That existence of painter as butterfly would have for its field of action one of the innumerable stars, which, after death, would perhaps be no more unapproachable, inaccessible to us than the black dots that symbolize towns and villages on the map in our earthly life. Science — scientific reasoning — seems to me to be an instrument that will go a very long way in the future.
Because look — it was thought that the earth was flat — that was true — it still is today — from Paris to Asnières, for example.
But that didn’t prevent science proving that the earth is above all round. Which nobody disputes nowadays.
Now at present, despite that, we’re still in the position of believing that life is flat and goes from birth to death.
But life too is probably round, and far superior in extent and potentialities to the single hemisphere that’s known to us at present.
Future generations — probably — will enlighten us on this subject that’s so interesting — and then science itself — could — with all due respect — reach conclusions more or less parallel to Christ’s words concerning the other half of existence.
Whatever the case — the fact is that we are painters in real life, and it’s a matter of breathing one’s breath as long as one has breath.
Ah — E. DELACROIX’s beautiful painting — Christ’s boat on the sea of Gennesaret, he — with his pale lemon halo — sleeping, luminous — within the dramatic violet, dark blue, blood-red patch of the group of stunned disciples. On the terrifying emerald sea, rising, rising all the way up to the top of the frame. Ah — the brilliant sketch.
I would make you some croquis were it not that having drawn and painted for three or four days with a model — a Zouave — I’m exhausted — on the contrary, writing is restful and diverting.
What I’ve done is very ugly: a drawing of the Zouave, seated, a painted sketch of the Zouave against an all-white wall and lastly his portrait against a green door and some orange bricks of a wall. It’s harsh and, well, ugly and badly done. However, since that’s the real difficulty attacked, it may smooth the way in the future. The figures that I do are almost always detestable in my own eyes, and all the more so in others’ eyes — nevertheless, it’s the study of the figure that strengthens us the most, if we do it in a different way than we’re taught at Monsieur Benjamin-Constant’s, for example.
Your letter gave me great pleasure — the CROQUIS IS VERY VERY INTERESTING and I do thank you for it — for my part I’ll send you a drawing one of these days — this evening I’m too worn out in that respect; my eyes are tired, even if my brain isn’t.
Listen — do you remember John the Baptist by Puvis? I find it marvellous and as much the MAGICIAN as Eugène Delacroix.
The passage about John the Baptist that you dug out of the Gospel is absolutely what you saw in it … People pressing around somebody — art thou Christ, art thou Elias? As it would be in our day to ask Impressionism or one of its searcher-representatives, ‘have you found it?’ That’s just it.
At the moment my brother has an exhibition of Claude Monet — 10 paintings done in Antibes from February to May. It seems it’s very beautiful.
Have you ever read the life of Luther? Because Cranach, Dürer, Holbein belong to him — it’s he — his personality — that’s the lofty light of the Middle Ages.
I like the Sun King no more than you do — extinguisher of light it rather seems to me — that Louis XIV — my God, what a pain, in every way, that Methodist Solomon. I don’t like Solomon either, and the Methodists not at all, as well. Solomon seems a hypocritical pagan to me; I really have no respect for his architecture, an imitation of other styles, nor for his writings, which the pagans have done much better.
Tell me a bit about where you stand as far as your military service is concerned; should I talk to that second lieutenant of Zouaves or not? Are you going to Africa or not? In your case, do the years count double in Africa or not? Most of all, see that your blood’s in order — you don’t get very far with anaemia — painting goes slowly — better try to make your constitution as tough as old boots, a constitution to make old bones — better live like a monk who goes to the brothel once a fortnight — I do that, it’s not very poetical — but anyway — I feel that my duty is to subordinate my life to painting.
If I was in the Louvre with you, I’d really like to see the primitives with you.
In the Louvre, I still return with great love to the Dutch, Rembrandt first and foremost — Rembrandt whom I once studied so thoroughly — then Potter, for example — who makes — on a no. 4 or no. 6 panel, a white stallion alone in a meadow, a stallion neighing, and with a hard-on — forlorn under a sky brewing up a thunderstorm — heartbroken in the tender green immensity of a wet meadow — ah well, there are wonderful things in the old Dutchmen having no connection with anything at all. Handshake, and thank you again for your letter and for your croquis.
Ever yours,
Vincent
The sonnets are going well — i.e. — the colour in them is good — the design isn’t as strong, less sure of itself, rather; the conception’s still hesitant, I don’t know how to put it — its moral purpose isn’t clear.
635 | Arles, on or about Sunday, 1 July 1888 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear Theo,
Many thanks for your letter, the 50-franc note and the Tasset consignment, colours and canvases, that has just arrived. He’d enclosed his invoice, which comes to 50.85 francs, which enabled me to check his prices and compare them with Edouard’s. He’s considerably cheaper than Edouard, which, combined with the 20% discount, means we can have no complaints about him. Now, for his canvas at 4.50, I’ll probably be able to find out the price by the piece at first hand.
