The Letters of Vincent van Gogh

by Vincent Van Gogh

  With all his experience of travel, what is one to say to him?

  So I hope that he will feel that you and I are indeed his friends, without counting on us too much, which, it must be added, he in no way does. He writes with a great deal of reserve, and more seriously than last year. I have just sent another note to Russell to jog his memory about Gauguin, for I know that Russell is very reliable and a sound character. And should I get back together with Gauguin, then we would have need of Russell. Gauguin and Russell are countrymen at heart - not uncivilized, but with the innate mellowness of distant fields, probably much more than you or I - that is how they look to me.

  True enough, one must sometimes have a little faith to see that. If I, for my part, wanted to go on with, let us call it the translation of certain pages of Millet, then to prevent people - not from criticizing me, that would be all right - but from hampering or stopping me by making out that all I do is produce copies - then - I need the support of people like Russell or Gauguin from among the artists to carry my project through and to make a serious job of it. I have scruples of conscience about doing the things by Millet you sent me, for example, and which seemed to me perfectly chosen, and so I took the pile of photographs and sent them straight to Russell, lest I see them again before I have thought it over. I don’t want to do it before having heard something of what you and certain others think of the things you will soon be receiving.

  Else I should be having scruples of conscience, fearing that it might be plagiarism. And not now, but in a few months’ time, I shall try to obtain the frank opinion of Russell himself on the real usefulness of the thing. In any case, Russell is on a short fuse, he gets angry, and says what’s what, and that is what I sometimes need. You know that I find the Virgin so dazzling that

  I haven’t dared look at it. I felt an immediate ‘not yet’. My illness makes me very sensitive right now, and I don’t feel capable for the moment of continuing these ‘translations’ when such masterpieces are involved. I am stopping with the Sower on which I am working, and which is not coming on as I would wish. Being ill, however, I have thought a great deal about going on with the work. When I do it, I do it calmly, as you will soon see when I send you the five or 6 finished canvases.

  I hope that M. Lauzet will come, I very much wish to make his acquaintance.2 I trust his opinion and when he says it [my painting] is Provence, he begs the question, and like the other critic he talks more about something yet to be done than about something already accomplished. Landscapes with cypresses! Ah, that wouldn’t be easy - Aurier is aware of that, too, when he says that even black is a colour, and refers to their naming appearance. I am thinking about it, but dare do nothing more, and like the cautious Isaacson, I say that I don’t think we are there yet. One needs a dose of inspiration, a ray from on high that is not in ourselves, to do beautiful things. When I had done those Sunflowers, I looked for the opposite and yet the equivalent, and said - it’s the cypress.

  I’m going to stop here - I am a little anxious about a friend who, it seems, is still ill, and whom I should like to see. She is the one whose portrait I did in yellow and black,3 and she has changed very much. She has nervous attacks, complicated by a premature change of life, in short, very painful. She looked like an old grandfather the last time. I had promised to come back in a fortnight, but was taken ill again myself.

  Anyhow, as far as I’m concerned, the good news you’ve given me, and that article, and a whole lot of things have made me feel quite well today. I’m sorry that M. Salles did not find you. I want to thank Wil once again for her kind letter. I should have liked to have replied to it today, but am putting it off for a few days. Tell her that Mother has written me another long letter from Amsterdam. How happy she will be, Wil too!

  I am with you all in my thoughts, though ending my letter. May Jo long remain for us what she is now. As for the little boy, why don’t you name him Theo, in memory of our Father, that would certainly give me much pleasure.

  A handshake,

  Ever yours,

  Vincent

  In the meantime, if you see him, thank M. Aurier very much for his article. I shall of course be sending you a note for him, and a study.

