All language subtitles for Vincent (1987) Paul Cox

My dear brother, Theo

your brother has preached
for the first time.

Last Sunday, in God's dwelling
of which is written

in this place I give peace,

your brother was indeed deeply moved,

when he stood at the foot of the pulpit

and bowed his head and prayed:

Father, in thy name be our beginning.

I am a stranger on the earth.

Hide not thy commandments from me.

It is an old belief
and it is a good belief

that our life is a pilgrim's progress.

We are pilgrims on the earth
and strangers.

We come from afar and we are going far.

The journey of our life

goes from the loving breast
of our mother on earth

to the arms of our Father in heaven.

Everything on earth changes.

We have no abiding city here.

It is God's will that we should part
with what is dearest on earth.

We ourselves change in many respects.

We are not what we once were.

We shall not remain what we are now.

The face that once had
the early dew of the morning

gets its wrinkles.

The eyes speak of sadness.

The hair turns grey or we lose it.

Ah indeed, we only pass through the earth.

We only pass through life.

I once saw a very beautiful picture.

It was a landscape at evening.

Through the landscape, a road leads
to a high mountain far, far away.

On the top of that mountain is a city

whereon the setting sun casts a glory.

On the road walks a pilgrim.

He has been walking
for a good, long while already

and he is very tired.

And now, he meets a woman
or a figure in black.

That angel of God has been placed there

to encourage the pilgrims and
to answer their questions.

And the pilgrim asks her:

"Does the road then go uphill all the way?"

And the answer is: "Yes to the very end".

And he asks again:

"And, will the journey take all day long?"

And the answer is:
"From morn till night, my friend".

Has not man a strife on earth?

And when each of us goes back
to the daily things and daily duties,

let us not forget that things
are not what they seem.

But God, by the things of daily life
teacheth us higher things.

That our life is a pilgrim's progress,

and that we are strangers on the earth.

But that we have a God and Father
who preserveth strangers,

and that we are all brethren.

Amen.

Dear Theo,

there are some intriguing things
in other countries.

But last Sunday, I walked alone

and I thought how good it was

to feel the Dutch soil under my feet again.

I recall all our childhood memories.

How often we walked with father
in those last days of February,

and heard the lark of the black fields;

the radiant blue sky
with the white clouds over it;

and then the stony path
with the beech trees.

Who knows...

We may walk together
near the sea sometime.

We must always remain good friends.

Let us have as few secrets
as possible from each other.

Brothers should not have any.

Try to be patient and gentle,

and do not mind being eccentric.

It is good to love flowers and ivy
and fir trees and hawthorn hedges.

They have been with us
from the very beginning.

My conscience tells me that there is
something greater in the future,

that we're not what other people are.

You know what I desire to be?

If I may become a clergyman
and fill the position

so that my work resembles
that of our father,

then, I shall thank God.

Our aim must be to find
a steady profession

to which we can devote
ourselves entirely.

And I also believe, that we especially
must have the end in mind;

and that the victory achieved after
a whole life of work and effort,

will be better than one gain sooner.

I must become a good clergyman
who has something to say

that is right, and maybe of use
in the world.

If one keeps on loving faithfully,

one will gradually get more light
and grow stronger.

Only if I could, I should like
to skip a few years.

I think one only gets some peace

after one has accomplished something.

When I think of the future,
of almost invincible difficulties;

when I think of the many watching me

who will know where the fault is
if I do not succeed;

when I think of all this,
of all the difficulties and cares

that do not lessen
as we advance in life;

then I wish I were far away
from everything.

Yet, I shall reach the aim
I am striving for.

And if God wills it, find favour
in the eyes of some I love,

and of those who will come after me.

The days fly by.

I'm four years older than you are

and probably they seem to go
more swiftly to me than to you.

But I fight against it
by stretching them a little

in the morning and evening.

Now and then, when I am writing,

I instinctively make a little drawing.

It is nothing special.

But, I see it all so vividly before me.

Dear Theo,

at present I'm collecting
Latin and Greek exercises,

and all kinds of writings
about history and religion.

I must keep courage with God's help.

But, Greek lessons in the heart of
Amsterdam

on a very close and sultry
summer afternoon,

with the feeling that many difficult
examinations await you,

I can tell you, they make one feel more
oppressed than the Brabant cornfields

which are beautiful on such a day.

I feel it necessary to work
as hard as I can.

The days are full of evil.

One must arm oneself
and try to be filled

with as much goodness as possible

in order to be prepared
and be able to resist.

As you know, it is not a
small undertaking,

and we do not know the result.

But at all events, I will try
to fight the good fight.

What is the use of a beautiful body?

Animals have it too.

Perhaps, even more than men.

But the soul, as it lives in the people,

that's what animals never have.

Is not life given us to become
richer in spirit?

One sees so many who live
in horror and misery.

But, in the evening one sees

all kinds of black figures
wandering about,

in whom the terror of the night
is personified.

And, whose misery one must class
among the things

that have no name in any language.

The only thing I want to do

is give peace to poor creatures

and reconcile them to their existence
here on earth.

Dear Theo,

the Flemish training school does not
require that you quite finish the course

before you can apply for a place
as an evangelist.

The three-month probation demanded
of me have almost passed.

Some Paul was in Arabia for three years
before he began to preach.

If I could work quietly
for about three years,

always learning and observing,

then I should not come back
without having something to say

that was really worth hearing.

I say this in all humility,

and yet, with confidence.

I enclose a hasty little sketch.

I should like to begin making
rough sketches

of some of the many things
that I meet on my way.

But, as it would probably keep me
from my real work,

it's better not to start.

I visited the cemetery here.

In front of it is a little wood
where it is very peaceful,

especially when the sun shines
through the leaves in the evening.

There are many beatiful graves
and all kinds of evergreens,

and roses and forget-me-nots.

I walked on, past a forest
and took a side path

leading to a little, old
ivy-covered church,

at the side of the sunken road

with twisted and gnarled stumps
and tree roots.

Fantastic!

Like those Albrecht D�rer etched
in "Ritter, Tod und Teufel"
(Knight, Death and the Devil).

How rich art is!

If only one can remember
what one has seen,

one is never without food for thought,
or truly lonely.

Never alone.

My dear brother,

the three months probation
have elapsed.

