All language subtitles for Van Gogh Painted With Words 1080i HDTV MVGroup EN SUB_Subtitles01.ENG

I remain your brother who loves you.

The myth of Vincent van Gogh,
the mad artist,

has captivated us
for over a century now.

Ignored during his lifetime,

after his death,
his paintings finally surfaced,

or rather exploded,

capturing the world
in vibrant, vivid colours.

Today, they are among the
most recognisable and valuable
works of art in the world.

My brush goes between my fingers
as if it were the bow on a violin,

and absolutely for my pleasure.

When we think of van Gogh, we
see him as a strange, mad genius

who somehow, through sheer instinct,
found a way of pouring out the blaze

of his inner feelings onto canvas.

Let me quietly continue my work.

If it's that or the madman,
well, then too bad.

And then I can't
do anything about it.

But his work has often been eclipsed
by his reputation as a madman.

Vincent and I can absolutely not
live side by side without trouble.

There's simply no changing
the fact that he's eccentric.

It is an incredible story,

but the true story of
Vincent van Gogh is here in
the letters he left behind.

Nothing can be said about van Gogh
that he didn't say himself.

There are 902 letters here,
the vast majority written to his

younger brother Theo, who became
his confidant and his lifeline.

This is Vincent thinking aloud,
taking us through his life

step by step, documenting his
struggles as an artist and as a man.

It's from these letters
that this film is made.

Using only van Gogh's words and
those of the people around him.

Nothing is imagined.

Every word spoken is true.

On the night of December the
23rd, 1888, Vincent van Gogh

suffered an acute mental breakdown
and cut off part of his left ear,

which he presented to a prostitute
in his favourite brothel.

The police discovered him
lying in a pool of blood

in his bedroom
and committed him here,

to the local hospital in Arles,

where he was placed
in an isolation cell.

This is van Gogh's story
in his own words.

'My dear Theo...

'..where can I go that's worse
than where I've already been?

'Shut up for long days under lock
and key and in the isolation cell.'

I still have a certain "what's the
good of getting better?" feeling,

however the unbearable,

unbearable hallucinations
have stopped...

..reducing themselves
to simple nightmares.

Physically, I am well,

the wound is closing very well

and the great loss of blood
is balancing out.

The most fearsome
thing is the insomnia.

I feel weak,
a little anxious and fearful.

My dear brother,

it breaks my heart to know
that now you will actually

have very bad days.

I do so wish that you could
tell me how you feel.

For nothing is as
distressing as uncertainty.

I remain your brother who loves you.

Theo.

A certain number of people from
here have addressed a petition to

the mayor designating me as a man
not fit for living at liberty.

As the managing agent
of the house occupied

by Mr Vincent van Gogh, I had
occasion to speak with him yesterday

and to observe that he is
suffering from mental disturbance.

He insults my customers, and
is prone to interfering with

women from the neighbourhood,

whom he follows
into their residences.

I was seized round the waist

outside Mrs Crevlin's
shop by this individual.

In short, this madman is becoming
a threat to public safety,

and everyone is demanding that he be
confined to a special establishment.

And this is the petition, filed
in the police records in Arles,

and signed by 30 of his neighbours.

The chief of police then gave
the order to have me locked up.

'I won't hide from you that
I would prefer to die than cause
and bear so much trouble.

'To suffer without complaining
is the only lesson that has
to be learned in this life.'

Vincent's childhood was the product
of a strict Calvinist upbringing.

His father was a minister
in the Dutch Reform Church,

and he was brought up in Zundert,
a small town in the Netherlands.

He was sent away to boarding school,
where he was taught the rudiments of

drawing, and excelled
in foreign languages.

He left at the age of 16, when
he started an apprenticeship

with the international
art dealers, Goupil.

Three years later,
Theo followed in his footsteps.

This is when the letters begin.

Vincent was 19 years old,

and Theo just 15.

