And that is why I think that the next time you come, you may well find a few more things about which you can give me a few tips. For instance, it is quite hard, since I am not at all familiar with Lhermitte’s drawings (you will remember my asking you about them), but am familiar with Ciceri’s watercolours as well as his old lith. drawing examples, though not at all with his current black and white drawings, I repeat, it’s quite hard for me to grasp your precise meaning when you write with reference to a certain small sketch, ‘Couldn’t you do something that would somehow fit in with the above-mentioned drawings?’ I’m sure that both those artists are infinitely more advanced than I - but your idea could be feasible and I myself will keep learning too, don’t you agree? - so it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. And I wanted to emphasize to you again that in my opinion, supposing I do produce something that would fit in, there is a sort of tolerance to Black & White6 which would allow one to become very productive in that direction, once one has embarked on it. Not without working unremittingly, of course, but I do that anyway.
So if the small drawings in mountain chalk I sent you are not what you intended, although I had your tips in mind when I did them, don’t let that put you off and don’t hesitate to return to the subject, the more often the better. And bear in mind, too, that as soon as I am sure of what you are after, I shall be ready to do as I said just now, to turn out 10, for example, in order to arrive at one good one. In short, if you do come to the studio one day, I think you would see that I am being fairly energetic, and you would, I hope, go on thinking of me in these terms, wouldn’t you, and you would understand as well that even though someone who is fairly energetic may be working hard for himself, or rather without an immediate purpose, it might be twice as stimulating for him if there were a purpose. This is also true of possible work for the illustrated papers.
I immensely enjoyed rereading Fritz Reuter’s Gedroogde kruiden7 recently, it is just like, say, Knaus or Vautier.
Do you know a draughtsman by the name of Regamey? There is a lot of character in his work, I have got some of his woodcuts, including drawings made in prison, and gypsies and Japanese. When you come, you must have another look at the woodcuts, I’ve acquired a few new ones since last time.
It may well seem to you that the sun is shining more brightly and that everything has taken on a new charm. That, at any rate, is the inevitable consequence of true love, I believe, and it is a wonderful thing. And I also believe that those who hold that no one thinks clearly when in love are wrong, for it is at just that time that one thinks very clearly indeed and is more energetic than one was before. And love is ‘something eternal, it may change in aspect but not in essence. And there is the same difference between someone who is in love and what he was like before as there is between a lamp that is lit and one that is not. The lamp was there all the time and it was a good lamp, but now it is giving light as well and that is its true function. And one has more peace of mind about many things and so is more likely to do better work.
How beautiful those old almshouses are, I can’t find words to describe them. And although Israels does this sort of thing to perfection, so to speak, I find it strange that so relatively few should have an eye for it. Every day here in The Hague, so to speak, I see a world which very many people pass by and which is very different from what most make of it. And I shouldn’t dare to say so if I didn’t know from experience that figure painters, too, actually pass it by, and if I didn’t remember that whenever I was struck by some figure or other I encountered while out walking with them, I would hear time and again, ‘oh, those dirty people’, or ‘that kind of person’ - expressions, in short, one would not expect from a painter.
Yes, that often used to make me think. I remember, for instance, a conversation with Henkes, who frequently saw, and sees, things so clearly, which took me completely by surprise. It is as if they deliberately shun the most serious, the most beautiful things, in short voluntarily muzzle themselves and clip their own wings. And while I am gradually acquiring greater respect for some, I cannot help thinking that others will be reduced to sterility if they go on like that. And the old Bohéme was very insistent on this very point, on being productive. And, and ‘La Boheme’ was no good, according to some, but mind you, there will always be those who want to have their cake and eat it and, and, and who will end up with jam on their faces. Snuff out the candle - que soit8 - but there is no point in applying the snuffer prematurely. Goodbye, with a handshake,
Ever yours,
Vincent
[276]: enclosed sketches.
Van Gogh plodded on indefatigably with his series of figures of working men, and although he was short of funds he was able to set enough aside to buy a traditional Scheveningen cloak for his models. His stock of types had grown impressively: ‘I have a sower, a mower, a woman at the washtub, a charbonniére [a woman coal miner], a seamstress, a digger, a woman with a shovel, the almshouse fellow, a benedicite [grace before a meal], a fellow with a barrowload of manure.’ Literature was his indispensable companion: ‘I cannot understand how one can be a painter of figures and not have a feeling for it [literature] - and I think of the figure-painters’ studios that contain no modern writings as bare,’ he wrote to Van Rappard. He reread Victor Hugo’s Les miserable!, whose characters - analogous to his own drawings - he considered the ‘essence of what one sees in real life. It is the type, of which we meet no more than individual specimens.’ In addition, reading Hugo helped him to ‘keep some feelings and moods alive. Especially love of mankind and belief in, and awareness of, something higher […]’.
During this period Van Gogh also experimented widely with new types of paper and with such drawing materials as mountain chalk, lithographic chalk and printing ink diluted with turpentine. A visit he paid to Van Rappard in May inspired him to try his hand at more ambitious work. He now combined his separate figure studies into ‘more important’ compositions, choosing for his charcoal drawings the double square (1 m x 50 cm) - the same format he would use in Auvers for his last paintings. Among the subjects he now tackled were The Peat Diggers and The Manure Heap.