They have told me that I cannot attend
the school on the same conditions

as the native Flemish peoples.

It would not be easy to live
without faith in God.

Without it, one would lose
one's courage.

Dear Theo,

I'm sure you realise that here,
in the Borinage, there are no pictures.

If with God's blessing, I get a
permanent appointment here,

I shall be very very happy.

Often I draw far into the night

to keep some souvenir, and to strengthen
the thoughts raised involuntarily

by the aspects of things here.

Like everyone else, I feel the need
of family and friendship,

of affection, a friendly intercourse.

I'm not made of stone or iron.

So, I cannot miss these things without
being conscious of a void,

and feeling a lack of something.

Involuntarily, I have become,
more or less,

a kind of impossible and suspect
personage in the family.

So, how could I in any way
be of any use to anybody?

Therefore, above all,

I think the best and the most
reasonable thing for me to do

is to go away and keep
a convenient distance,

so that I cease to exist
for all of you.

Most of the miners are thin and
pale from fever.

They look tired and emaciated,

weather-beaten and aged
before their time.

Most of them cannot read.

But at the same time, are intelligent
and quick at their different works.

Brave and frank,
with melancholy deep-set eyes.

They have an innate, deep-rooted hatred

and a strong mistrust of anyone
who is domineering.

The villages here look desolate
and dead, and forsaken.

Life goes on underground
instead of above.

As moulting time, when they change
their feathers, is for birds

so adversity or misfortune is the
difficult time for us human beings.

One can stay in it.
One can also emerge renewed.

But anyhow, it must not be done
in public.

Therefore, the only thing to do
is to hide oneself.

When I was in other surroundings,

in the surroundings of pictures
and works of art,

I had a violent passion for them,
reaching the highest pitch of enthusiasm.

And I'm not sorry about it.

For even now, far from that land,

I am often homesick
for the land of pictures.

Now, for more than five years,
I have been without employment.

It is true that I have lost
the confidence of many.

It is true that my financial affairs
are in a bad state.

It is true that even my studies are
in a rather sad and hopeless condition.

And that my needs are greater,
infinitely greater than my possessions.

But, I must continue on the path
I've taken now.

But you will ask:
What is your definite aim?

That aim will stand out,
slowly and surely,

as the rough draft becomes a sketch,
and the sketch becomes a picture.

Do our inner thoughts ever
show outwardly?

There may be a great fire in our soul,

yet no one ever comes
to warm himself at it.

And the passersby see only a wisp
of smoke coming through the chimney,

and go along their way.

I think that everything which is really
good and beautiful, comes from God.

And all which is bad and wrong in men
and in their works,

is not of God.

But, the best way to know God
is to love many things.

Love's a friend, a wife, something,
whatever you like.

But, one must love

with a lofty and serious
intimate sympathy

with strength and intelligence.

And, one must always try to know
deeper, better and more.

Sometimes I draw small sketches,
almost against my will.

But, it is a hard and difficult struggle
to draw well.

Dear Theo,

I am glad I came home.

Everyday, I go out into the fields.

My drawing has changed.

The technique as well as the results.

I have learnt to measure and to observe,
and seek for broad lines.

So, what seemed imposible before,
is gradually becoming possible now.

There's something I must tell you.

A deep love has grown in my heart
for our cousin Kee.

And when I told her this, she answered
that to her, past and future remained one.

So, she could never return my feelings.

I hope not to leave a single thing undone
which brings me nearer to her,

for love is something so positive,
so strong, so real,

that it is impossible for one who
loves to take back that feeling.

Life has become very dear to me.

And, I am very glad that I love.

My life and my love are one.

Should I accept her 'no, never never',

or should I keep some hope
and not give up?

When it happened, it was at first
as terrible a blow as a death sentence,

and for a moment, crushed me
to the ground.

Then, in that inexpressible
anguish of soul, I arose,

not resigning the believing,

and had no other thought than
'she and no other'.

I want to go through the joys
and sorrows of domestic life

in order to paint it from
my own experience.

She refuses to read my letters.

But the frost and the winter cold
are too bitter to last very long.

I send you a few drawings

because I thought you might find
someting of Brabant in them.

Now tell me, why dont they sell?

For now and then, I should like to earn
some money for a railroad ticket

so as to visit that no never never land.

Without her, I am nothing.
But with her, there was a chance.

I need a woman. I cannot, I will not
live without love.

I am a man, and a man with passions.
I must go to a woman.

Otherwise, I shall freeze or turn to stone.

Oh dear me, I hadn't far to look!

I found a woman.

That woman was very good to me.

Very kind.

When you wake up in the morning
and find yourself not alone,

but see there a fellow creature
beside you,

it makes the world look
so much more friendly.

Much more friendly than religious diaries
and whitewashed church walls.

Theo, as you can imagine

I have a great many cares and worries.

But still, it gives me
a feeling of satisfaction

to have come so far
that I cannot go back.

And though the path may be different,

I now see it clearly before me.

If you occasionally send me
what you can spare

without inconveniencing yourself,
I would be most grateful.

There is safety in the midst of danger.

What would life be if we hadn't courage
to attempt anything?

How will my work be, a year from now?

If I could only express what I feel!

My dear brother,

last winter I met a pregnant woman

deserted by the man
whose child she carried.

A pregnant woman who had to earn
her bread by walking the streets.

I took this woman for a model,
and have worked with her all winter.

I couldn't pay her the full wages
of a model,

but that did not prevent me
paying her rent.

And so far, I have been able to
protect her and her child

from hunger and cold by sharing
my own bread with her.

It seems to me that
every man worth a straw

would have done the same in such a case.

I can only marry once,

and how can I do better than marry her?

Misery would force her
back into her old ways.

I had not forgotten another woman
for whom my heart was beating.

But she was far away,
and refused to see me.

And this one walked the streets
in winter, sick, pregnant, hungry.

I couldn't do otherwise.

Christine and I understand each other.

We don't have to pay attention
to what people say.

Of course, we don't pretend
to maintain any social standing

familiar as I am, with the
prejudices of the world.

She knows what poverty is.

So do I.

Poverty has advantages
and disadvantages.

Fishermen know that the sea
is dangerous,

but they have never found these dangers
sufficient to keep them ashore.

You have my bread in your hands.

Will you take it from me?