'My dear Theo,

'I'm so glad that both of us

'are now in the same line of
business and in the same firm.

'We must correspond often.

'The love between two brothers
is a great support in life,

'that's an age-old truth.

'Let the fire of love between us not
be extinguished, but let instead the

'experience of life make
that bond even stronger -

'let us remain upright
and candid with each other.'

Let there be no secrets,

as things stand today.

In May 1873,

Vincent was transferred to Goupil's
London office in Covent Garden.

He moved to Brixton -

then a prosperous,
middle-class neighbourhood.

I crossed Westminster Bridge
every morning and evening

and know what it looks like when

the sun's setting behind Westminster
Abbey and the Houses of Parliament.

His apprenticeship at Goupil was
beginning to train his eye in art,

and his enthusiasm extended
beyond office hours.

We know that because this visitors'
book at the British Museum

shows that on
August 28 1874, van Gogh

was the fourth visitor of the day,

and he came to see this drawing
attributed to Rembrandt.

The figure of our lord,
noble and impressive,

stands out gravely
against the window.

I hope not to forget that drawing,

nor what it seems
to be saying to me.

Vincent became an ardent visitor

to London's great museums
and galleries.

And he shared with Theo his
growing enthusiasm

for the art and literature

he was becoming
increasingly attached to.

English art didn't appeal to me much
at first, one has to get used to it.

But there are some
good artists here.

Millais, who painted Huguenot and
Ophelia - they're very beautiful.

And then there's Turner,

after whom you'll probably
have seen engravings.

"Where are the songs of spring?

"Aye, where are they?

"Think not of them,
thou hast thy music too,

"while barred clouds bloom

"the soft-dying day, and touch
the stubble-plains with rosy hue."

The last few days I've enjoyed
reading the poems of John Keats.

He's a poet who isn't very well
known in Holland, I believe,

but he's a favourite
of the painters here,

which is how I came
to be reading him.

Vincent developed a passion
for English popular art,

as seen in the black
and white prints

in The Graphic
and Illustrated London News,

eventually collecting
a thousand of them.

In my view, prints like these
together form a kind of Bible

for an artist, in which he reads
now and again to get into a mood.

It's good not only to know
them but to have them in the
studio once and for all.

For me, the English draughtsmen

are what Dickens is
in the sphere of literature.

Noble and healthy, and something
one always comes back to.

Amongst his collection was this
print of Dickens' empty chair.

The social realist subject matter
of the prints and Dickens' writings

about London's working class
living in squalid poverty,

left a lasting impression
on Vincent.

"The mud lay thick upon the stones

"and a black mist
hung over the streets.

"The hideous, old man seemed
like some loathsome reptile,

"crawling forth by night, in search
of some rich offal for a meal."

There's such a yearning
for religion among the people
in those big cities.

Many a worker in a factory or shop

has had a remarkably pious,
pure youth.

George Eliot describes
the life of factory workers

who hold religious services
in a chapel in Lantern Yard.

"The pulpit where the minister
delivered unquestioned doctrine,

"and swayed to and fro..."

BELL CHIMES

"..and handled the book
in a long-accustomed manner.

"These had been the channel of
divine influences for Silas Marner.

"They were the fostering home
of his religious emotions,

"they were Christianity

"and God's kingdom upon Earth."

Reading George Eliot's novels about
English evangelism reminded Vincent

of his own upbringing
in a religious home.

Wanting now to follow
in his father's footsteps,

he immersed himself
in the study of the Bible.

But his preoccupation with religion

led him to neglect his duties in
the art firm, so he was fired.

He now tried to get a position
as a teacher's assistant,

hoping this would help him reach
his goal of entering the church.

'Dear Theo,

'I received a letter from
a teacher in Ramsgate

'who suggested that I come
there for a month, without pay,

'in order to see whether he can
use me at the end of that time.

'It's a beautiful route.

'The sky was a light blue,

'with grey and white clouds.'

