by Henry Miller
Over and over again Van Gogh speaks of desiring nothing more than to lead the simple life. He is extravagant only in the use of his materials. Everything goes into his art. It is such a thorough sacrifice that, by comparison, the lives of most painters seem pale and worthless. Van Gogh knows that he will never be recognized in his lifetime; he knows that he will never reap the harvest of his toil. But the artists to come—perhaps his renunciation will make it easier for them! That is his most profound wish. In a thousand different ways he says: “For myself I expect nothing. We are doomed. We live outside our time.”
How he sweats and struggles to get together fifty good canvases which his brother is to exhibit to a scornful, contemptuous world! The last few years of his life he is truly a madman. But a madman in the proper sense of the word. All flame and spirit, he overflows with creative energy. He is the cup which runneth over. And he is alone.
It is difficult to get women to pose, at Aries. His paintings are atrocious, people say. “They are just full of paint!” I laugh and weep when I read this. Full of paint! How terrifyingly true! How ironic that this wonderful thing which had come to pass (the saturation of canvas with color, with pure riotous color), that this dream of all the great painters (at last realized) should be used against him! Poor Van Gogh! Rich Van Gogh! Almighty Van Gogh! What a cruel, blasphemous jest! As if to say of a man of God—“But he is too full of God!”
I should like to paint in such a way, says Van Gogh, that every one who has eyes may see clearly what is there. It was in this way that Jesus spoke and lived. But the blind and the deaf are with us always. Only they see, only they hear, only they act who are filled with the precious holy spirit.
We know that for a long time Van Gogh abstained from using color, that he forced himself to work with pencil, charcoal, ink. We know too that he began by studying the human figure, that he sought to learn from nature. Yes, he was training himself to read what was hidden beneath the shell. He consorted with the poor and humble, with downtrodden workers, with outcasts. He adored the peasant, extolling him rather than the man of culture. He studied the shapes of things, the feel of objects. He familiarized himself with all that was common and everyday so that later, when he would have acquired the necessary skill and technique, he could render this world of the ordinary, the commonplace, the everyday in the light of a reality divine. What Van Gogh desired was to make this all too familiar world familiar in a new sense—in an everlasting sense, so to speak. He wanted to show that it was not clothed in evil and ugliness, that it was never dull or boring, that we have only to look at it with loving eyes to recognize its splendor and magnificence. And when he had accomplished this, when he had given us a new earth, he found that he was no longer able to cope with the world: he voluntarily sought out an asylum.
It took almost fifty years for the man in the street to realize that a Christ, manifesting himself as painter, had lately been in our midst. Suddenly, due to the immense popularity of a sensational book, thousands upon thousands take to visiting the museums and galleries; they converge like a Niagara upon the intoxicating masterpieces of that despised and forlorn genius, Vincent Van Gogh. Reproductions of his work are to be seen everywhere; they sprout in the most unexpected places. Van Gogh at last arrives. At last “the great failure” comes into his own. His faith was justified, apparently. His sacrifice was not in vain. For not only does he reach the masses, what is more important, he influences the painters.
In one of the letters—back in 1888!—he writes: “Painting promises to become more subtle—more musical and less sculptural—enfin elle promet la couleur.” He underlines the word color. How prophetic his insight! What is modern painting if not a hymn to color? Tantamount to revelation, the free, audacious use of color precipitated a liberation undreamed of. Centuries of painting are annihilated overnight. Unbelievable vistas open up.
In those wonderful letters in which Van Gogh relates his discoveries about the laws of color (most of which were formulated by Delacroix), he dwells at some length on the use of black and white. One should not eschew the use of black, he writes. There is black and there is black. Did not Rembrandt and Franz Hals employ black, he asks? And Velasquez too? Not just black either, but twenty-seven different kinds of black. It all depends what kind of black, and how one employs it. The same for white. (Soon Utrillo is to demonstrate the validity of Van Gogh’s apperceptions. Is not his white period still the best?)
I speak of black and white because it was inevitable that this revolutionary in the world of color should dwell on first and last things. In this he reminds us of those true sons of God who fear not evil or ugliness but embrace and incorporate them in their world of goodness and beauty.
When the nineteenth century crumbled on the field of Armageddon the old barriers were burst asunder. The demonic artists who dominated that century contributed as much to the undermining of the past as did the statesmen and militarists, the financiers and industrialists, the revolutionaries and the propagandists who had paved the way for the debacle. The war of 1914 seemed like the end of something; it was however only the culmination of something long overdue. Actually, it opened up vast new horizons. Through its work of demolition it afforded outlet to vast new fields of energy. The period between the first and second World Wars is rich in artistic production. It is in this period, when the world is about to be shaken to its foundations a second time, that I was taking form. It was a difficult period primarily because one had to rely so exclusively upon himself, upon his own unique powers. Society, torn by all manner of dissension, offered the artist even less support and encouragement than in Van Gogh’s time. The very existence of the artist was challenged. But was not everyone’s existence menaced?
