The Yellow House

by Martin Gayford

  The women here, with their elegant coiffure, evoke Greek beauty. Their shawls fall in folds like the primitives, and evoke the parades of ancient Greece. The girls walking in the streets are as much ladies as any born, and as virginal in appearance as Juno.

  He thought he saw a way to transform them into art “in the modern style.”

  Some of these erotic and classical associations were hinted at in the title he gave the painting: the Three Graces at the Temple of Venus. Was this a joke? Perhaps, partly, but the subject of Venus and the Three Graces was one to appeal to Gauguin. It had been painted by Botticelli, one of his favorite painters of the past.

  Gauguin, as was his habit, worked methodically. He began by systematically drawing out the composition in Prussian blue. Then he covered sections in color, which sank into the absorbent ground of the canvas he was using. Over that he put on another layer of color, with regular vertical or diagonal strokes that he brushed, an acquaintance remembered, “with a velvety, supple and feline gesture.” It looked like a cat playing with a mouse. The whole process usually took several days.

  Meanwhile, a few yards away, Vincent was working to a very different rhythm. His mood was much better. He wrote that day or the next to reassure Theo. “About falling ill,” he began, it wasn’t that he thought he would, just that he might have if his financial worries had carried on.

  Vincent was fired by excitement about the things and people he saw. He knew some people thought he painted too quickly, but he defended the habit. It was emotions that drove him, so that sometimes the strokes flowed as his words did when he was full of ideas. When that happened, one had to take advantage, because the mood would reverse. There would be “hard days, empty of inspiration.”

  It looked as though he had been working like that on his first picture in the Alyscamps—at top speed. He had placed his easel down a little to the right of the path up the center of the Allée des Tombeaux and looking—like Gauguin—at the chapel of Saint-Honorat. Vincent, however, emphasized just those aspects of the place that his friend had omitted.

  Gauguin had ignored the railway workshop and the Roman tombs. Vincent painted a perspective view between the two lines of ancient coffins. And the factory, seen through the poplars, is such a prominent part of his picture that it is almost the subject of it. The chimneys, with dynamic swirls of smoke, and the red roofs of the workshops attracted the eye more than the chapel’s triangular eave and low tower.

  Vincent’s picture looked like a direct depiction of what he saw in front of him. But, in fact, it was as much an edit of reality as Gauguin’s. The tower of the church was shifted from one side to the other to help his composition, and also to complete his comparison of the ecclesiastical and functional structures. From where he stood, the tower was actually masked by the poplar trees. Where Gauguin depicted thick vegetation, Vincent revealed the workshop buildings through gaps in the ragged line of poplars. Thus he emphasized precisely what Gauguin left out—the ugly evidence of the railway age.

  Allée des Tombeaux (Les Alyscamps)

  Down the promenade of tombs advances a pair of lovers—a Zouave from the barracks close by and a local woman. They were a perfectly naturalistic pair to place in this spot, which was one of the lovers’ lanes of Arles. But, when one looked at the picture, a symbolic narrative came to mind. The lovers walk away from the religious past, and—in the logic of the picture if not in the topography of the Alyscamps—towards the busy, secular present.

  Around this time, Gauguin mused in his letter to Bernard about the differing approaches to art of himself and his new housemate: “It’s strange, but Vincent sees opportunities here for painting in the style of Daumier, whereas I see in terms of colored Puvis, mixed with the Japanese style.”

  This was painter’s shorthand. Puvis de Chavannes was an artist of an older generation, and an example to many painters who wished to move away from the Impressionist style. He painted carefully composed pictures with a clear classical line—in that, he resembled many academic painters. But Puvis’s paintings were so pale, and so simplified, that they seemed radical.

  Gauguin imagined Puvis’s clarity with the brighter colors and flatter forms of Japanese prints. In Arles, as has been mentioned, Vincent felt the urge to work in the manner of Honoré Daumier, a draughtsman and painter whose work was filled with passions—rage, resignation, misery, melancholy—and drawn with vehement intensity. His brush strokes, like Vincent’s, were emotional calligraphy: an index of energy and impulse.