Now your letter brings me a big piece of news — that Gauguin accepts the proposal. Indeed, the best thing would be for him to dash straight over here instead of sorting out the mess he’s in there; perhaps he’ll get into another one if he comes to Paris first. Perhaps, too, with the paintings he’ll bring he’ll make a deal, which would be very fortunate. My reply enclosed. I really want to say just this, that I feel enthusiastic not only about painting in the south — but just the same in the north too, feeling healthier than 6 months ago. So if it’s safer to go to Brittany where one can board for so little — from the point of view of outgoings I’m definitely prepared to go back to the north. But it must be good for him too, to come to the south.
Especially since in 4 months it’ll already be winter in the north. And this seems so certain to me, that two people having exactly the same work must, if circumstances prevent their spending more, be able to live at home on bread, wine and, well, everything else one might wish to add to that. The difficulty is to eat at home alone. Restaurants here are expensive because everyone eats at home.
Certainly neither Ricards nor Leonardo da Vincis are less beautiful because there are few of them — on the other hand, Monticellis, Daumiers, Corots, Daubignys and Millets aren’t ugly because in many cases they were done at great speed and there are relatively many of them. As for landscapes, I’m beginning to find that some, done more quickly than ever, are among the best things I do.
It’s like that with the one of which I sent you the drawing, the harvest and the haystacks too — it’s true I have to retouch EVERYTHING to adjust the workmanship a little, to harmonize the brushstrokes, but all the essential work was done in a single long session, and I’ll spare it as much as possible when I go back to it.
But when I come back from a session like that I can assure you my brain is so tired that if that sort of work is repeated often — the way it’s been during this harvest — I become totally distracted and incapable of a whole lot of ordinary things. At these moments the prospect of not being alone isn’t unpleasant. And I think very, very often of that excellent painter Monticelli, who people said was such a drinker and insane, when I see myself coming back from the mental labour of balancing the six essential colours, red — blue — yellow — or
ange — lilac — green.
Work and dry calculation, in which one’s mind is extremely stretched, like an actor on the stage in a difficult role — where you have to think of a thousand things at the same time in a single half hour.
Afterwards — the only thing that comforts and distracts — in my case — as in others, is to stun oneself by taking a stiff drink or smoking very heavily.
Which is no doubt not very virtuous, but it’s in order to go back to Monticelli.
I’d really like to see a drinker in front of a canvas or on the boards. Of course, it’s all too crude a lie, this whole malicious, Jesuitical tale of the Roquette woman about Monticelli.
Monticelli the logical colourist, able to carry out the most ramified and subdivided calculations on the ranges of tones that he balanced, certainly overtaxed his brain doing that work, as did Delacroix and Richard Wagner.
But if he did perhaps drink, it was only because — Jongkind too — being physically stronger than Delacroix and suffering more physically (Delacroix was richer), it was, then — I, for one, would be well inclined to believe — because if they hadn’t done it — their rebellious nerves would have played other tricks on them. And Jules and Edmond de Goncourt say this, word for word — ‘we took very strong tobacco to stupefy ourselves’ in the furnace of creation.
Don’t believe, then, that I would artificially maintain a feverish state — but you should know that I’m in the middle of a complicated calculation that results in canvases done quickly one after another but calculated long beforehand. And look, when people say they’re done too quickly you’ll be able to reply that they looked at them too quickly. And besides, I’m now going over all the canvases a little more before sending them to you.
But during the harvest my work has been no easier than that of the farmers themselves who do this harvesting. Far from my complaining about it, it’s precisely at these moments in artistic life, even if it’s not the real one, that I feel almost as happy as I could be in the ideal, the real life.
If all goes well and Gauguin thinks it’s a good idea to join us, we could make the thing more serious by suggesting to him that he puts ALL his paintings in common, with mine, to share profits or losses. But that won’t happen or will happen of its own accord, depending on whether he found my painting good or bad, and also on whether or not we did things in collaboration. Have to write to Russell now, and I’ll hasten my exchange with him. We’ll have to work hard to try to sell something from my side to help with the expenses, but let’s take heart, despite our difficulties in working to safeguard the artists’ life, we’ll have fire in our bellies. Handshake, I’ll write to you again soon. I’m going to the Camargue for 2 or 3 days, to do some drawings there.
Ever yours,
Vincent
Good that you’re bringing our sisters over.
Be patient a little longer with Mourier, perhaps he’s going through a crisis.
I’ll write to Mourier one of these days; you’ll read the letter, you’ll see the way I used to talk to him. I can see the drawing from here!!! The head in the style of Delaroche.
638 | Arles, Monday, 9 or Tuesday, 10 July 1888 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear Theo,
I’ve just come back from a day at Montmajour, and my friend the second lieutenant kept me company. So the two of us explored the old garden and we stole some excellent figs there. If it had been bigger it would have made you think of Zola’s Paradou, tall reeds, grape vines, ivy, fig trees, olive trees, pomegranate trees with fat flowers of the brightest orange, hundred-year-old cypresses, ash trees and willows, rock oaks. Half-demolished staircases, ruined Gothic windows, clumps of white rock covered in lichen, and pieces of collapsed wall scattered here and there in the undergrowth; I brought back another large drawing of it. Not of the garden, though. That makes 3 drawings; when I have half dozen, will send them.