At present, money is what
the right of the strongest used to be.

My life or death depends on your help.

If I succeed in making you understand
what I suspect you don't understand yet,

then Christine, her child
and myself will be safe.

To express my feelings for Kee,
I said resolutely, 'she and no other'.

And her 'no, never never' was not
strong enough to make me give her up.

But, I could find no rest.

The strain became unbearable
because she was always silent.

Then I felt that love died within me.

A void, an infinite void
came in its stead.

You know I believe in God.
I did not doubt the power of love.

But then I felt something like 'my God,
my God why hast thou forsaken me'?

And everything became a blank.
Oh God! There is no God!

I am no criminal!

To forget,

I lie down in the sand by an old
tree trunk, and make a drawing of it.

Smoking a pipe and looking at the
blue sky, or the moss or the grass

and I am a thousand miles away
from everything, and much happier.

Let the storm rise, the night descend.

Which is worse, danger or the fear
of danger?

Personally, I prefer reality.

The danger itself.

I have finished two larger drawings.

First, "Sorrow", only the figure
without any surroundings.

The other, "The Roots", show some
tree roots on sandy grounds.

I try to put the same sentiment into
the landscape as I put into the figure.

Convulsive, passionate,
clinging to the earth,

and yet being half torn up by the storm.

I wanted to express something of
the struggle for life

in that pale slender woman's figure,

as well as in the black, gnarled
and knotted roots.

I want to do drawings
which touch some people.

Something straight from my own heart.

In either figure or landscape,
I should wish to express

not sentimental melancholy,
but serious sorrow.

I want to progress so far that
people will say of my work:

He feels deeply. He feels tenderly.

What am I in most people's eyes?

A non-entity or an eccentric
and disagreeable man.

Somebody who has no position
in society, and never will have.

In short, the lowest of the low.

Very well, if this were true, then
I should want my work to show

what is in the heart of such
an eccentric, of such a nobody.

This is my ambition, which is
inspite of everything,

founded less on anger than on love;

more on serenity than on passion.

It is true that I am often in
the greatest misery.

But, still there is a calm, pure harmony
and music inside me.

I have made some experiments
with painting.

I write you just this little word,
to tell you I have made a beginning,

and I am sure no one could tell you
that they are my first painted studies.

Painting is such a joy to me!

It is now just two years since I began
to draw in the Borinage.

This week, I have painted some
rather large studies in the wood.

The one which I believe succeeded best,

is of nothing but a piece of dug up
earth after a pouring rain.

The other study in the wood is of
some large green beech trunks

on a stretch of ground
covered with dry sticks

and the little figure of a girl
in white.

The difficulty was to make it so that
one can breathe and walk around in it,

and smell the fragrance of the wood.

For two weeks now, I have painted from
early morning till late at night.

If I continue this way, it would be
too expensive as long as I don't sell.

But, I no longer stand helplessly
in front of nature.

In the woods yesterday,
towards evening,

I was busy painting some
rather sloping ground

covered with dry, molded beech leaves.

This ground was light and dark
reddish brown

made more so by the shadows of trees

casting, more or less,
dark streaks over it.

The problem was,
and I found it very difficult,

to get the depth of colour,

the enormous force and solidity
of that ground.

And while painting it, I perceived
for the very first time,

how much light there still was
in that dusk.

To keep that light,
and at the same time,

the glow and depth of that
rich colour.

Behind that brownish red soil,

is a sky, very delicate, bluish grey,
warm, hardly blue, all aglow.

And against it all,
is a holy border of green

and a network of little stems.

A few figures of wood gatherers

are wandering about like dark masses
of mysterious shadows.

The white cap of a woman
bending to reach a dry branch

stands out suddenly against the
deep red-brown of the ground.

A shirt catches the light.

A shadow is cast.

A dark silhouette of a man appears
above the underbrush.

A white bonnet, a cap, a shoulder,

the bust of a woman moulds itself
against the sky.

Those figures are large
and full of poetry.

In the twilight of that deep,
shadowy tone,

they appear as enormous terracottas
being modelled in a studio.

While painting it, I said to myself:

I must not go away before there is
something of an autumn evening in it.

Something mysterious,
something serious.

But, as this effect does not last long,
I had to paint quickly.

The figures were put in at once with a
few strong strokes of a firm brush.

It struck me how sturdily those little
stems were rooted in the ground.

I began painting them with a brush,

but because the surface was
already so heavily covered,

a brushstroke was lost in it.

Then, I squeezed the roots and
trunks in from the tube,

and modelled it a little
with a brush.

Yes, now they stand there, rising from
the ground, strongly rooted in it.

And I am glad I haven't
learned painting.

Because, then I might have learnt
to pass by such effects as this.

The laws of colour are
utterly beautiful,

just because they are
not accidental.

In the same way that people nowadays

no longer believe in fantastic miracles;

no longer believe in a god,

who capriciously and despotically
flies from one thing to another;

they begin to feel more respect, and
admiration for, and faith in nature.

My greatest desire is to make
beautiful things.

But, making beautiful things

cost trouble, and disappointment
and perserverence.

And I don't want that beauty
to come from the material,

but from within myself.

I regret that the woman with whom I live
understands neither books nor art.

If I did not look for art in reality,
I should probably find her stupid.

Sometimes, I cannot believe that
I am only thirty years old.

I feel so much older.

One begins to see more clearly that
life is only a kind of sowing time.

And the harvest is not here.

The money from you is absolutely
indispensable for me

as long as I haven't found
employment.

For the moment, my entire supply of
ready cash consists of a postal order

for one guilder and twenty-three and
a half cents torn in two

which has already been refused once.

If we could only find somebody
who would buy my work!

I must start painting again.

I can't do without colours
and colours are expensive!

The sea which I love enormously,
must be brushed in oil,

otherwise one cannot get hold of it.

I hope to keep courage.

And I hope that perhaps a certain
frenzy and rage for work

may carry me through,
like a ship is sometimes

thrown over a cliff by a wave,
and can make use of a storm

to save herself from wrecking.

If I fail, what does my loss mean?

I don't care so much after all.

But, one generally tries
to make one's life bear fruit

instead of letting it wither.

I do not intend to spare myself,

nor to avoid emotions
or difficulties.

I don't care much whether I live
a longer or shorter time.