  Daumier was one of the presiding spirits of the Yellow House. His prints hung in the studio and were a constant inspiration; Vincent had recently asked Theo to look out for more. Like Daumier, Vincent was intensely interested in the lives of his fellow beings. Gauguin was less so.

  Gauguin was happy to abstract away from what was in front of him; Vincent was more attached to what he saw: “In the open air, exposed to the wind, to the sun, to people’s curiosity, one works as best one can, one fills one’s canvas regardless. Yet that is how one captures the true and the essential—the most difficult part.” But Vincent was also willing to adapt what he had done later, more reflectively, in the studio. This retouching made the painting “more harmonious and pleasant to look at,” and he could add “whatever serenity and happiness” he felt.

  Gauguin believed, as he went on to explain to Bernard, that it was quite unnecessary for a painter to transcribe precisely what he saw in front of his eyes. Bernard had asked whether Gauguin thought one should paint shadows. By no means, was Gauguin’s answer—unless you want to. It’s all a matter of what the artist thinks best for his picture. But in general he thought that the new art ought “vigorously” to avoid “anything mechanical such as photography.” “For that reason I would avoid as far as possible anything that gives the illusion of something, and since shadow creates the illusion of sunshine I am inclined to suppress it.” Painting was, after all, in Gauguin’s view, an intellectual matter: “Do not paint too much from nature,” he advised. “Art is an abstraction; extract it from nature, while dreaming in front of it.”

  It was clear that Gauguin was calming Vincent down. One of his biggest fears must have been that Gauguin would leave straightaway, either because he loathed Arles on sight or because, having sold a Breton picture, he no longer needed to share expenses in the Yellow House. But Vincent’s mind had been put to rest on both scores. “So have no fear for me,” he instructed Theo, “nor for yourself either.”

  Now, Gauguin had declared his intention to stay, and he had decided to make use of the cost-cutting regime in Arles to save money so that he could return to Martinique. “He will wait here very quietly, working hard, for the right moment to take a great step forward. He needs rest as much as I do.” Vincent found Gauguin’s quiet command of himself “astonishing.”

  The house was “getting on” very well indeed—no doubt ordered a little by Gauguin. It was “becoming not only comfortable but an artist’s house too.” Vincent’s only uncertainty was what Gauguin thought of his pictures, the décorations. He had been trying to get him to give an opinion but could only get him to say he admired certain ones: the Sower (he didn’t say which one), the Sunflowers, and the Bedroom.

  After a few days of life with Gauguin, Vincent was beginning to look towards the future: “I venture to hope that in six months Gauguin and you and I will all see that we have founded a little studio which will last.” Meanwhile, two could live as cheaply as one: “Together we shall not spend more than 250 fr. a month.” In the next paragraph Vincent suggested 150 francs each as a monthly allowance. This seemed to add up to 300 francs a month, but finance definitely wasn’t Vincent’s subject.

  Gauguin, who was more business-minded, dispatched a sizable sum to Bernard to distribute to his creditors there: to the Pension Gloanec, his lodging, 280 francs; to another creditor, 35 francs; 5 francs for sending pictures; 5 for Bernard and Laval to drink his health. But this still left him with money in hand apart from the monthly allowanc
e he would get from Theo. He spent part of this surplus on a crucial purchase: 20 meters of coarse jute sackcloth. His idea was that he and Vincent would paint on it.

  Over the coming weeks, the two painters cut off oblong after oblong from this roll—most of their new paintings were to be done on it. Jute had various possible advantages, among them that it was amazingly cheap—50 centimes a meter as against at least 2 francs 50 for commercial canvas.

  One thing Vincent and Gauguin had in common was that neither had had much formal instruction as a painter. They had picked it up from other artists and, in Vincent’s case, from life classes at which he tended to clash angrily with the teachers. Essentially, they were self-taught, and that made them more open to innovations of every kind: stylistic, spiritual, technical.

  The consistency of the paint, the weight and texture of the canvas, the nature of the surface put on top of that canvas, the light in which it took place, the speed at which it was done—all these variables affected the result. To Gauguin and Van Gogh, these technical matters were crucial, both financially and artistically. Painting, after all, was a physical affair.