  626a [F] [letter from Vincent to Albert Aurier]

  [10 or 11 February 1890]

  Dear M. Aurier,

  Thank you very much for your article in the Mercure de France, which surprised me a good deal. I admire it very much as a work of art in itself, it seems to me that you paint with words; in fact, I encounter my canvases anew in your article, but better than they are in reality, richer, more meaningful. Reflecting, however, that what you say would be more relevant to others than to myself, I feel uneasy. Monticelli in particular is a case in point. Since you say that ‘he is, so far as I know, the only painter who perceives the range of colour of things with this intensity, with this metallic, gem-like quality’, please go to see, at my brother’s, a certain bouquet1 by Monticelli - a bouquet in white, forget-me-not blue & orange - and then you will understand what I mean. But for some time now the best, the most wonderful Monticellis have been in Scotland and England. There should still be a marvellous one of his in a gallery in the North - the one in Lille, I think - as rich and certainly no less French than Le départ pour Cythére by Watteau. At this moment M. Lauzet is in the process of reproducing about thirty Monticellis. As far as I know, there is no colourist who stems so directly from Delacroix, and yet it is probable, in my opinion, that Monticelli knew of Delacroix’s colour theories at second-hand only; he had them in particular from Diaz and Ziem. Monticelli’s artistic temperament seems to me exactly the same as that of the author of the Decameron - Boccaccio - a melancholy, rather resigned, unhappy man, watching the fashionable wedding party and the lovers of his time pass him by, painting them and analysing them - he, the outsider. Oh! He no more imitated Boccaccio than Henri Leys imitated the primitives.

  Anyway - what I am trying to say is that things seem to have mistakenly become attached to my name that you would do better to link to Monticelli, to whom I owe so much. I also owe a great deal to Paul Gauguin, with whom I worked for several months in Aries, and whom, moreover, I already knew in Paris.

  Gauguin, that curious artist, that strange individual, whose demeanour and look vaguely recall Rembrandt’s Portrait of a Man at the Galerie Lacaze - that friend who likes to make one feel that a good picture should be equivalent to a good deed, not that he says so, but it is in fact difficult to be much in his company without being mindful of a certain moral responsibility.

  A few days before we parted company, when my illness forced me to go into an asylum, I tried to paint ‘his empty place’.

  It is a study of his wooden armchair, brown and dark red, the seat of greenish straw, and in place of the absent person, a lighted candle in a candlestick and some modern novels. Should the opportunity arise, do please take another look at this study by way of a reminder of him. It is done throughout in broken tones of green and red.

  You may realize now that your article would have been fairer and - it seems to me - consequently more powerful, if, when dealing with the question of the future of ‘tropical painting’ and the question of colour, you had - before speaking of me - done justice to Gauguin and Monticelli. For the role attaching to me, or that will be attached to me, will remain, I assure you, of very secondary importance.

  Besides, I should like to ask you another question. Let us suppose that the two canvases of sunflowers which are at present at the Vingtistes have certain qualities of colour, and that they also symbolize ‘gratitude’. Are they any different from so many other pictures of flowers, more skilfully painted, which are not yet appreciated enough - the Roses trémiéres and the Iris jaunes by old Quost, the magnificent bunches of peonies which Jeannin produces in such abundance? You see, I find it very difficult to make a distinction between impressionism and other things. I do not see any use for much of the sectarian thinking we have seen these last few years, but the absurdity
of it frightens me.

  And in conclusion, I confess I do not understand why you should vilify Meissonier. It may have been from the excellent Mauve that I have inherited a boundless admiration for Meissonier; Mauve was tireless in his praise of Troyon and Meissonier - a strange combination.

  I say this in order to draw your attention to how much people from other countries admire the artists of France without attaching the slightest importance to what, unfortunately, so often divides them. An often-repeated saying of Mauve’s was something like, ‘If one wants to use colour, one should also be able to draw an inglenook or an interior like Meissonier.’