Yesterday I went to Fontvieille to pay a visit to Boch and MacKnight, but those gentlemen had left for a week for a short trip to Switzerland.
I think the heat is still doing me good, in spite of the mosquitoes and flies.
The cicadas — not those at home but like this,
[Sketch 638A]
638A. Cicada
you see them in Japanese albums. And golden and green Cantharides swarming on the olive trees. These cicadas (I think their name is cicada) sing at least as loudly as a frog.
I had the further thought that if you care to recall that I painted portraits of père Tanguy (which he still has), of mère Tanguy (which they sold), of their friend (it’s true that I was paid 20 francs by him for the latter portrait), that I bought 250 francs worth of colours from Tanguy without a discount, on which he of course made a profit, that after all, I was no less his friend than he was mine, I have the most serious of reasons to doubt his right to demand money from me, which is actually settled with the study of mine that he still has, all the more so since there’s the clearly expressed condition that he would be paid with the sale of a painting. Xanthippe, mère Tanguy and some other ladies have, by some strange freak of nature, brains of flintstone or gunflint. Certainly these ladies are much more harmful in the civilized society in which they move than the citizens bitten by rabid dogs who live at the Institut Pasteur. So père Tanguy would be right a thousand times over if he killed his lady . . . . but he doesn’t do it, any more than Socrates . . . . .
And for that reason père Tanguy is more closely connected — in terms of resignation and long patience — with the early Christian martyrs and slaves than with present-day Paris pimps.
Which doesn’t mean there’s any reason to pay him 80 francs, but there are reasons for never losing your temper with him, even if he might lose his temper when, rightly so in this case, you kick him out, or at least send him packing in no uncertain terms.
I’m writing to Russell at the same time — we probably know, don’t we, that the English, the Yankees &c. have this in common with the Dutch, that their charity — — . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . is very Christian. Now, the rest of us not being very good Christians . . . . . . . . . . . That’s what I can’t stop myself thinking as I write once again.
That Boch looks a bit like a Flemish gentleman from the time of the compromise of the nobles in the time of the Silent one and of Marnix. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was good.
I’ve written to Russell that for our exchange I’d send him my consignment rolled up, straight to his home, if I knew he was in Paris.
This way he should in any case reply to me in the next few days.
And now I’ll need more canvas and paint soon. Only I don’t yet have the address for that canvas at 40 francs for 20 metres.
I believe that at this moment I’m doing the right thing by working chiefly on drawings, and seeing to it that I have colours and canvas in reserve for the time when Gauguin comes. I very much wish we could rein ourselves in as little with paint as with pen and paper.
Because I’m afraid of wasting paint, I often spoil a painted study.
With paper — if it’s not a letter I’m writing but a drawing I’m doing — it hardly ever goes wrong: so many sheets of Whatman, so many drawings. I think if I were rich I’d spend less than now.
Ah well — père Martin would say — then we’ll have to make sure we get rich — and he’s quite right, just as he is about the masterpiece.
Do you remember in Guy de Maupassant the gentleman who hunted rabbits and other game and who had hunted so hard for 10 years and was so worn out with running after game that at the point when he wanted to get married he couldn’t get a hard-on, which caused him the greatest anxieties and consternation.
Without being in this gentleman’s position as far as having or wishing to get married, in the physical sense I’m beginning to resemble him. According to the excellent master Ziem, a man becomes ambitious the moment he can’t get a hard-on. Now, while it’s more or less the same to me whether or not I can get a hard-on, I protest when it must inev
itably lead me to ambition.
There is no one but the greatest philosopher of his time and of his country, and therefore of all countries and all times — the excellent master Pangloss — who could — if here were there — give me advice and calm my soul.
There we are — the letter for Russell is in its envelope — and I’ve written as I thought.
I asked him if he had news of Reid, and I put the same question to you.
I told Russell that he was perfectly at liberty to take what he might want, and from the first consignment too. And that I was only waiting for a categorical answer to know whether he wanted to choose at his home or yours. That in the first case, if he wanted to see them at his home — you’d send him some orchards too. And that you’d have all of them brought back, once he’d made his choice. So he can’t say anything to that. If he doesn’t buy a Gauguin it’s because he can’t. If he can do it, I’d be inclined to hope he will do it.
I told him that if I was bold enough to insist on a purchase, it wasn’t that without him the thing wouldn’t come about, but that Gauguin having been ill, and given the complication that he’d been in bed and had to pay his doctor, the business was rather hard for us and we were all the more eager to find a collector for a painting.
I think about Gauguin a lot, and would have plenty of ideas for paintings and for work in general. At the moment I have a charwoman, who sweeps and scrubs the house twice a week for 1 franc; I place great hopes in her, to be able to count on her making the beds if we decide to sleep at home. On the other hand, there’s a possible arrangement with the chap where I’m lodging at the moment. Anyway, we’ll try to ensure that in the end it’ll be a saving instead of an expense.
Ever Yours Page 83