The Letters of Vincent van Gogh

by Vincent Van Gogh

  In the hope of finding customers eager to acquire a view of Antwerp as a souvenir, he also painted the Steen, the city’s famous castle, and made studies of the Cathedral of Our Lady. ‘Still, I would sooner paint people’s eyes than cathedrals, for there is something in the eyes that is lacking in a cathedral - however solemn and impressive it may be. To my mind a man’s soul, be it that of a poor beggar or of a streetwalker, is more interesting.’

  He found his model, a woman typifying urban life, in a sympathetic Antwerp barmaid. Using Rembrandt’s head of a whore as his reference, he tried to achieve the same effect as he had earlier produced with the heads of peasant women in Brabant. He found other models in the lively dockside quarter and at the ‘bals populaires’, dance halls, but continued to feel depressed at his failure to sell his work. Even Theo’s promising contacts with the Parisian dealer Portier seemed to be leading nowhere.

  437 [D]

  [28 November1885]

  My dear Theo,

  I just wanted to send you a few more impressions of Antwerp. This morning I took a good long walk in the pouring rain, the object of the outing being to fetch my things from the custom house. The various warehouses and storage sheds on the quays look quite splendid.

  I’ve walked in many different directions along the docks & quays several times already. The contrast is particularly marked for one who has just arrived from the sand and the heath & the tranquillity of a country village and has been in quiet surroundings for a long time. It’s all an impenetrable confusion.

  One of de Goncourt’s sayings was, ‘Japonaiserie for ever.’1 Well, those docks are one huge Japonaiserie, fantastic, peculiar, unheard of - or at any rate, that’s one way of looking at them. I would love to take a walk there in your company some day, just to find out if we see things in the same way.

  Everything could be done there, townscapes, figures of the most diverse character, ships as the main subject with water & the sky a delicate grey - but, above all - Japonaiseries. The point I’m trying to make is that there are always figures in motion there, one sees them in the strangest setting, everything looks fantastic, with interesting contrasts at every turn. A white horse in the mud in a corner where piles of merchandise lie covered with a tarpaulin - against the old, black, smoke-stained walls of the warehouse. Perfectly simple, but with a Black & White2 effect.

  Through the window of a very elegant English public house one can look out on the filthiest mud and on a ship from which, say, such pleasing wares as hides and buffalo horns are being unloaded by docker types as ugly as sin, or by exotic sailors, while a very fair, very delicate English girl stands at the window looking out at this or at something else. The interior with figure wholly in tone, and for light - the silvery sky above the mud and the buffalo horns - again a series of fairly strong contrasts.

  Flemish sailors with excessively ruddy faces and broad shoulders, lusty and tipsy, Antwerpers through & through, are to be seen eating mussels or drinking beer with a great deal of noise and commotion. In contrast - there goes a tiny little figure in black, small hands clasped close to her body, scuttling noiselessly past the grey walls. In an encadrement3 of jet-black hair, a small oval face. Brown? Orange-yellow? I’m not sure. For a moment she looks up and gives a slanting glance from a pair of jet-black eyes. She is a Chinese girl, quiet as a mouse, stealthy, small, naturally bedbug-like. What a contrast to the group of Flemish mussel-eaters!

  Another contrast - one walks down a very narrow street between tremendously tall buildings, warehouses and storehouses. But at ground level in the street - alehouses for every nationality, with males and females to match, shops for food, for seamen’s clothing, colourful and bustling. The street is long, at every turn one, sees a typical scene, a commotion, perhaps, more intense than usual, as a squabble breaks out. For example, there you are walking along, just looking around - and suddenly cheers go up and there’s a lot of yelling. A sailor is being thrown out of a brothel by the girls in broad daylight and is being pursued by a furious fellow and a string of prostitutes, of whom he seems to be terrified - anyway, I see him clamber over a pile of sacks and disappear through a window into a warehouse.