For company he associated with a young surveyor called Furnee, to whom he also gave drawing lessons. His pupil’s father, a pharmacist, in
8 So be it turn helped Van Gogh to buy paints cheaply. Van Gogh also saw much more again of his Hague colleagues Van der Weele, De Bock, Blommers and Breitner. His self-confidence regained, he had no difficulty in robustly criticizing their work. Breitner, in particular, came in for some rough handling: ‘He is badly off course.’ Van Gogh refused to be diverted from his path by the whims of the tastes or fashions of the day, and remained loyal to the painters of Millet’s, Daubigny’s and Breton’s generation. On the other hand, he was open-minded enough to voice his admiration for Michelangelo’s Night, for a drunkard by Daumier and ‘an old horse by Mauve’ in a single breath.
299 [D]
[c. 11 July 1883]
My dear Theo,
I had been more or less on the lookout for your letter & was very pleased when it came. Many thanks for it.
What you write about the exhibition is very interesting. Which old painting by Dupre was it that you particularly admired? You must tell me when you next write. Your description of the Troyon & the Rousseau, for instance, has enough substance to give me a fair idea of the way in which they were done.
There are other pictures from about the time of Troyon’s Pre Communal that had the sort of atmosphere one might call dramatic, although there are no figures in them. Israels got it quite right when he said of a Jules Dupré (Mesdag’s large one), ‘It is just like a figure painting,’ and it is this dramatic effect that lends it the je ne sais quoi which makes one feel what you say about it: ‘It conveys that moment and that place in nature to which one can repair alone, without company.’ Ruysdael’s Buis-son has it very strongly as well.
You must have seen those old Jacques in which it was slightly exaggerated, perhaps done sl
ightly for effect - no, not really - which one used to admire for that very reason, even though the ordinary man in the street didn’t rate them among Jacque’s finest?
Speaking of Rousseau, do you know the Richard Wallace Rousseau, a lisiére de bois1 in autumn after the rain, a glimpse of meadows stretching endlessly into the distance, marshy, with cattle, the foreground very much in tone. To me that is one of the finest - very much like the one of the red sun in the Luxembourg. The dramatic effect in those paintings is something that, more than anything else in art, makes one understand ‘un coin de la nature vu à travers d’un temperament’2 and ‘l’homme ajouté à la nature’.3 One finds the same thing in, say, portraits by Rembrandt. It is more than nature, something of a revelation. And it seems to me that it is as well to have great respect for it and to hold one’s tongue when, as so often, people say it is exaggerated or mannered.
Oh, I must tell you that De Bock has been to see me - rather enjoyable. Breitner, who was totally unexpected because he seemed to have broken contact completely at one time, turned up yesterday. I was pleased, because - when I first moved here -it used to be very agreeable going out with him. I don’t mean going out into the country but going out to look for characters and enjoyable experiences in the city itself. There isn’t another person here in The Hague with whom I have ever done this, most find the city ugly and give everything in it a miss. And yet the city can be very beautiful at times, too, don’t you agree?
Yesterday, for instance, I saw workers in the Noordeinde busy pulling down the section opposite the palace. Men all white with plaster dust, with carts & horses. It was chilly, windy weather, a grey sky, the whole place full of character.
I met V. d. Velden last year - one evening at De Bock’s when we were looking at De B.’s etchings. I wrote to you then that he made a very favourable impression on me, although he had little to say and wasn’t very good company that evening. But the immediate impression he made on me was that he is a solid, genuine painter. He has a square, Gothic head - a touch of insolence or boldness and yet gentleness in his look, a sturdy, broad build, in fact the exact opposite of Breitner and De Bock. There is something virile and powerful about him, even though he doesn’t say or do anything in particular. I hope to have closer contacts with’ him one day - perhaps through V. d. Weele.
I was at V. d. Week’s last Sunday. He was working on a picture of cattle in the milking-yard, for which he’s done a number of substantial studies. He is going to the country now for a while.
By way of a change did a few watercolours again in the countryside recently, a little cornfield and a bit of a potato field. And have also drawn a few small landscapes as settings for a couple of figure drawings I am hoping to do.
These are the designs for those figure drawings, very sketchy. The top one is of people burning weeds, the bottom one shows the return from the potato fields. I am seriously thinking of painting a number of figure studies, chiefly with a view to working up the drawings.
What happy news that you plan to come to Holland at the beginning of August; as I’ve told you often enough, I look forward to seeing you very much.
I’m eager to hear from you how well up your woman is in artistic matters. I imagine in any case that much still remains to be done and encouraged in that direction. Tant mieux.4 In any case, I hope she will acquire some sort of scrapbook, for which I hope you will be able to find a few sheets from among the smaller studies. Sometimes there are sheets in a sketchbook which, although they are mere scribbles, nevertheless have something to say. I shall put a few things aside against her arrival.