  Jute was a material which had virtually never been used as a support for painting before. But, by chance, Gauguin was extremely familiar with this fabric thanks to one of the more incongruous episodes in his earlier life. After embarking on a career as an independent artist, in December 1884 he had found himself in Copenhagen with a disillusioned spouse, dwindling resources and disappointed in-laws. He also had a new and supremely unsuitable job as sales representative for a French firm, Dillies et Frères of Roubaix, near Lille, who were manufacturers of tarpaulin and heavy textiles.

  As a result of his own lack of Danish, the Danes’ habit of taking an inordinate amount of time in deciding to place orders, and his employer’s incompetence, Gauguin made almost no money at all from this humiliating post, but it left him with an intimate knowledge of jute—from which tarpaulin and sackcloth were made.

  Over the centuries before Gauguin arrived at Vincent’s door, the procedures for making a picture in oils had slowly been refined. The paints were generally applied to a piece of taut cloth—a canvas (although, on occasion, wood, metal or some other substance was used). Canvas (stout cloth of cotton or linen) came in many different grades, qualities and sizes, the choice of which had an effect on the appearance of the final picture.

  Big Parisian color merchants and painters’ suppliers produced catalogs itemizing a profusion of canvases, pigments, brushes and other requirements, such as the wooden framework—the stretcher—on which the canvas was pulled tight. But in moving to remote Arles, Vincent had removed himself from easy access to these supplies. Although the town was not a well-known artists’ colony as was Pont-Aven, there were a few other painters around. A local bookshop and grocer’s sold paints. Canvas could also be bought locally at the Grand Magasin de Nouveautés Veuve Jacques Calment et Fils, the best fabric and furniture shop in the region. There, a thirteen-year-old girl named Jeanne Calment was introduced to an uncharming Dutch painter by her cousin and husband to be, the son of the owners of the shop. One hundred years later, she still recalled the painter, who must have been a regular customer. She thought him very ugly, ungracious, impolite, crazy and bad-smelling—which was characteristic of the impression poor Vincent made on people, especially the opposite sex.

  For his second picture of the Alyscamps Vincent boldly took one of the new sackcloth canvases and tried it out. His subject was almost a repetition of the first picture, except that, instead of looking up the avenue of poplars towards the chapel of Saint-Honorat, he now looked in the other direction. And instead of two lovers, he painted a scattering of passersby.

  This picture was less successful than the first. Vincent was still painting rapidly, but the rough texture of the weave seemed to slow his brush strokes—much as sand or wet ground would hamper a walker’s feet. The result—unusually for Vincent—was a little dull. Vincent would learn to work on jute successfully, but for him it was a question of overcoming its roughness; that same texture actually helped Gauguin attain the effect he wanted: a matte surface a little like that of a fresco or tapestry.

  Though the Three Graces was probably unfinished, Gauguin decided to try out the new jute (a form of canvas he was to use at intervals for the rest of his life). He set up his easel in front of the Romanesque entrance arch beside the chapel of Saint-Honorat (with Vincent working behind him). He then painted what he very seldom attempted: a fleeting effect of light and color of the kind in which Impressionists such as Monet specialized.

  By then, the leaves were falling, as Vincent reported, “like snow.” The sun was still brilliant, the sky remained clear. Right in front of Gauguin was a tree whose foliage had turned a vivid orange-red; the path below was covered with fallen leaves which swirled in the air. His painting caught the movement of the little flecks of scarlet and gold fluttering to the ground. This was more like Impressionism than “abstraction.”

  It flickered and dazzled, as immediate an image as Gauguin ever painted, quivering with life and full of the exhilaration of those early autumn days. But behind and below, providing structure, was an armature of blue-gray trunks and walls. On the left, carefully observed, was the twelfth-century arch. Gauguin, unlike Vincent, was fascinated by the Middle Ages, their art and their architecture.