'You can imagine, I was looking
out of the window for Ramsgate

'a long time before I got there.'

Herewith, a little drawing of
the view from the school window.

Where the boys stand and watch
their parents going back

to the station after a visit.

Determined to make
himself useful to those he
saw suffering around him,

Vincent taught Sunday
school to children from the
London markets and streets.

And on the 12th November 1876,
he delivered his first sermon.

We are pilgrims in
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.

Theo, your brother
spoke for the first time in
God's house last Sunday.

When I stood up on the pulpit,

I felt like someone emerging out
of a dark, underground vault

into the friendly daylight, and
it's a wonderful feeling to think

that from wherever I go from now on,
I'll be preaching the gospel.

Religion came to dominate his
letters to his family,

with his Biblical fanaticism
seeping into the language.

My brother, let us take care.

Let us ask Him who is above, who
also maketh intercession for us,

that He should
keep us from the evil.

Yea, let us watch and
be sober, let us trust in

the Lord with all of our heart, and
lean not unto our own understanding.

Let us ask that He
compel us to come in.

To be meek, longsuffering and lowly,
sorrowful yet always rejoicing.

He writes many letters,
long ones too,

and when reading them,

one is inclined to say how can
a simple clergyman come out of this?

And then again there is nevertheless
something good in them as well.

When Vincent returned to Holland,

his father agreed to support his
preparation to enter the ministry.

But he struggled with his
studies, and quit after a year.

The only option left to him
was missionary work,

and in January 1879 he was appointed

as a lay-preacher in the Borinage,
a coal-mining district in Belgium.

Going down in a mine
is an unpleasant business,

in a kind of basket or cage
like a bucket in a well,

so that down there looking upward,

the daylight appears to be about
as big as a star in the sky.

The workers get used to it, but
even so, they never shake off

an unconquerable feeling
of horror and dread.

Vincent was truly sickened by
the plight of the miners' lives.

Nursing the sick and injured

became just as important
to him as preaching.

He gave away most of his possessions

in the hope of alleviating
their suffering.

But once again, after his six month
trial, he failed to make the grade.

Vincent was jobless once more.

His father was so concerned
about his state of mind

that he considered having him
committed to a psychiatric hospital.

I, for one, am a man of passions,

capable and liable to do
rather foolish things

for which
I sometimes feel rather sorry.

For example, you know well that
I've neglected my appearance.

I admit it's rather shocking.

Must one consider oneself a
dangerous man incapable of anything
at all? I don't think so.

Money troubles - ha!

And poverty have
something to do with it.

Now you say, from such
and such a time you've

been going downhill, you've
faded away, you've done nothing.

Now that being so,
what's to be done?

Theo worried about his brother,

but recognising a talent in
Vincent's sketches of the miners,

encouraged him to apply
himself more seriously to art.

Vincent, being his own man, wasn't
really interested in following
any traditional art education.

Instead, he taught himself
using this artist's manual

by Charles Bargue.

'Careful study and constant repeated
drawing of Bargue's exercises has

'given me more insight into
figure drawing.

'I've learned to measure and to see
and to attempt the broad outlines,

'etcetera, so that what
used to seem to me

'to be desperately
impossible is now gradually

'becoming possible.

'Drawing is the root of everything.'

After years in the wilderness,

Vincent had finally
found his vocation.

My plan is not to spare myself,

not to avoid a lot of
difficulties and emotions.

It's of a relative
indifference to me whether I
live a long or short time.

I'm concerned with the world

only in that I have a certain
obligation, or duty, if you like,

having walked the world
for 30 years to leave

a souvenir of gratitude in the
form of paintings or drawings.

Van Gogh was from the very
beginning, and would remain,

a man of the people,

identifying with the peasants, the
working class, with the outcasts.

And all his letters from now on
document his single-minded

immersion in art - his own and
the work of those he most admired.

In particular the French
artist Jean-Francois Millet,

famous for his realistic scenes
of peasant farmers' lives.