  When one has had enough of this hullaballoo - with the city behind one at the end of the landing stages where the Harwich and Havre steamers lie, there is nothing, absolutely nothing to be seen in front except for an infinite expanse of flat, half-flooded pasture, immensely melancholy and wet, with undulating dry reeds, and mud - the river with a single small black boat, water in the foreground grey, sky misty and cold, grey - still as the desert.

  As to the overall impression of the harbour, or of one of the docks - at one moment it is more tangled and fantastic than a thorn hedge, so chaotic that one finds no rest for the eye, grows giddy, and is forced by the ‘papillot-ering’4 of colours and lines to look first here, then there, unable to distinguish one thing from another - even after looking at the same point for a long time. But if one moves on to a certain spot with an undefined stretch of land in the foreground, then one again encounters the most beautiful, most peaceful lines and those effects which Mols, for instance, so often achieves.

  Here one may see a splendidly healthy-looking girl, who is, or at least seems, wholly honest and unaffectedly cheerful; there a face so slyly vicious, like a hyena’s, that it frightens one. Not to forget faces ravaged by smallpox, the colour of boiled shrimps, with dull, grey little eyes, no eyebrows and sparse, greasy, thinning hair the colour of pure hog bristle, or a bit yellower -Swedish or Danish types.

  I’d like to do some work round there, but how and where, for one would get into trouble exceedingly quickly. All the same I’ve roamed through quite a number of streets & alleyways without mishap, have even sat down to talk in a very friendly way with various girls, who seemed to take me for a bargee.

  I think it not unlikely that painting portraits may help me to come by some good models. I got my gear today, and some materials, to which I’d been looking forward very eagerly. So now my studio is all ready. If I could come by a good model for a song, I’d be afraid of nothing. Nor do I mind very much that I haven’t enough money to force the pace. Perhaps the idea of doing portraits and getting the subjects to pay for them by posing is a safer method. You see, in the city things aren’t the same as when one deals with peasants.

  Well, one thing is certain, Antwerp is a splendid and very remarkable place for a painter.

  My studio isn’t at all bad, especially now that I’ve pinned up a lot of small Japanese prints which I enjoy very much. You know, those small female figures in gardens or on the beach, horsemen, flowers, gnarled thorn branches.

  I’m glad I came here - and hope not to sit still and do nothing this winter. Anyway, it’s a relief to have a small hideaway where I can work when the weather is bad. It goes without saying that I won’t be living in the lap of luxury.

  Try to send your letter off on the first, for while I’ve enough to live on until then, I shall be getting the wind up after that.

  My little room has turned out better than I expected and certainly doesn’t look dreary.

  Now that I have the 3 studies I took along with me here, I shall try to make contact with the marchands de tableaux,5 who seem, however, to live for the most part in private houses, with no display windows giving on to the street.

  The park is beautiful too. I sat there one morning and did some drawing.

  Well - I’ve had no setbacks so far, and I’m well off as far as accommodation is concerned, for by sacrificing another few francs I’ve acquired a stove and a lamp. I shan’t easily get bored, believe me.

  I’ve also found Lhermitte’s Octobre, women in a potato field in the evening, splendid, but not his Novembre yet Have you kept track of that by any chance? I’ve also seen that there’s a Figaro illustre with a beautiful drawing by Raffaëlli.

  My address, as you know, is 194 Rue des images, so please send your letter there, and the second de Goncourt volume when you’ve finished with it. Regards
,

  Ever yours,

  Vincent

  It’s odd that my painted studies look darker here in the city than in the country. Is that because the light isn’t as bright in the city? I’m not sure, but it might matter more than one might think at first sight. I was struck by it and can imagine that some of the things that are with you now also look darker than I thought they were in the country. Yet those I brought along with me don’t seem the worse for it - the mill, avenue with autumn trees, a still life, as well as a few small things.

  442 [D]

  [28 December 1885]

  My dear Theo,

  It’s more than time I thanked you for the 5 o fr. you sent, which enabled me to get through the month, although from today onwards things will be more or less back to normal.