I see it all from afar

like a dark shadow.

I am carrying out my plans of
going to Drenthe,

whether the woman goes
with me or not.

With all her damned faults, she will
always be good in my eyes.

and though, I do not doubt for a moment
that I have the same kind of faults,

I hope I shall not change
in this respect,

that when I see a poor woman
with a swollen belly,

I shall always try to do
what I can to help her.

The right thing would have been
to marry her.

But I admit, that she herself
makes it impossible.

She is not nice. She is not good

But neither am I.

And, there was a serious affection,
just the way we were,

notwithstanding everything.

Dear Theo,

we have gloomy, rainy days here.

I have worked and economised,

and yet, I have not been able to avoid
getting into debt.

I have been faithful to the woman,
and yet I had to leave her.

I have hated intrigues, and yet
I have neither credit nor any money.

I cannot help asking myself
if I must not tell you,

Leave me to my fate.
There is no help for it.

It is too much for one person.

As long as the weather was fine,
I did not mind the troubles

because I saw so many
beautiful things here.

But now that it has been
pouring incessantly,

I see more clearly how
I have got stuck here,

and how handicapped I am.

I came here in too much of a hurry,

and only now I feel what I lack.

Now that I acted rather harshly,
but what else could I do?

I feel inexpressibly melancholy
without my work to distract me,

and I must work, and work hard.

I must forget myself in my work.

Otherwise, it will crush me.

One finds the most wonderful types
of non-conformist clergymen

with pig faces and three-cornered hats
in this naive, desolate moor.

Theological discussions are held
with the farmers.

How is it possible for such absurdities
to exist in a country like this?

Why couldn't they look out of the window
or smoke their pipes,

or at least behave reasonably,
as for instance, there are pigs

which make no disturbance whatever
though they are pigs,

and are in place in these surroundings,
and in harmony with them.

But, before the clergymen of the type
I saw here,

reach the cultural and rational level
of ordinary pigs,

they must improve considerably.

I do not say far, very far,
be it for me to say,

that I myself have the 'rayon blanc'

but I am not ashamed to say
that it exists.

This white light,

and that I seek it,

and only this do I
consider simplicity.

My dear brother,

for several reasons, I made up
my mind to go home for a while.

Drenthe is splendid.

But, one's being able to
stay there depends on

whether one is able to
stand the loneliness.

I am sick at heart about the fact that
coming back after a two-year absence,

though the welcome home was
kind and cordial in every respect,

basically there has been
no change whatever.

Not the slightest.

And, what I must call the most
extreme blindness and ignorance

as to the insight
in our mutual position.

Father does not know remorse
like you and me,

and any man who is human.

Father believes in his
own righteousness.

Whereas, you and I and
other human creatures

are imbued with the feeling that
we consist of the errors and efforts

of the lost souls.

The good within father,
is wrongly applied,

so that it acts like evil.

Because, the light within him
is black,

and spreads darkness.

My very grief over so much
proves to me

that I myself have definitely
down with the systems in question

I have suffered from them.

But in my heart of hearts, I no longer
belong to that side of life.

Our youth was gloomy and frustrating.

In the future,

let us seek that soft light,
for which I know no better name,

than the white ray of light
or the good.

It is dreary outside.

The fields, a mass of lumps of
black earth and some snow,

with mostly days of mist and mire

in between the red sun in the evening
and in the morning.

Crows, withered grass and faded,
rotting green-black shrubs,

and the branches of the poplars
and willows, rigid like wire

against the dismal sky.

This is what I see in passing and it is
quite in harmony with the interiors.

Very gloomy, these dark winter days.

It is also in harmony with
the physiognomy

of the peasants and the weavers here.

A weaver who works steadily, makes a net
profit of four and a half guilden a week.

And when he takes it to the
manufacturer, he is often told

that he cannot take another
piece home for a few weeks.

So, not only are wages low,
but work is pretty scarce too.

Consequently, there's something agitated
and restless about these people.

I am a peasant painter.

I am content with the food, drink,
clothes and board

which the peasants themselves
are content with.

Everyday, I am more convinced that people
who do not first wrestle with nature,

never succeed.

I personally know no other way than
to wrestle with nature

long enough for her to tell me
her secret.

I have no other wish than to live

deep, deep, in the heart of the country
and to paint rural life.

Painting is a faith,

and it imposes the duty to
disregard public opinion.

In painting, one conquers
by perseverence

and not by making concessions.

I intend to make a series of scenes
from rural life.

In short, peasants at home.

Painting peasant life is a serious thing,

and I should reproach myself if
I did not try to make pictures

which will rouse various thoughts

in those who seriously think
about art and life.

One must paint the peasants
as being one of them,

as feeling, thinking as they do.

I feel a power in me which
I must develop.

A fire that I may not quench,
but must keep ablaze,

though I don't know to what end
it will lead me.

I shouldn't be surprised if it were
a gloomy one.

I am working on The Potato Eaters.

What I am trying to do most
is bring life into it.

Yes, I have tried to emphasise
that those people,

eating their potatoes in the lamplight,
have dug the earth

with those very hands they put
in the dish,

and so it speaks of manual labour,

and how they have honestly
earned their food.

I have wanted to give the impression

of a way of life so different from
us so-called civilized people.

Therefore, I am not at all anxious for
anyone to like it or admire it at once.

It might prove to be a real
peasant picture.

I know it is.

One of the most beautiful things to do
is to paint darkness,

which nevertheless, has light in it.

Accustoming oneself to poverty,

seeing how a soldier or a labourer
lives and thrives in wind and weather,

with ordinary people's fare
and dwelling,

is just as practical as earning
a few guilden more a week.

After all, one is not in the world
for one's own comfort,

and one does not need to be better off
than one's neighbour.

I feel that the future will probably
make me more ugly and rough,

and I foresee that a certain poverty
will be my fate.

But, I shall be a painter.

I shall be poor.

I shall remain human.

But I am making progress,

and I firmly believe, that with
perseverence,

I shall win.

You know those three oaks at the
bottom of the garden at home?

I have persevered and plodded
on them for the fourth time.

The difficulty was to model them,
and give them form, colour and tone.

Then in the evening, I took it
to an acquaintance of mine

where we put it on the wall.

