I shall add a study of cypresses for you to the next consignment I send to my brother, if you will do me the pleasure of accepting it as a memento of your article. I am still working on it at the moment, wanting to put in a small figure. The cypress is so characteristic of the landscape of Provence, and you sensed it when saying: ‘even the colour black’. Until now I have not been able to do them as I feel it; in my case the emotions that take hold of me in the face of nature go as far as fainting, and then the result is a fortnight during which I am incapable of working. However, before leaving here, I am planning to return to the fray to attack the cypresses. The study I have intended for you depicts a group of them in the corner of a wheatfield on a summer’s day when the mistral is blowing. It is therefore the note of a certain blackness enveloped in blue moving in great circulating currents of air, and the vermilion of the poppies contrasts with the black note.
You will see that this constitutes more or less the combination of tones of those pretty Scottish checked cloths: green, blue, red, yellow, black, which once appeared so charming to you as they did to me, and which alas one scarcely sees any more these days.
In the meantime, dear sir, please accept my grateful thanks for your article. If I were to come to Paris in the spring I shall certainly not fail to come and thank you in person.
Vincent van Gogh
When the study I send you is dry right through, also in the impasto, which will not be the case for a year — I should think you would do well to give it a good coat of varnish. And between times it should be washed several times with plenty of water to get out the oil completely. This study is painted in full Prussian blue, that colour about which people say so many bad things and which nevertheless Delacroix used so much. I think that once the Prussian blue tones are really dry, by varnishing you will obtain the dark, the very dark tones needed to bring out the different dark greens.
I do not quite know how this study should be framed, but as I really want it to make one think of those dear Scottish fabrics, I have noticed that a very simple flat frame, bright orange lead, creates the desired effect with the blues of the background and the dark greens of the trees. Without this there would perhaps not be enough red in the canvas, and the upper part would appear a little cold.
856 | Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, Wednesday, 19 February 1890 | To Willemien van Gogh (F)
My dear sister,
Thanks very much for your last two letters, the one dated from Paris and today’s.
What you write further about Jo’s confinement touches me, yes you were very brave and very kind to stay by her side. In circumstances where fright seizes us, I’d probably be more of a milksop than you.
But anyway, the result is that the child’s here — and as I wrote to his grandmother, I’ve started painting for him these last few days — a large sky-blue canvas against which branches covered in blossoms stand out. Possible that I may see him soon — I hope so at least — towards the end of March. I’m going to try to go to Arles once more tomorrow or the day after tomorrow to see if I can bear the journey and ordinary life without the attacks recurring.
Perhaps in my case I must strengthen my resolve not to want to have a feeble mind.
Naturally, through continual brain-work, the thoughts of an artist sometimes take on something of the exaggerated and eccentric. I found Mr Aurier’s article — leaving aside whether I deserve what he says of me — in itself very artistic, very curious — but it’s rather like this that I ought to be than the sad reality of what I feel myself to be.
I wrote to him that in any event it seemed to me that Monticelli and Gauguin were rather like that, that it therefore seemed to me that the share which was owing to me would be only secondary, very secondary. These ideas of which he speaks aren’t mine, for in general the Impressionist artists are all like this, under the same influence, and we’re all of us somewhat neurotic. This makes us very sensitive to colour and its particular language, its effects of complementaries, contrasts, harmony. But when I read the article it made me almost sad as I thought: should be like this and I feel so inferior. And pride intoxicates like drink, when one is praised and has drunk one becomes sad, or anyway I don’t know how to say how I feel it, but it seems to me that the best work one could do would be that carried out in the family home without self-praise. And then among artists, people’s friendly dispositions aren’t always enough. Either someone’s qualities are exaggerated or he’s over-neglected. However, I very much want to believe that basically Justice is in better health than it appears to be. One really must be able to laugh sometimes, and make merry a little or even a lot. I think you were lucky to see Degas at his home.
I have a portrait of an Arlésienne on the go in which I’m seeking an expression different from that of Parisian women.
Ah Millet! Millet! How that fellow painted humanity and the ‘something on high’, familiar and yet solemn.
These days, to think that that fellow wept as he started painting, that Giotto, that Angelico painted on their knees, Delacroix so utterly sad and moved … almost smiling. Who are we Impressionists to act like them already? Soiled in the struggle for life … ‘who will give back to the soul that which the breath of revolutions has taken away’ — that’s the cry of a poet of the other generation who seemed to have a premonition of our present weaknesses, our sicknesses, our confusions. And I say it often, are we as brand new as the old Belgian, Henri Conscience? Ah, that’s why I was pleased with the success in Brussels, because of that Kempen of Antwerp that I still try to recall from time to time in the calm furrows of the fields while feeling myself become a most degenerate child. Thinking like this, but very far off, the desire comes over me to remake myself and try to have myself forgiven for the fact that my paintings are, however, almost a cry of anguish while symbolizing gratitude in the rustic sunflower. You can see that I’m not yet reasoning well — it’s better to know how to calculate what a pound of bread and a quarter of coffee are worth, the way the peasants know. And here we are again. Millet set the example by living in a cottage, keeping in well with people without our lapses of pride and eccentricity. So rather a little wisdom than a lot of gusto. So, just like then.