  But - a few more studies have been done and the more I paint the more progress I think I make. The moment I received the money I took on a beautiful model and did a life-size painting of her head. It’s all quite light, except for the black hair. Yet the head itself stands out in tone against a background into which I have tried to put a golden glimmer of light.

  Anyway, here is the colour range: a flesh colour full of tonal values, with more bronze in the neck, jet-black hair - black which I had to do with carmine and Prussian blue - off-white for the little jacket, light yellow, much lighter than the white, for the background. A touch of flame red in the jet-black hair and again a flame-coloured bow in the off-white.

  She’s a girl from a cafe-chantant1 and yet the expression I was looking for was somewhat ‘ecce homo-like’. But that was because I was aiming for the truth, especially in the expression, though I also wanted to put my own thoughts into it When the model arrived, it was obvious she had had quite a few busy nights - and she said something that was fairly characteristic: ‘Pour moi le champagne ne m’egaye pas, il me rend tout triste.’2 Then I knew how matters stood and tried to produce something voluptuous and at the same time heart-rending.

  I’ve started a second study of the same subject in profile.

  Apart from that I’ve done the portrait about which, as I told you, I’d been negotiating, and a study of the same head for myself. And now, during these last few days of the month, I’m hoping to paint another head of a man. I feel very cheerful, especially as far as work is concerned, and being here is doing me good.

  I imagine that no matter what the girls may be, one can make money painting them, sooner than anything else. There’s no denying that they can be damned beautiful, and that it is in keeping with the times that just that kind of painting should be gaining ground. Nor can there be any objections to that from even the highest artistic standpoint - painting human beings, that was the old Italian art, that was Millet and that is Breton.

  The only question is whether one should start from the soul or from the clothes, and whether one allows the form to serve as a peg for hanging ribbons and bows from, or if one looks upon the form as a means of conveying an impression, a sentiment -or again, if one does modelling for the sake of modelling because it is such an infinitely beautiful thing to do. Only the first is ephemeral, the other two are high art.

  What rather pleased me was that the girl who posed for me wanted to have one of the portraits for herself, preferably just like the one I’d done. And that she’s promised to let me paint a study of her in a dancer’s costume at her room, as soon as possible. It can’t be done right away because the man who runs the cafe where she stays objects to her posing, but she’s about to take lodgings with another girl, and both she and the other girl would like to have their portraits done. And I really very much hope that I’ll get her back, for she has a remarkable head, and she’s witty.

  However, I must first get into practice because it certainly takes a special knack - they don’t have much time or patience. Actually, the work needn’t be the worse for being done fairly quickly, and one must be able to paint even if the model doesn’t sit stock-still.

  Well, you can see that I am working with a will. If I could sell something so that I could earn a bit more, I should work even harder.

  As for Portier - I haven’t lost heart yet - but poverty is dogging my steps and at present all dealers are suffering a little from the same defect, that of being more or less ‘une nation retiree du monde’3 - they are so much sunk in gloom that how is one really to feel inspired to go grubbing about in all that indifference and apathy - the more so as the disease is catching.

  For it’s just a lot of nonsense that business is slack, one has to work quand bien méme4 with self-confidence and enthusiasm, in short with some zeal.

  And as for Portier - you wrote to me yourself that he was the first to show the impressionists & that he was overwhelmed by Durand-Ruel - well, one is bound to conclude from this that he has the initiative not just to say things but also to do them. It could be put down to his 60 years, however - and anyway, perhaps it was just one of those many cases when, at the time when paintings were all the rage, and trade was doing well, a great many intelligent people were being wantonly brushed aside, as if they were incompetent and of no importance, simply because they couldn’t bring themselves to believe that the sudden rage for paintings and the enormous rise in prices would last. Now that business is hanging fire, one sees those same dealers who were so very entreprenant5 a few years ago - let’s say about 10 years ago - turning more or less into ‘une nation retiree du monde’. And we haven’t yet seen the end of it.