  If you will do me the pleasure of accepting it, I shall include a study of cypresses for you in the next batch I send to my brother, in remembrance of your article. I am still working on it at the moment, as I want to put a small figure into it. The cypress is so characteristic of the Provence landscape. You will feel it, and say, ‘Even the colour black.’ Until now, I have not been able to do them as I feel them; the emotions that come over me in the face of nature can be so intense that I lose consciousness, and the result is a fortnight during which I cannot do any work. However, before leaving here, I mean to have one more try at tackling the cypresses. The study I intend for you represents a group of them in the corner of a wheat field during the mistral on a summer’s day. It is thus a kind of black note in the shifting blue of the flowing wide sky, with the vermilion of the poppies contrasting with the note of black. You will see that it forms something like the combination of tones found in those agreeable Scottish tartans of green, blue, red, yellow and black, which seemed so charming to you and to me at the time, and which, alas, we hardly see any more these days.

  In the meantime, dear Sir, please accept my grateful thanks for your article. If I come to Paris in the spring, I certainly shall not fail to thank you in person.

  Vincent v. Gogh

  It will be a year before the study I am going to send you will be thoroughly dry, particularly the impasto - I think it might be a good idea to give it a good coat of varnish.

  And in the meantime, it should be washed several times with plenty of water to get the oil out completely. This study is painted in pure Prussian blue, that much-maligned colour which Delacroix nevertheless used so much. I think that once the tones of Prussian blue are quite dry, you will, by varnishing, get the black, the very black tones that are needed to bring out the various dark greens.

  I am not quite sure how this study should be framed, but since it makes one think of those much-esteemed Scottish fabrics, I have noticed that a very simple flat frame in BRIGHT ORANGE LEAD gives the desired effect along with the blues of the background and the black-green of the trees. Without that there might not be enough red in the canvas, and the upper part would seem rather cold.

  On 19 February Vincent received news from Theo that at the exhibition of the Vingtistes in Brussels one of his paintings had been sold for 400 francs to Anna Boch, the sister of his friend Eugéne Boch.

  While he was continually being admonished to take things easy after his attacks, Van Gogh himself stressed the necessity of a large output: ‘What some consider working too fast is really nothing out of the ordinary, the normal condition of regular production, seeing that a painter really ought to work just as hard as, say, a shoemaker.’ The ‘overwrought’ way in which all Impressionists worked, moreover, ‘renders us very sensitive to colours and their special language, and to the effects of complementary colours, of contrasts and harmony’. Sometimes he felt like turning his back on reality and creating ‘a melody of tones with colour’, but he knew he had to stick to the real world if only for the sake of his health. For his new nephew he painted a study of branches of almond blossom against a blue sky. Most of his paintings, however, were less serene, and he apologized to Wil for the fact that his current pictures were ‘almost a cry of anguish, though they may symbolize gratitude in the motif of the rustic sunflower’.

  Epileptic seizures were now following one another more quickly. On 22 February 1890, during an outing to Aries, where he intended to present Mme Ginoux with a version of her portrait, he had another attack. Dr Peyron saw a causal link between these seizures and such trips with their emotional reunions. This time it took Van Gogh much longer to recover than it had in the past In letters dated 19 and 29 March, Theo tried to cheer his brother up with a report of his successes at the Vingtistes’ exhibition in Brussels and at the Salon des Indépendants in Paris, where Vincent was now represented by no fewer than ten works. Pissarro had said that Van Gogh had scored a real success with his fellow artists. A note from Gauguin confirmed this impression: ‘[…] many artists think your work has been the most striking at the exhibition’.

  He added that he would be delighted to exchange Van Gogh’s picture Ravine for one of his own canvases.

  A month later, in a letter to Vincent of 23 April 1890, Theo had reluctantly to conclude that ‘to us, your silence is proof that you are not yet well’. This time Vincent replied without delay, apologizing for still being depressed and confused: ‘Work was going well, you will see that the last canvas with the branches in blossom was perhaps the best, the one on which I worked most patiently, painted calmly and with a greater assurance of touch. And the next day I was completely done in. Difficult to understand things like that.’ A week later he wrote that during his illness he had done a few small canvases from memory, chiefly recollections of the north. He was planning new versions of The Potato Eaters, The Cottage and The Old Tower, which he had done in Nuenen, and asked Theo to send him his figure drawings from his time in Brabant.