I hope to write to you again soon — look after yourself, and Mother too.
In Paris I hope to do a few portraits, I’ve always had the belief that through portraits one learns to reflect. It isn’t what pleases art lovers the most, but a portrait is something almost useful and sometimes pleasant, like pieces of furniture one knows, they recall memories for a long time.
I kiss you affectionately in thought. If our other sisters would also like to have canvases you can ask Theo for others, and you could choose them according to your taste. Once again warm regards, and good handshake.
Yours truly,
Vincent.
I don’t hate it at all that a few more canvases should go to Holland, as you know, if the opportunity arises.
857 | Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, on or about Monday, 17 March 1890 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear Theo,
Today I wanted to try and read the letters that had come for me, but I wasn’t yet clear-headed enough to be able to understand them.
However, I’m trying to answer you straightaway, and am hoping that it will lift within a few days from now. Above all I hope that you’re well, and your wife and your child.
Don’t worry about me, even if it should last a little longer, and write the same thing to those at home and give them my warm regards.
Warm regards to Gauguin, who wrote me a letter for which I thank him very much, I’m terribly bored but must try to be patient. Once again warm regards to Jo and to her little one, and handshake in thought.
Ever yours,
Vincent
I’m picking up this letter again to try and write, it will come little by little, it’s just that my mind has been so affected — without pain, it’s true — but totally stupefied.
I must tell you that there are — as far
as I can judge — others who have this like me; who having worked during a period of their life are reduced to powerlessness even so. One doesn’t easily learn anything good between four walls, that’s understandable, but nevertheless it’s true that there are also people who can no longer be left at liberty as if they had nothing wrong with them. And so I almost or entirely despair of myself. Perhaps, perhaps I would indeed get better in the country for a time.
Work was going well, the last canvas of the branches in blossom, you’ll see that it was perhaps the most patiently worked, best thing I had done, painted with calm and a greater sureness of touch. And the next day done for like a brute. Difficult to understand things like that, but alas, that’s how it is. I have a great desire to get back to my work, though, but Gauguin also writes that he, who is nevertheless robust, also despairs of being able to continue. And isn’t it true that we often see the story of artists like that. So, my poor brother, take things as they are, don’t grieve on my account, it will encourage me and support me more than you think to know that you’re running your household well. Then, after a time of trial, perhaps days of serenity will return for me too. But in the meantime I’ll send you some canvases soon.
Russell also wrote to me, and I think it’s good to have written to him so that he doesn’t forget us completely — for your part speak of him from time to time so that people may know that although he works in isolation he’s a very good man, and I think he’ll do good things as one used to see in England, for example. He’s right a thousand times over to barricade himself in a little.
Give my regards to the Pissarros, later I’m going to read your letters more calmly, and hope to write again tomorrow or the day after.
863 | Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, Tuesday, 29 April 1890 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear Theo,
I haven’t been able to write to you until now, but as I’m feeling a little better these days I didn’t want to delay wishing a happy year to you, your wife and your child, since it’s your birthday. At the same time, please accept the various paintings I’m sending you with my thanks for all the kindnesses you’ve shown me, for without you I would be most unhappy.
You’ll see that first there are canvases after Millet. As these aren’t destined for public viewing, perhaps you’ll make a present of them to our sisters sooner or later. But first you must keep the ones you consider good, and as many as you wish, they’re absolutely yours. One of these days you must send me some other things by ancient and modern artists to do, if you find any.
The rest of the canvases are meagre, I’m very much behind, not having been able to work for two months. You’ll find that the olive trees with the pink sky are the best, with the mountains, I would imagine; the first go well as a pendant to those with the yellow sky. As regards the portrait of the Arlésienne, you know that I’ve promised our friend Gauguin one, and you must see that he gets it. Then the cypresses are for Mr Aurier. I would have liked to redo them with a little less impasto, but I don’t have the time.
Anyway, they must be washed again several times in cold water, then a strong varnish when the impasto is dry right through, then the blacks won’t get dirty when the oil has fully evaporated. Now I would necessarily need colours, part of which you could well get from Tanguy’s if he’s hard up, or if that would please him. But of course he mustn’t be dearer than the other.
Here’s the list of colours I would need
Then (but from Tasset’s) 2 geranium lake, medium-sized tubes.
You would do me a service by sending me at least half of it at once, at once, for I’ve lost too much time.
Then I would need 6 brushes
[Sketch 863A]
863A–B (top to bottom). Large brush; Brush
6 fitch brushes
[Sketch 863B]
around these sizes, and 7 metres of canvas, or even 10.