Emerging from the second World War, there is a vague feeling that the earth itself is threatened with extinction. We have entered into another apocalyptic era. The spirit of man is being convulsed as was the earth itself in ancient geologic periods. It is death we are shaking off—the rigidity of death. We deplore the spirit of violence which is prevalent, but to burst the bonds of death the spirit of man must be driven. The most dazzling possibilities enfold us. We are infused and invested with powers and energies heretofore undreamed of. We are about to live again as human beings, in the full majesty which the word human implies. The heroic work of our forerunners seems now like the work of sacrificial victims. It is not necessary for us to repeat their sacrifices. It is for us to enjoy the fruits. The past lies in ruins, the future yawns invitingly. Take this everyday world and embrace it! That is what the spirit urges. What better world can there be than this in which we have full responsibility, each and every one of us? Labor not for the men to come! Cease laboring altogether and create! For creation is play, and play iş divine.
That is the message I get whenever I read the life of Van Gogh. His final despair, ending in madness and suicide, could be interpreted as divine impatience. “The Kingdom of Heaven is here,” he was shouting. “Why do ye not enter?”
We weep crocodile tears over his lamentable end, forgetting the burst of splendor which preceded it. Do we weep when the sun sinks into the ocean? The full magnificence of the sun is revealed to us only in the few moments preceding and following its disappearance. It will appear again at dawn, another magnificence, another sun perhaps. All during the day it nourishes and sustains us, but we scarcely give heed to it. We know it is there, we count on it, but we offer no thanks, no devotion. The great luminaries, like Nietzsche, like Rimbaud, like Van Gogh, are human suns which suffer the same fate as the celestial orb. It is only when they are sinking, or have sunk from sight, that we become aware of the glory that was theirs. In mourning their passing we blind our eyes to the existence of other new suns. We look backwards and forwards but never does our gaze pierce direct to the heart of reality. If we do occasionally worship the solar body which gives us warmth and light we reflect not on the suns which have been blazing since eternity. We accept unthinkingly the fact that all space is studded with s
uns.
Verily, the universe swims in light. Everything is alive and alight. Man too is the recipient of inexhaustible radiant energy. Strange, only in the mind of man is there darkness and paralysis.
A little too much light, a little too much energy (here on earth), and one is rendered unfit for human society. The reward of the visionary is the madhouse or the cross. A grey, neutral world is our natural habitat, it would seem. It has been so for a long time now. But that world, that condition of things, is passing. Like it or not, with blinkers and blinders or without, we stand on the threshold of a new world. We shall be forced to understand and accept—because the great luminaries whom we cast out of our midst have convulsed our vision. We shall be witness to splendors and horrors, alternately and simultaneously. We shall see with a thousand eyes, like the god Indra. The stars are moving in on us, even the most distant ones.
With our instruments we now detect worlds of whose existence ancient man had not the slightest inkling. We are able to plot realms of worlds beyond our present ken, because our minds are already receptive to the light which emanates from them. At the same time we are also able to visualize our own wholesale destruction. But are we frozen in our tracks? No. Our faith is greater than we dare admit. We sense the magnificence of that life eternal which is man’s and which we have ever denied. Despite all our pride and vanity, we behave as if we knew nothing of our true heritage. We protest that we are only human, all too human. But if we were truly human we would be capable of all things, ready for all exigencies, know all conditions of being. We ought to remind ourselves daily, repeat it like a litany, that in our being lies concealed the whole gamut of existence. We should cease worshiping and inspire worship. Above all, we should cease postponing the act of becoming what in fact and essence we are.
“I prefer,” wrote Van Gogh, “to paint men’s eyes than to paint cathedrals, because there is something in men’s eyes which is not in cathedrals, however majestic and imposing the latter may be.…”
3
It is only for a few brief months that this heavenly period lasts. Soon it will be nothing but trouble, nothing but want, nothing but frustration. Until I get to Paris only three short scripts will ever be published—the first in a magazine dedicated to the advancement of the colored people, the second in a magazine sponsored by a friend and which has but one issue, and the third in a magazine revived by good old Frank Harris.
Thereafter everything I submit for publication will bear my wife’s signature. (Only one freakish exception, of which more later.) It is agreed that I can do nothing on my own. I am simply to write and leave the rest to Mona. Her job at the theater has already petered out. The rent has been long overdue. My visits to Maude have become less and less regular and the alimony is paid only now and then, when we make a haul. Soon Mona’s wardrobe gives out, and I, like a dolt, make vain efforts to beg a dress or a suit off my old sweethearts. When it gets bitter cold she wears my overcoat.
Mona is for taking a job in a cabaret, but I refuse to hear of it. With each mail I look forward to a letter of acceptance accompanied by a check. I must have between twenty and thirty manuscripts floating about; they come and go like trained carrier pigeons. It is getting to be a problem to raise the money for the postage. Everything is becoming a problem.
In the midst of this first setback we are rescued for a brief spell by the arrival of my old friend O’Mara who, after quitting the Cosmodemonic Telegraph Company, had gone on a long cruise with some fishermen in the Caribbean. The adventure had earned him some money.
We had hardly embraced one another when, in characteristic fashion, O’Mara emptied his pockets, placing the money in a heap on the table. “The kitty,” he called it. It was to be for our common use. A few hundred dollars in all, enough either to pay our debts or to live on for a month or two.