  On Thursday, November 1, Second Lieutenant Milliet was to depart for a remote garrison in Algeria. Before he left, the young officer was charged with a task. Emile Bernard was soon due to do his military service; and Vincent, always keen for all his stray friends and acquaintances to link up somehow, had decided that Milliet should arrange for Bernard to join his regiment, the 3rd Zouaves, and subsequently smooth his path.

  Vincent and Gauguin both instructed Bernard to write to Milliet, Gauguin adding a characteristically vague address, “M. Milliet sous-lieutenant de Zouaves, Guelma, Afrique.” Gauguin wrote separately to Bernard that he had chatted with the Zouave and believed that “in Africa you will have a fairly easy existence that will be beneficial to your art.”

  In thanks for his help in taking some finished canvases to Paris in August, Vincent gave Milliet a painting, and Gauguin presented him with a drawing in exchange for an illustrated copy of Loti’s Madame Chrysanthème. But when he came to read this book—which had so impressed Vincent and affected his ideas about the Yellow House—Gauguin thought Loti had misunderstood the Japanese, as indeed he had.

  One of the advantages of the Yellow House was that it had running water (not always the case in Arles in 1888). But one of the disadvantages was that there was no bathroom, and, naturally, no hot water except what was boiled in a kettle. Gauguin and Vincent’s morning ablutions were performed at the wash stands in their bedrooms.

  Vincent regarded having baths as a healthy measure. When living in Brussels, years before, he had taken one as often as two or three times a week and felt it did him good. He recommended bathing to Theo, while confessing that he himself did not always follow his own advice:

  Now for us who work with our brains, our one and only hope of not breaking down too soon is this artificial eking-out by an up-to-date hygienic regimen rigorously applied, as much as we can stand. Because I for one do not do everything I ought. And a bit of cheerfulness is better than all the other remedies.

  For those who wanted them, at Arles, there were public baths (one of which had a pretty garden Vincent had drawn).

  Gauguin enjoyed sea-bathing, when he could. He was spotted on the beach in Brittany wearing trunks and beret, “with his 40-year-old man’s belly.” To Hartrick, Gauguin looked like a porpoise in the water. But there was no scope for swimming at Arles.

  To visit the lavatory, Gauguin and Vincent had to go out and walk round the side of the Yellow House, where a large weed grew out of the pavement, and into the hotel behind, to which the Yellow House was little more than an annex.

  Vincent did not think much of this facility but felt it was typical of the region
he was living in. “In a southern town I feel I have no right to complain of it, since these facilities are few and dirty, and one cannot help thinking of them as nests of microbes.”

  The fine autumn weather left at the same time as Second Lieutenant Milliet. On Thursday, at 3:25 in the morning, a violent storm broke, followed by torrential rain. This downpour brought a halt, as one of the two local newspapers, L’Homme de bronze, noted, to the work of the sowers in the fields (which Vincent had painted the previous week). It also made work in the Alyscamps impossible. Rain reduced the promenade to a quagmire into which the wheels of carriages sank up to their axles. The wet spell continued through the rest of the day and also Friday, November 2. Thursday was one of the darkest days ever recorded in Arles; certainly one for working indoors with Vincent’s new gaslight on.

  In the studio during the next few days, Vincent completed two more pictures of the Alyscamps. Both were seen from the top of the bank, looking down through the poplars and along the path. In color, they were variations on an autumnal theme—yellow-orange leaves and path in contrast to blue-violet tree trunks. These were the best that Vincent had produced since Gauguin had arrived and markedly unlike anything he had done before (or, for that matter, afterwards). They were in a way the first true products of the Studio of the South in the Yellow House: the result of the teamwork for which Vincent had hoped and planned.

  “By collaboration,” he informed Émile Bernard, he did not necessarily mean several painters working on the same picture. He meant a pooling of thoughts and techniques, so that the community of artists would create “paintings that differ from one another yet go together and complement one another.” More and more paintings would “probably be created by groups of men combining to execute an idea held in common.” Accordingly, Vincent’s two paintings of Falling Leaves in the Alyscamps mingled ideas of three artists—himself, Gauguin and the absent Bernard. These pictures were “a collaboration.”