What can I tell you of these two last months, things aren’t going well at all, I’m more sad and bored than I could tell you, and I no longer know what point I’m at.
As the order for colours is a little large, let me wait for half if that suits you better.
While I was ill I nevertheless still did a few small canvases from memory which you’ll see later, reminiscences of the north, and now I’ve just finished a sunlit corner of a meadow which I think is fairly vigorous. You’ll see it soon.
As Mr Peyron is away I haven’t yet read your letters, but I know that some have come. He has been quite kind in informing you of the situation, as for me I don’t know what to do or think. But I have a great desire to leave this place. That won’t surprise you, I don’t need to tell you any more about it.
Letters have also come from home, which I haven’t yet had the courage to read, so melancholy do I feel.
Please ask Mr Aurier not to write any more articles about my painting, tell him earnestly that first he is wrong about me, then that really I feel too damaged by grief to be able to face up to publicity. Making paintings distracts me — but if I hear talk of them that pains me more than he knows. How is Bernard? Since there are duplicates of some canvases, if you want you could do an exchange with him, because a good-quality canvas of his would look well in your collection. I fell ill at the time I was doing the almond-tree blossoms. If I’d been able to continue working, you can judge from that that I would have done others of the trees in blossom. Now the trees in blossom are almost finished, really I have no luck. Yes, I must try to leave here, but where am I to go? I don’t believe one can be more shut up and imprisoned in the places where they don’t pretend to leave you free, such as at Charenton or Montevergues.
If you write home, give them my warm regards and tell them I think of them often.
Then good handshake to you and Jo. Believe me
Ever yours,
Vincent.
Please send me what you can find of figures among my old drawings, I’m thinking of redoing the painting of the peasants eating supper, lamplight effect. That canvas must be completely dark now, perhaps I could redo it entirely from memory. You must above all send me the women gleaning and diggers, if there are any left.
Then if you like I’ll redo the old tower at Nuenen and the cottage. I think that if you still have them I could now make something better of them from memory.
865 | Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, on or about Thursday, 1 May 1890 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear brother,
Today, as Mr Peyron had come back, I read your kind letters, then the letters from home as well, and that did me an enormous amount of good in giving me back a little energy, or rather the desire to climb back up again from the dejected state I’m in. I thank you very much for the etchings — you’ve chosen some of the very ones that I’ve already liked for a long time, the David, the Lazarus, the Samaritan, and the large etching of the wounded man, and you’ve added the blind man and the other very small etching, the last one so mysterious that I’m afraid of it and dare not wish to know what it is. I didn’t know it, the little goldsmith. But the Lazarus! Early this morning I looked at it and I remembered not only what Charles Blanc says of it, but indeed even that he doesn’t say everything about it.
The unfortunate thing is that the people here are too curious, idle and ignorant about painting for it to be possible for me to practise my profession. This is what one could always observe, that you and I made an effort here in the same direction as some others who weren’t understood either, and were bitterly saddened by circumstances.
If ever you go to Montpellier you would see that what I tell you here is true.
Now, rather, you propose coming back to the north, and I accept.
I’ve had too hard a life to kick the bucket as a result, or to lose the power to work.
So Gauguin and Guillaumin, the two of them, want to do an exchange for the landscape of the Alpilles. Besides, there are two of them, only I think that the one finished last, which I’ve just sent, is done with more determination and is more accurate in expression.
Included is Gauguin’s letter, do what you think best as regards the exchange, take the ones you like for yourself; I’m sure that our taste is increasingly becoming the same.
Ah, if I’d been able to work without this bloody illness! How many things I could have done, isolated from the others, according to what the land would tell me. But yes — this journey is well and truly finished. Anyway, what consoles me is the great, the very great desire that I have to see you again, you, your wife and your child, and so many friends who have remembered me in my misfortune, as, for that matter, I don’t stop thinking of them either.
I’m almost sure that I’ll soon get better in the north, at least for quite a long time,
while still apprehensive of a relapse in a few years’ time — but not immediately. That’s what I imagine after having observed the other patients here, some of whom are considerably older than I am or, among the young ones, were more or less idlers — students. Anyway, what do we know about it?
Fortunately the letters from our sister and mother were very calm. Our sister writes very well, and describes a landscape or an aspect of the town as if it were a page from a modern novel. I always urge her to busy herself with domestic rather than artistic things, for I know that she’s already too sensitive, and at her age would have difficulty in finding the way to artistic development. I’m really afraid that she too will suffer from a thwarted artistic will. But she’s so energetic that she’ll make up for it. I talked with Mr Peyron about the situation, and told him that it was almost impossible for me to bear my fate here, that not knowing anything very clear regarding the line to take, it seemed preferable to me to return to the north.
Ever Yours Page 110