the right sort of place to the right sort of gentleman. Since the distinguished Albert gave us the formula, all our difficulties have disappeared by magic. You only have to go down rue de la Paix — there strolls, just for that purpose — the good art lover.
If Gauguin came here, he and I could perhaps accompany Bernard to Africa when he goes there to do his service.
What have you decided about our two sisters?
Anquetin and Lautrec — I think — won’t like what I’m doing. Apparently an article on Anquetin has appeared in the Revue Indépendante in which he seems to have been called the leader of a new movement in which Japonism was even more marked, &c. I haven’t read it, but after all — the leader of the Petit Boulevard is without any doubt Seurat, and young Bernard has perhaps gone further than Anquetin in the Japanese style. Tell them I have a painting of boats, that and the Langlois bridge could suit Anquetin. What Pissarro says is true — the effects colours produce through their harmonies or discords should be boldly exaggerated. It’s the same as in drawing — the precise drawing, the right colour — is not perhaps the essential element we should look for — because the reflection of reality in the mirror, if it was possible to fix it with colour and everything — would in no way be a painting, any more than a photograph.
More soon, handshake.
Ever yours,
Vincent
622 | Arles, on or about Thursday, 7 June 1888 | To Emile Bernard (F)
My dear old Bernard,
More and more it seems to me that the paintings that ought to be made, the paintings that are necessary, indispensable for painting today to be fully itself and to rise to a level equivalent to the serene peaks achieved by the Greek sculptors, the German musicians, the French writers of novels, exceed the power of an isolated individual, and will therefore probably be created by groups of men combining to carry out a shared idea.
One has a superb orchestration of colours and lacks ideas.
The other overflows with new, harrowing or charming conceptions, but is unable to express them in a way that’s sufficiently sonorous, given the timidity of a limited palette.
Very good reason to regret the lack of an esprit de corps among artists, who criticize each other, persecute each other, while fortunately
not succeeding in cancelling each other out.
You’ll say that this whole argument is a banality. So be it — but the thing itself — the existence of a Renaissance — that fact is certainly not a banality.
A technical question. Do give me your opinion in next letter.
I’m going to put the black and the white boldly on my palette just the way the colourman sells them to us, and use them as they are.
When — and note that I’m talking about the simplification of colour in the Japanese manner — when I see in a green park with pink paths a gentleman who’s dressed in black, and a justice of the peace by profession (the Arab Jew in Daudet’s Tartarin calls this honourable official shustish of the beace), who’s reading L’Intransigeant.
Above him and the park a sky of a simple cobalt.
Then why not paint the said shustish of the beace with simple bone black and L’Intransigeant with simple, very harsh white?
Because the Japanese disregards reflection, placing his solid tints one beside the other — characteristic lines naively marking off movements or shapes.
In another category of ideas, when you compose a colour motif expressing, for example, a yellow evening sky —
The harsh, hard white of a white wall against the sky can be expressed, at a pinch and in a strange way, by harsh white and by that same white softened by a neutral tone. Because the sky itself colours it with a delicate lilac hue.
[Sketch 622A]
622A–B (top to bottom). Cottage in Saintes-Maries; Woman with a parasol
Again, in this very naive landscape, which is meant to show us a hut, whitewashed overall (the roof, too), situated in an orange field, of course, because the sky in the south and the blue Mediterranean produce an orange that is all the more intense the higher in tint the range of blues —
The black note of the door, of the window panes, of the little cross on the rooftop, creates a simultaneous contrast of white and black
Ever Yours Page 79