  After all Vincent’s doubts about whether he was taking the right course with his Millet copies, and his fear that they might even be considered downright plagiarism, Theo’s enthusiasm over his latest consignment of paintings to Paris must have done him a world of good: ‘The copies after Millet are possibly the finest things you’ve done.’ And Theo called Vincent’s present to Aurier, the picture of a large cypress, ‘as rich as a peacock’s tail’.

  Van Gogh’s letters of 2 and 3 May 1890 reflected considerably more energy. He was now firmly resolved to implement his new plans in the north. He expected a great deal from his stay with Dr Gachet, ‘this doctor in the country. […] since he likes painting there is a real chance that a lasting friendship will come of it’.

  Before leaving for Auvers, Van Gogh wanted first to spend a few days in Paris to see Theo, Johanna and little Vincent, and to look up a number of old friends. Also on his programme were visits to an exhibition of Japanese prints and to the Salon des Independants. He even knew what he would still want to paint in Paris: ‘[…] a bookshop with a yellow and pink front window, in the evening, with dark passers-by. It is such a thoroughly modern motif. For the source of light is metaphorical as well. The subject - a scattering of books and prints - is bound to go well, don’t you think, between an olive grove and a wheat field? I have set my heart on doing it, as a light in the darkness.’ During his last week in Saint-Rémy he managed to finish four large still lifes with flowers. On the eve of his departure from the south, which he saw as the conclusion of an important chapter, he thought back to his departure from Paris at the beginning of 1888: ‘It’s another remarkable thing that, just as we were so struck by Seurat’s canvases that day [the day Van Gogh’ left for Aries], these last few days here have again been like a revelation of colours to me.’ Despite his dislike of the asylum, which he even compared with a penal colony, his departure was attended by sadness as a result of which ‘[…] packing my cases seems to me much more difficult than painting’. Theo voiced his concern about whether Vincent would be able to stand up to the journey.

  63I [F]

  [4 May 1890]

  My dear brother,

  Thank you for your kind letter and the portrait of Jo, which is very pretty & a very successful pose. Now look, I’m going to be very straightforward in my reply & as practical as possible. First, I categorically reject what you say, that I must b
e accompanied the whole way. Once on the train, I will be quite safe, I am not one of those who are dangerous - and even supposing I do have an attack, there are other passengers in the carriage, aren’t there, and anyway, don’t they know at every station what to do in such cases? You have so many qualms about this that they weigh me down heavily enough to discourage me completely.

  I have just said the same thing to M. Peyron, and I pointed out to him that attacks like the one I have just had have invariably been followed by three or four months of complete calm. I want to take advantage of this period to move - I must move in any case, my intention to leave is now unshakeable.

  I do not feel competent to judge the way disorders are treated here. I don’t feel like going into details - but please remember that I warned you about 6 months ago that if I had another attack of the same kind I should wish to change asylums. And I have already delayed too long, having allowed an attack to go by in the meantime. I was in the middle of my work then and I wanted to finish the canvas I had started. But for that I should no longer be here. Right, so now I’m saying that it seems to me that a fortnight at most (although I’d be happier with a week) should be enough to prepare the move. I shall have myself accompanied as far as Tarascon - even one or two stations further on, if you insist. When I arrive in Paris (I’ll send a telegram on leaving here) you could come and pick me up at the Gare de Lyon.

  Now I should think it would be as well to go and see this doctor in the country as soon as possible, and we could leave the luggage at the station. So I should not be staying with you for more than, let’s say, 2 or 3 days. I would then leave for this village, where I could stay at the inn to begin with.