Well, never before was I so
convinced that I shall succeed

in calculating my colours so that it is
in my power to get the right effect.

Though that man has money
and he liked it,

I felt such a glow of courage
when I saw that it was good,

that I could not sell it.

But, as he liked it very much, I gave
it to him, and he accepted.

Van Gogh is such an impossible name
for many foreigners to pronounce!

If it should happen that my pictures
found their way to France or England,

then the name would certainly
be murdered.

Whereas, the whole world can pronounce
the name "Vincent" correctly.

Dear Theo,

I am in Antwerp and have already
seen a few things.

The museum of old pictures and
the museum of modern art.

It will never hurt knowing
Antwerp a bit.

It will probably prove to be, like
everything else, namely disillusioning,

but with its own atmosphere.

Tomorrow, I shall start working in
the Academy's painting class.

It is an attempt to come
into contact with people.

To paint a great deal from the model,
that is what I have to do.

And, it is the only thing that
seriously helps to make progress.

When I compare a study of mine
with those of other fellows,

it is curious to see that they have
absolutely nothing in common.

But when I compare myself with them,

I find something stiff and
awkward about me

as if I've been in prison
for ten years.

and the cause of this is that I have
had a difficult and harassed life.

Much care and sorrow, and no friends.

I must change my outward
appearance somewhat.

I'm having my teeth seen to.

There are at least ten teeth that
I have either lost or may lose,

and that is too many
and too troublesome.

And besides, it makes me look over
forty, which is not to my advantage.

But anyway, painting has the secret of
being able to give one a second youth.

I do not intend to spare myself,

nor to avoid emotions or difficulties.

I don't care much whether I live
a longer or shorter life.

The world concerns me only
in so far as I feel

a certain indebtedness
and duty towards it,

because I have walked this earth
for thirty years.

And, out of gratitude, want to
leave some souvenir

in the shape of drawings
or paintings.

not made to please a
certain taste in art,

but to express sincere human feeling.

Theo, do not be cross with me for
having suddenly arrived like this.

I have thought about it so much, and I
believe in this way we shall save time.

I won't say that an artist
can get on here in Paris,

notwithstanding the many
obstructions and diversions.

There's much to be seen,
and much to experience.

In Antwerp, I did not know
what the Impressionists were.

Now I have seen them. And though,
not being one of the club,

I have much admired certain
Impressionist pictures.

I have made a series of
colour studies in painting.

I am trying to render intense colour,
and not a grey harmony.

I have plenty of canvases.
Anton Guy was very good to me.

But, his witch of a wife got wind of
what was going on and opposed it.

And so, I am struggling with my life
and progress in art.

My only anxiety is, how can I be
of use in this world?

At times, I feel old and broken;

and yet, still enough of a lover not
to be a real enthusiast of painting.

One must have ambition
in order to succeed;

and ambition seems to me absurd.

I don't know what will come of it.

Above all, I should like to be
less of a burden to you.

That is not impossible in the future.

For I hope I will make such progress,

that you will be able to show my work
boldly, without compromising yourself.

Then I will take myself off
somewhere down south,

to get away from the sight of so many
painters that disgust me as men.

How does one become mediocre?

By compromising and
making concessions;

today in this matter,
tomorrow in another,

according to the dictates
of the world;

by never contradicting the world; and
by always following public opinion.

It seems to me almost impossible
to work in Paris, unless one has

some place of retreat where
one can recuperate,

and get one's tranquility
and poise back.

Yes, I may be going to
the south of France.

The land of blue tones
and gay colours.

I am not an adventurer by choice,
but by fate.

My dear brother, during the journey
I thought of you at lease as much

as I did of the new country
I was seeing.

I believe in the ultimate victory.

But will the artists themselves
gain any advantages from it?

And will they see less troubled days?

I feel as though I was in Japan.

I say no more than that.

And mind you, I haven't seen
anything in its usual splendour yet!

It is my constant hope that I'm not
working for myself alone.

I believe in the absolute necessity
of a new art of colour,

of design, and of the artistic life.

If we work in that faith,

it seems to me there is a chance
that we do not hope in vain.

I've been working in the open air
in an orchard.

Lilac ploughland, a reed fence,

two pink peach tress against
a sky of glorious blue and white.

Probably the best landscape
I've done.

I had just brought it home,

when I received from our sister,
an obituary in memory of Mauve.

something, I don't know what, took hold
of me and brought a lump to my throat.

Oh never think the dead are dead!

As long as there are men alive,
the dead will live.

The dead will live.

That's how I feel it.
Nothing sadder than that.

I am up to my ears in work.

For the trees are in blossom, and I
want to paint a provincial orchard

of outstanding gaeity.

I fasten my easel with pegs driven into
the ground, and work inspite of the wind.

It's too lovely!

It seems to me more and more that
people are the roots of everything.

And though it will always be
a melancholy thought,

that you yourself are not
in real life.

I mean, that it's more worthwhile
to work in flesh and blood itself,

than in paint or plaster;

more worthwhile to make children
than pictures or carry out business.

I shall go on working.

And here and there, among my work,
there will be things that will last.

But who will be the figure painter,

what Claude Monet is to landscape?

The painter of the future will be a
colourist such as has never yet existed.

We must not judge God
from this world.

It's just a study that
didn't come off.

It's only a master who
can make such a blunder.

And this life of ours, so much
criticized and for such good reasons.

We must not take it for anything
but for what it is.

And so, go on hoping that
in some other life,

we'll see something better than this.

I should like to paint the portrait
of an artist friend.

A man who dreams great dreams.

I paint him as faithfully as I can
to begin with,

but the picture is not finished yet.

To finish it, I exaggerate
the fairness of the hair,

I get to orange tones, chromes
and pale lemon yellow.

Beyond the head, instead of painting
the ordinary wall of the main room,

I paint, infinity.

A plain background of the richest,
intensest blue that I can contrive.

And by this simple combination,

the bright head, illuminated against
a rich blue background,

acquires a mysterious effect.

Like a star in the depth of
an azure sky.

And, the nice people will only see
the exaggeration as caricature.

Here's a picture of the yellow house.

Alorn in the square, as you come into
town, with a building at the back.

Today, I have taken the right wing
which contains four rooms,

or rather, two rooms
with two cabinets.

I hope I've landed on my feet
this time.