I have talked it over with De Bock and I can store my things at his house when I do my studies in Scheveningen. I also hope to call on Blommers again in the near future. I spoke to De Bock about his painting at the Salon, Novembre, the reproduction of which I admired so much in the catalogue. He must still have a sketch of it, and I should like to see that.
As for my going to London sooner or later, for a longer or shorter period, I agree there would be a better chance of doing something with my work over there. I also think that I could learn quite a lot if I could meet some of the people there. And I assure you I would not be short of subjects. There are bound to be beautiful things to do there at those dockyards on the Thames.
Anyway, there are several matters we must talk over when you come. I hope you won’t be in too much of a hurry, there is so much we should discuss.
I really wish I could go to Brabant again in the autumn and do some studies there. I should particularly like to have some studies of a Brabant plough, of a weaver and of the village churchyard at Nuenen. But again, everything costs money.
Well, regards, and many thanks again for your letter and the enclosure. Look after yourself. Are you thinking of bringing your woman along to Holland or isn’t that advisable yet? I wish you would. Goodbye, my dear fellow, with a handshake,
Ever Yours,
Vincent
I am adding a few lines to tell you some more about Breitner - I have just returned from his temporary studio here (as you know, he lives in Rotterdam at present). You no doubt know Vierge, or Urabietta, who draws for Illustration? Well, at times B. reminds me of Vierge, though not very often.
When he is good, his work looks like something done in a hurry by Vierge, but when he, that is B., does work that is too hurried or unfinished, which is what happens most of the time, then it is hard to say what it looks like, because it doesn’t look like anything - unless it is strips of faded old wallpaper from I don’t know what period, but anyway a most peculiar and probably very distant one. Just picture the scene, as I step into his garret at Siebenhaar’s. It has been furnished in the main with various (empty) matchboxes, and for the rest with a razor or the like and a box with a bed in it. I could see things standing against the chimney, 3 endlessly long strips, which I took at first for sun blinds. But on closer inspection they turned out to be canvases in this format:
As you can see from the above illustration, the first one is a somewhat mystical scene, probably taken from Revelation, or so one might be inclined to think at first sight. But I am told it is artillery manoeuvres in the dunes. My considered opinion is that it is a good 4 metres long by 1/4 metres.
The second one tells the story of a man leaning against the wall at the extreme left of the painting, while at the extreme right various ghostly female specimens stand gaping at him, care having been taken to leave a fair amount of space between these two groups. And I was also told that the man on the left was meant to represent a drunkard, which might well have been the painter’s intention, and I have no wish to call that into question, though it could have been anything else.
The third one is almost better and is a sketch of the market he did last year, which seems, however, to have changed since then to represent a Spanish rather than a Dutch market, at least in so far as anything can be made out in it at all. What sort of wares are being sold in the market, where it may be - I, for my part, doubt it is meant to be on this globe, and to the naive spectator it would seem rather to represent a scene on one of the planets that Jules Verne’s miraculous travellers were in the habit of visiting (by projectile). It is impossible to be specific about the sort of wares actually being sold, though seen from afar it could be enormous quantities of candied fruit or sweetmeats.
Now, you try to imagine something like that, but on ne peut plus absurd5 and heavy-handed to boot, and you have the work of friend Breitner. From a distance it looks like patches of faded colour on bleached, mouldering and mildewy wallpaper and in that respect it has some qualities, which to me are none the less positively objectionable.
I simply fail to comprehend how it is possible for anyone to produce such things. They are like something seen in a fever, impossible and meaningless as in the most preposterous dream.
I think it just shows that Breitner hasn’t yet fully recovered and that he actually did do it while he was feverish, which in view of his illness last year is quite on the
cards.
Last year, when I had recovered but couldn’t sleep and was feverish myself, I too had moments when I felt like forcing myself to do some work, and I did do a few things, but thank God not too absurdly large, which later I couldn’t believe I had done. That’s why I believe that B. will be all right again, but I do find this stuff ridiculous.
A watercolour study of some small birch trees in the dunes, which was much better and had nothing abnormal about it, lay crumpled in a corner. But his large things are no good.
At V. d. Weele’s I saw another very ugly one by him, as well as a very good head, but a portrait of V. d. W. he had started was another bad one. Thus he is hard at it making a fine old mess and on a very large scale. I do at times like the work of Hoffmann and Edgar Poe (Contes fantastiques, Raven, &c), but I find Breitner’s stuff objectionable because the imagination behind it is clumsy and meaningless and has virtually no contact with reality. I think it’s terribly ugly. But I look on it as the result of a spell of ill-health. V. d. W. also has two rather curious little watercolours of his, stylishly done, which have a touch, a certain je ne sais quoi, of what the English call ‘weird’.6
I learned a lesson today thanks to that visit, namely that one is fortunate indeed if in present-day society one can live in fairly normal surroundings and has no need to resort to a coffee-house existence - from which one starts to see things through a growing fog of confusion. For I have no doubt that this is what happened to him. Imperceptibly he has strayed far from a composed and rational view of things, and so long as this nervous exhaustion persists he will be unable to produce a single composed, sensible line or brushstroke.
The Letters of Vincent van Gogh Page 24