  Personal initiative with little or no capital is perhaps the seed corn for the future. We shall see.

  Yesterday I saw a large phot. of a Rembrandt I didn’t know -I was tremendously impressed by it - it was the head of a woman, the light falling on breast, throat, chin, the tip of the nose and the lower jaw. Forehead and eyes in the shadow of a large hat, with feathers that are probably red. Probably more red or yellow in the low-necked jacket. Dark background. The expression a mysterious smile like that of Rembrandt himself in his self-portrait with Saskia on his knee and a glass of wine in his hand.

  My thoughts are full of Rembrandt and Hals these days, not because I see many of their paintings but because I see so many types amongst the people here that remind me of that period. I still keep going to those bals populaires6 to look at the heads of the women and of the sailors and soldiers. One pays an entrance fee of 20 or 30 centimes and drinks a glass of beer - for there isn’t much hard drinking and one can have a first-rate time all evening, or at least I can, just watching the people’s en-train.7

  I must do a lot of work from the model, it’s the only way to ensure real progress.

  I’ve discovered that my appetite has been held in check a bit too long and when I received your money I couldn’t stomach any food. But I shall certainly do my best to remedy that. It doesn’t take away from the fact that I have all my wits and energy about me when I’m painting. But when I’m out of doors, work in the open air is too much for me and I come over all weak.

  Well, painting is something that wears one out. However, Van der Loo8 said, when I consulted him shortly before I came here, that I am reasonably strong aprés tout.9 That I needn’t despair of reaching the requisite age to produce a complete body of work. I told him that I knew several painters who, for all their nervousness, etc., had reached the age of 60, or even 70, fortunately for themselves, and that I should like to do the same.

  I also believe that if one aims for serenity, and retains one’s zest for living, one’s state of mind helps a great deal. And in that respect I have gained by coming here, for I’ve new ideas and new means of expressing what I want; the better brushes are going to prove a great help, and I’m very excited by those two colours carmine & cobalt.

  Cobalt - is a divine colour and there is nothing as fine for putting an atmosphere round things. Carmine is the red of wine and is warm and lively like wine. The same goes for emerald green too. It’s false economy to dispense with them, with those colours. Cadmium as well.

  Something about my constitution that has
pleased me a great deal is that a doctor in Amsterdam, with whom I once discussed a few things that sometimes made me think that I wasn’t long for this world, and whose opinion I didn’t ask for directly, wanting simply to gauge the first impression of someone who didn’t know me at all and availing myself of a small upset I had at the time to bring the conversation round to my general constitution - I was absolutely delighted that this doctor took me for an ordinary worker, saying, ‘I daresay you’re an ironworker by trade.’ That’s exactly what I’d been trying to achieve - when I was younger you could tell that my mind was overwrought, and now I look like a bargee or an ironworker.

  And changing one’s constitution so that one gets ‘le cuir dur’10 is no easy matter. However, I must go on being careful, try to hold on to what I have and to improve on it still.

  Above all, I should like you to tell me if you think it absurd of me to suggest that now might be a good time for us to sow the seeds of a future business. As far as my present work is concerned, I feel I can do better - however, I do need more air and space, in other words I must be able to spread my wings a little. Above all, above all, I still haven’t enough models. I could soon produce work of higher quality, but my expenses would be heavier. Still, one should aim at something lofty, genuine, something distinguished, shouldn’t one?

  The female figures I see among the people here impress me enormously - far more for the purpose of painting them than of having them, though if the truth be told I should like both.

  I am again rereading de Goncourt’s book, it is first-rate. In the preface to Ch6rie, which you should read, there is an account of what the de Goncourts went through - and of how, at the end of their lives, they were pessimistic, yes - but also sure of themselves, knowing that they had done something, that their work would last. What fellows they were! If only we got on together better than we do now, if only we too could be in complete accord - we could be the same, couldn’t we?