You know, yellow outside,
white inside, with all the sun

so that I shall see my canvases
in a bright interior.

Meanwhile, if you approve,
I shall furnish the bedroom,

either hiring or buying it
for cash down.

I should like to share the
little studio with someone.

Perhaps, Gauguin will come south.

My dear Gauguin,

I wanted to let you know, that I
have just rented a four-room house

here in Arles.

And that it would seem to me

that if I could find another painter,
inclined to work in the south;

and who, like myself, would be
sufficiently absorbed in his work;

to be able to resign himself
to living like a monk;

who goes to the brothel
once a fortnight;

who, for the rest,
is tied up in his work,

and not very willing
to waste his time;

it might be a good job.

Being all alone, I am suffering
a little under this isolation.

Theo,

if Ganguin were willing to join me,

I think it will be a step forward
for us.

It would establish us squarely
as the explorers of the south,

and nobody could complain of that.

I am writing to you from
Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer

on the shores of the Mediterranean.

One night, I went for a walk by the
sea, along the empty shore.

It was not gay.
But, neither was it sad.

It was beautiful.

The deep blue sky was
flecked with clouds

of a blue deeper than the
fundamental blue of intense cobalt.

The others of a clearer blue,

like the blue whiteness
of the milky way.

In the blue depth,
the stars were sparkling,

greenish, yellow, white, pink

more brilliant, more sparkling
gem-like than at home.

Now that I have seen the sea here,

I am absolutely convinced of the
importance of staying in the Midi,

and of positively piling it on,
exaggerating the colour.

You see things more Japanese,
you feel colour differently.

The Japanese draw quickly, very
quickly, like a lightning flash,

because their nerves are finer,
their feelings simpler.

I've had a week's hard work among
the cornfields in the full sun.

The result is some studies of cornfields,
landscapes, and a sketch of a sower.

A ploughed field, a big field
with clouds of violet earth

climbing toward the horizon.

A sower in blue and white.

Over it all, a yellow sky
with a yellow sun.

Colour plays a very important part.

My lord, I do want to attack it seriously
and make a tremendous picture of it.

Everyone will say that
I work too fast.

Don't you believe a word of it.

Is it not emotion, the sincerity of
one's feeling for nature that draws us?

And if the emotions are
sometimes so strong

that one works without
knowing one works,

when sometimes the strokes come
with a continuity and a coherence,

like words in a speech or a letter,

then one must remember, that
it has not always been so.

and that in time to come,
there will again be hard days,

empty of inspiration,

so one must strike while the iron is hot,
and put the forge bars on one side.

I know nothing.

But, it is just this feeling
of not knowing,

that makes the real life
we are actually living now,

like a one-way journey on a train.

You go fast, but cannot distinguish
any object very clearly.

And above all, you do not
see the engine.

So, at the end of my career
I shall prove to be wrong,

so be it.

Then I shall find that not only the arts,
but everything else were only dreams,

and that one has nothing
at all oneself.

If we are as flimsy as that,
so much the better for us.

For then there is nothing to be said

against the unlimited possibility
of future existence.

Looking at the stars always
makes me dream,

as simply as I dream over
the black dots

representing towns and villages
on a map.

Why, I ask myself, shouldn't the
shining dots of the sky

be as accessible as the black dots
on the map of France?

Just as we take the train to get to
Tarascon or Rouen,

we take death to reach a star.

We cannot get to a star
while we are alive,

anymore than we can take the train
when we are dead.

So, to me it seems possible that
cholera, tuberculosis and cancer

are the celestial means
of locomotion.

Just as steamboats, buses and
railways are the terrestrial means.

To die quietly of old age,
would be to go there on foot.

We do not feel we are dying.

But we feel the truth that
we are of small account.

A canvas I have covered is
worth more than a blank canvas.

That, believe me my pretensions go
no further, that is my right to paint;

my reason for painting, and
by the lord, I have one!

I can very well do without God,
both in my life and in my painting.

But I cannot, ill as I am, do without
something which is greater than I am;

which is my life; the power to create.

And if frustrated by the physical power,

a man tries to create thought
instead of children,

he is still part of humanity.

Upto now, the loneliness
hasn't worried me much,

because I have found a brighter sun.

If the storm within gets too loud,
I take a glass too much to stun myself.

Now, painting is becoming
a distraction for me,

like rabbit hunting for
the crack-brained.

They do it to distract themselves.

My concentration becomes
more intense,

my hand more sure.

That is why I almost dare swear to you,
that my painting will improve,

because I have nothing left but that.

Last week, I did two portraits
of my postman.

The good fellow, as he would not
accept money,

cost more eating and drinking with me.

But that is a trifle evil considering
that he posed very well.

The more I think it over,
the more I feel

that there is nothing more artistic
than to love people.

I always think that poetry is
more terrible than painting,

though painting is a dirtier and
a much more worrying job.

And then the painter
never says anything.

He holds his tongue,
and I like that too.

Just now, we are having a glorious,
strong heat with no wind.

Just what I want.
There is a sun.

A light, that for the want of a better
word, I can only call yellow.

Pale sulphur yellow,
pale golden lemon.

How lovely yellow is!

I am now in the fourth picture
of sunflowers.

Fortunately for me, I do not hanker
after victory anymore.

And all that I seek in painting
is a way to make life bearable.

Oh my dear brother,

Sometimes I know so well what I want.

I still have a kind of
concentrated power

which only asks to
spend itself in work.

I must be allowed to stress my own
personality in a portrait;

not only myself, but in
Impressionists in general;

a simple worshipper of
the external Buddha.

I have made the eyes slightly
slanting like the Japanese.

I have just bought a dressing-table
with everything necessary,

and my little room is complete.

You cannot imagine what
peace of mind it gives me.

I shall end up not feeling
lonesome in this house.

Hope is breaking for me
vaguely on the horizon.

That hope, in intermittent flashes,
like a lighthouse

which has sometimes comforted me
during my solitary life.

I was wild to see my pictures
in frames,

and I had ordered too many
for my budget.

But I ventured to think that
if you saw the studies,

you would say I was right to work at
white heat as long as it was fine.

I had a new idea in my head.

This time, it's simply my bedroom.

Only here, colour is doing
everything,

and gives by its simplification,
a grander style to things.