“Have you anything to drink around here? No? Let me run out and get something.”
He came back with a few bottles and a bag full of food. “Where’s the kitchen here? I don’t seem to see it.”
“There is no kitchen; we’re not supposed to cook.”
“What?” he yelled. “No kitchen? What do you pay for this joint?”
When we told him he said we were crazy, plumb crazy. Mona didn’t relish that in the least.
“How the hell do you manage, then?” he asked, scratching his head.
“To be frank,” I said, “we don’t.”
Mona was almost in tears now.
“Neither of you working?” he continued.
“Val’s working,” was Mona’s prompt reply.
“You mean writing, I suppose,” said O’Mara, implying that that was just a pastime.
“Certainly,” said Mona with asperity, “what would you want him to do?”
“I? I don’t want him to do anything. I was just wondering how you lived… you know, where you got the dough?”
He was silent a moment, then he said: “By the way, that chap who let me in, was he the landlord? Looked like a swell guy.”
“He is too,” I said. “He’s a Virginian. Never pesters us for the rent. A real gentleman, I’ll say.”
“You ought to treat him right,” said O’Mara. “Listen, why don’t we let him have something on account?”
“No,” said Mona quickly, “don’t do that, please. He won’t mind waiting a little longer. Besides, I expect to have some money soon.”
“You do?” said I, ever suspicious of these rash statements.
“Well, the hell with that,” said O’Mara, pouring out the sherry. “Let’s sit down and have a drink. I brought some ham and eggs, and some good cheese. Too bad we have to throw it away.”
“What do you mean, throw it away?” said Mona. “We have a little two-burner gas stove in the bathroom.”
“Is that where you cook? Christ!”
“No, we just keep it there, out of sight.”
“But they must smell the cooking upstairs, don’t they?” By they O’Mara meant the landlord and his wife.
“Of course they do,” I said, “but they’re discreet. They pretend that they smell nothing.”
“Wonderful people,” said O’Mara. He meant by this that only Southerners could display such tact.
The next moment he was suggesting that we look for a cheaper place, with conveniences. “That money’s going to vanish in no time the way you people live. I’ll look around for a job, of course, but you know me. Anyway, I’d like to take it easy for a while.”
I smiled. “Don’t worry,” I said, “everything will be hunky-dory. Just having you around will make things easier.”
“But where will he sleep?” asked Mona, not too pleased with this idea.
“We can buy a cot, can’t we?” I pointed to the money lying on the table.
“But the landlord?”
“We won’t tell him right away. Besides, we’re privileged to have a guest, aren’t we? He doesn’t need to know that Ted is a boarder.”
“I can sleep just as well on the floor,” said O’Mara.
“I wouldn’t dream of it! We’ll go out after lunch and get a secondhand cot. We’ll sneak it in after dark, eh?”
I saw that it was time to say something to Mona. She hadn’t taken so well to O’Mara, that was obvious. He was a little too blunt and forthright.
“Listen, Mona,” I began, “you’re going to like Ted when you get to know him. We’ve known each other since we were kids, isn’t that right, Ted?”
“But I have nothing against him,” said Mona. “I don’t want him telling us what we should do, that’s all.”
“She’s right, Ted,” I said, “you are a bit forward, you know that. A lot of things have happened since I last saw you. We’re in a different world now. It’s been wonderful until just recently. All due to Mona. Listen, if you two don’t get to like one another it’s going to be too bad.”
“I’ll clear out any time you give the sign,” said O’Mara.
“I’m sorry,” said Mona, “if I gave
the wrong impression. If Val says you’re a friend there must be something to you.…”
“What’s this Val business?” said O’Mara, interrupting her.
“Oh, she prefers Val to Henry, that’s all. You’ll get used to it.”
“The hell I will. You’re Henry to me.”
“I can see we’re going to get along swell,” I chuckled. I got up to inspect the food. “Do you suppose we could have lunch soon?” I asked.
“It’s only eleven o’clock,” said Mona.
“I know, but I’m getting hungry. Ham and eggs sounds enticing. Besides, we haven’t had too much to eat lately. Let’s make up for lost time.”
O’Mara couldn’t restrain himself. “As long as I’m around you’re going to eat well. If we only had a regular kitchen! I could dish up some swell meals.”
“Mona knows how to cook,” I said. “We have wonderful meals—when we eat.”
“You mean to say you don’t eat every day?”
“He exaggerates,” said Mona. “If he misses one meal he thinks he’s starving.”
“That’s true,” I said, pouring out another glass of sherry. “I’m thinking of the future all the time. Something tells me it’s going to be a long, hard grind.”
“Haven’t you sold anything yet?” asked O’Mara.
I shook my head.
“That’s really tough,” he said. “Listen, (an afterthought) let me look at your stuff later, will you? Maybe I can peddle it for you—if it’s any good.”
“If it’s any good?” Mona blazed. “What do you mean?”
O’Mara burst out laughing. “Oh, I know he’s a genius. That’s what’s wrong, perhaps. You can’t give it to ’em straight, you know. It’s got to be watered down. I know Henry.”