It's suggestive here of rest
or of sleep,

looking at the picture, or to rest
the brain, or rather the imagination.

The walls are pale violet.

The floor is of red tiles.

The sheets and pillow
very light greenish lemon.

The coverlet scarlet.
The window green.

The toilette table orange.

The basin blue.

The door lilac.
And that is all.

The broad lines of the furniture again
must express inviolable rest.

The frame, as there is no white
in the picture, will be white.

This, by way of revenge, for the
enforced rest I was obliged to take.

Dear Theo,

Gauguin has arrived in good health.

We have loads of work to do.

He and I intend to take a tour
of the brothels pretty soon,

so as to study them.

You cannot imagine
how much it pleases me

to have such good company
as Gauguin's.

If we can stand the siege,
victory will come to us one day.

Joy in public, sorrow at home.

Supposing that the fight
is still before us,

we must just try to mature quietly.

Gauguin gives me the courage
to imagine things.

and certainly things from the imagination
take on a more mysterious character.

We talk a lot. Our arguments
are terribly electric.

I think myself that Gauguin
is a little out of sorts

with the good town of Arles;

the little yellow house
where we work;

and, especially, with me.

There are grave difficulties
to overcome,

for him, as well as for me.

But, these difficulties are more
within ourselves, than outside.

Dear Theo,

I write to you in full possession
of my faculties,

not as a madman, but
as the brother you know.

This is the truth.

A certain number of people here,
addressed a petition to the mayor

describing me as a man
not fit to be at liberty!

What a staggering blow
between the eye,

to find so many people here cowardly
enough to join together against one man!

And that man ill!

I think about all the people I know,
all day and all night long.

To suffer without complaining is one
lesson that has to be learned in life.

When I get out, I shall be able to go
my own little way again.

And soon, the fine weather
will be coming again;

and I will start on the
orchards in bloom.

No harm has come to me.

No evil exists in this best of worlds
in which everything is for the best.

During my illness, I saw again every
room in the house at home.

Every path, every plant in the garden,
the views of the fields outside,

the neighbours, down to a magpie's nest
in a tall acacia in the graveyard.

There's no one left to remember
all this but Mother and me.

The best we can do is to make fun
of our petty griefs,

and, in a way, of the great griefs
of human life too.

I'd kept myself going on coffee
and alcohol. I admit all that.

But all the same, it is true that
to attain the high yellow note

I obtained last summer, I really had
to be pretty well keyed up.

To produce the pictures in the
furnace heat of the Midi!

Now, I feel a certain undercurrent of
vague sadness difficult to define.

I am troubled by shapeless fears.

My God, those anxieties!

Who can live in the modern world
without catching his share of them!

You can exhibit the pictures
of the sunflowers.

You will see that this is a kind of
painting that rather changes to the eye,

and takes on richness the longer
you look at it.

Perhaps as an attempt to get all the
music of the colour into La Berceuse.

It's badly painted but all the same.

Gauguin himself liked the
sunflowers better later on,

when he'd been looking
at them for a long while.

You must realise that if you
arrange them this way,

say La Berceuse in the middle and
the two canvases of sunflowers

to the right and left,
it makes a sort of triptych

And then the yellow and orange tones
of the head will gain in brilliance

by the proximity of the yellow wings
and the paintings seen together.

I've no illusions about myself anymore.

There are moments when I'm twisted
by enthusiasm or madness or prophecy

like a Greek oracle on a tripod.

Just as the waves pound against
the sullen hopeless cliffs,

I feel a tempest desire to
embrace something.

A woman of the domestic hen type.

One must take this for what it is, the
effect of hysterical overexcitement,

rather than a vision of actual reality.

Let's work on very quietly.

You will do your duty
and I will do mine.

We have both already paid
in ways other than in words,

and at the end of the road, we may
quietly come together again.

If you saw the olive groves just now!

The leaves - old silver and
silver turning to green -

against the blue and the
orange-coloured ploughed earth.

It's like the pollard willows
of our Dutch meadows

or the oak bushes of our dunes.

That is to say the rustle of an olive
grove has something very secret in it,

and immensely old.

It is too beautiful for us
to dare to paint it,

or be able to imagine it.

Now, to get up heat enough
to melt that gold again,

those flower tones.
It isn't everybody who can do it.

It needs the whole and entire force
and concentration of a single individual.

I am doing an arrieux of
pink flowering chestnuts

and the little cherry tree in flower,
with the wisteria plant

and a path in the park splashed
with light and shade.

Now, society being what it is,

we naturally cannot wish that it should
conform to our personal needs.

And so, though I am very glad
to be going to Saint Remy,

nevertheless it would be fair
that a man like myself

to shove them into the foreign legion.

All through my life, I have sought
something other than a martyr's career,

for which I am not cut out.

Dear Theo,

I think I've done well to come here.

I am losing the vague dread,
the fear of the thing.

And little by little, I can come to look
upon madness as a disease like any other.

The fear and horror of madness
that I used to have,

has already lessened a great deal.

And though you continually hear
terrible howls and cries,

the people here get to know
each other very well,

and help each other when
their attacks come on.

When I am working in the garden,
they all come to look.

I assure you, they have the discretion
and manners to leave me alone,

more so than the good people
of Arles for instance.

If I had not seen other
lunatics close up,

I should not have been able to free
myself from dwelling on it constantly.

There is someone here who's been shouting
and talking like me all the time.

He thinks he hears voices and words
in the echoes of the corridors.

Probably because, the nerves of the
ear are diseased and too sensitive.

And in my case, it was my sight
as well as my hearing.

Then the shock was such that
it sickened me even to move,

and nothing would have pleased me more
than never to have woken up again.

I find it queer that I saw it like this
from between the iron bars of a cell.

When a man comes out of prison,
after having been there a long time,

there would be moments when
he will miss his prison,

because he finds himself at a loss
now that he is at liberty;

so called I suppose because the
grinding daily task of earning a living,

hardly leaves any liberty at all.

I am now trying to recover like a man
who meant to commit suicide,

and finding the water too cold,
tries to regain the bank.

I feel the desire to renew myself
and to try to apologise for the fact,

that my pictures are, after all,
almost a cry of anguish.

Although in the rustic sunflower,
they may symbolise gratitude.

I have drawn that Pieta by Delacroix
without taking a single measurement.

And yet, there are those four hands
and arms in the foreground of it,

gestures and postures not exactly
easy or simple.

I know well that healing comes
if one is brave from within,

through profound resignation to
suffering and death;

through the surrender of your own
will and of your self love.

But it is of no use to me.

I love to paint, to see people
and things everywhere

that makes our life artificial,
if you like.

At present, this horror of life
is less acute.

But, I have no will, hardly any
desire or none at all;

and hardly any wish for anything
belonging to ordinary life;

almost no desire to see my friends,

although I keep thinking about them.

I shall count myself very happy if I can
manage to work enough to earn my living.

For it worries me a lot when I think
I've done so many pictures and drawings

without ever selling one.

I'm always filled with remorse

terribly so, when I think of my work
that is so little in harmony

with what I would have liked to do.

If in some month or other,
it should be too difficult

to send me paint and canvas etc,
then do not send them.

For believe me, it is better to live
than to work at art in the abstract.

Yesterday, I began to work again on
a thing that I see from my window.

A reaper. The study is all yellow,
terribly thickly painted.

But the subject was fine and simple.

For I see in this reaper a vague figure
fighting like a devil

in the midst of the heat to get
to the end of his task.

I see in him the image of death,

in a sense, that humanity might be
the wheat he is reaping.

But, there is nothing sad
in this death.

It goes its way in broad daylight
with a sun flooding everything

with a light of pure gold.

I think it will be one of those
you keep at home.

It is an image of death as the
great book of nature speaks of it.

But, what I have thought
is the almost smiling.

It is all yellow, except
a line of violet hills.

A pale, fair yellow.

I am sending you my own portrait.

You must look at it for some time.

You will see, I hope, that my face
is much calmer.

Though, it seems to me that my look
is vaguer than before.

I have tried to make it simple.

The olives with a white cloud
and a background of mountains,

as well as the moonrise
and the night effect,

are exaggerations from the
point of view of arrangement.

Their lines are warped as in old wood.

The olives are more in character
as in the other study.

And I've tried to express the time of day
when you see the green rose beetles

and the cicadas flying about
in the heat.

Unfortunately, there are
no vineyards here.

But for that, I should have done
nothing else this autumn.

On the other hand, the olive trees
are very characteristic,

and I am struggling to catch them.

They are old silver; sometimes
with more blue in them,

sometimes greenish, bronzed,
fading white, above a soil

which is yellow, pink, violet-tinted
or orange, to dull red ochre.

Very difficult though. Very difficult.

But that suits me,

and induces me to work wholly
in gold or silver.

And, perhaps, one day I shall do
a personal impression of them,

like what the sunflowers were
for the yellow.

Altogether, it is difficult to leave a
country before you have done something

to prove that you have felt and loved it.

For the moment, I am working on a picture
of a path between the mountains

and a little brook forcing its way
between the stones.

The rocks are of a plain
violet-gray or pink,

with, here and there, palm bushes
in a kind of broom.

It has all kinds of colours.

And the brook in the foreground,
white and foaming like soap suds;

and farther on, reflecting
the blue sky.

It is basically true,
that a painter as a man,

is too absorbed in what his eyes see,

and is not sufficiently master of
the rest of his life.

Please, ask Mr Aurier not to write
anymore articles on my painting.

Insist upon this, that to begin with,
he is mistaken about me.

Since I am too overwhelmed with grief
to be able to face publicity,

sucess is about the worst thing
that can happen.

I have led too hard a life
to die for it,

or to lose the power to work.

My surroundings here, begin to weigh
on me more than I can say.

My word, I have been patient
for more than a year.

I need air.

I feel overwhelmed with
boredom and grief.

This morning, I saw the country again.

What things I still could have
done here!

It would be ungrateful
to curse the Midi.

I leave it with great grief.

With a handshaking thought,

Your Brother, Vincent.

Dear Theo,

Auverre is very beautiful.

Among other things, a lot of old
thatched roofs which are getting rare.

I've seen Doctor Gachet who gives me the
impression of being rather eccentric.

But, his experience as a doctor must
keep him balanced enough, to combat

the nervous trouble from which he
certainly seems to me to be suffering,

at least as seriously as I.

But he is older and lost his wife
several years ago.

But, he is very much the doctor,

and his profession and faith
still sustain him.

I am working at his portrait.

It has the same sentiment as the self-
portrait I did when I left for this place.

I am completely engrossed by these huge
plains of standing corn backed by hills.

They are vast as the sea.

Very delicate yellow, very pale
green and very soft mauve.

Part of the land is under cultivation,
dotted with flowering potato plants.

The sky is blue, with white,
pink and violet tints.

I believe I am capable
of painting the scene.

I think we must not count on
Doctor Gachet at all.

Firstly, he is sicker than I am,
I think; or shall we say, just as much.

Now, when a blind man leads
another blind man,

then they both fall into the ditch.

It is difficult to know oneself.

But, it isn't easy either
to paint oneself.

I should like to have a soul less unquiet
than mine, which is foundering.

I feel exhausted.

So much for me.

I feel this is the lot which I accept
and which will not change.

And the prospects grow darker.

I see no happy future at all.

I generally try to be very cheerful.

But my life is also threatened
at the very root.

And my steps are wavering.

Once back here, I set to work again,

though the brush almost slipped
from my fingers.

But knowing exactly what I wanted, I've
painted three more big canvases since.

They are vast fields of wheat
under troubled skies.

And I didn't need to go out of my way
to try to express sadness,

and extreme loneliness.

Though the truth is, we can only
make our pictures speak.

But yet, my dear brother,

there is this that I have
always told you,

and I repeat it once more
with all the earnestness

that can be expressed by
the effort of a mind

diligently fixed on trying to do
as well as possible.

I tell you again, that I shall
always consider you

to be something more than
a simple dealer in paintings;

that, through my mediation,
you have your part

in the actual production
of some canvases;

which will retain their calm,
even in the catastrophe.

For this is what we have got to.

This is all, or at least, the main thing
that I have to tell you

at a moment of comparative crisis.

My own work - I am risking
my life for it.

And, my reason is half-founded
because of it.

That's all right.

But you are not among
the dealers in man,

and you can still choose your side,

acting with humanity.

But, what is the use?

Wish I knew it!