I feel the need to study figure
drawing from masters like Millet.

"In art, one must give one's
heart and soul," he says.

'I have already drawn The Sower
five times, and I'm so completely

'absorbed in that figure,
I will take it up again.

'Nature always begins
by resisting the draughtsman.

'It sometimes resembles what
Shakespeare calls taming the shrew,

'ie to conquer the opposition
through perseverance, willy-nilly.

'If I succeed in putting some
warmth and love into the work,

'then it will find friends.'

Well, I just don't know...

Although Vincent was able to
put love into his work,

it was proving difficult
to find in his life.

He was back home
living with his parents.

His widowed cousin Kee Voss came
to visit the parsonage,

and Vincent
fell madly in love with her.

From the beginning of this
love I've felt that unless
I threw myself into it

unreservedly, committing
myself to it whole-heartedly,

fully and forever, then there would
be absolutely no chance for me.

But does it matter to me if the
chance is smaller or larger?

I mean, must I, can I,
take that into account

when I love?

No, no thought to the winnings.

One loves because one loves.

But this love was not reciprocated,
and it embarrassed his parents, who

thought he was shaming the family.

His uncle forbade
Vincent from seeing Kee.

But he bombarded her with letters,

and then... I went to Amsterdam.

There I was told "your
persistence is sickening."

I put my fingers in the flame
of a lamp and said,

"let me see her for as long
as I hold my hand in the flame."

But they blew out the lamp,
and said, you shall not see her.

To love...

..what a business.

Vincent set out for The Hague,
the centre of the Dutch art world.

'I had a rather violent
argument with Pa,

'and feelings ran so high

'that Pa said it would be
better if I left home.

'It was said so decisively that
I actually left the same day.

'I was angrier than I've ever
remembered being in my whole life,

'and I told Pa plainly
that I found the whole system
of that religion loathsome.

'I want nothing more to do with it,

'and have to guard against it
as against something fatal.'

Now without an income or a home,
he turned to Theo.

'It goes without saying
that I'm asking you, Theo,
if you can do it...'

"..to send me now and then what you
can without going short yourself.

"Let me send you my work and
you take what you want from it..."

'..but I insist that I may
consider the money I would receive
from you as money I've earned.'

I hope to do as much
as I can to help you

until you start earning yourself,

but what I don't like is the way
you've contrived to leave Pa and Ma.

What the devil made you so childish
and so shameless as to contrive

in this way to make their life
miserable and almost impossible?

It's your duty to set
things straight at all costs.

Upon arrival in The Hague, Vincent
set himself up in a small studio

and got a commission for
a series of cityscapes,

sketching all aspects
of the modern metropolis.

And Vincent, wanting to enjoy all
the pleasures of city life,

soon found himself in hospital
for a few weeks undergoing
treatment for syphilis.

And then...

This winter I met a pregnant woman,
who had been abandoned

by the man whose child she
was carrying. A pregnant woman

wandering the streets in winter,

earning her bread,
you can imagine how.

'I took that woman as a model

'and I worked with her
the whole of the winter.

'She's learning to
pose better every day,

'that's extremely important to me.'

Her name was Clasina Maria Hoornik,

better known as Sien,
a woman older than Vincent.

She was a seamstress
who supplemented her income
with prostitution.

I couldn't give her a
model's full daily wage...

..but all the same, I paid her rent
and until now have been able,

thank God, to preserve her and
her child from hunger and cold

by sharing my own bread with her.

When I met this woman, she caught
my eye because she looked so ill.

To me,

she is beautiful.

And I find in her
exactly what I need.

Life has given her
a drubbing, and sorrow,

sorrow and adversity
have left their mark.

She posed for my very
best drawing, Sorrow.

I want to make drawings that
move some people.

Sorrow is a small beginning.

At least it contains something
straight from my own feelings.

I couldn't draw Sorrow
if I didn't feel it myself.

This other one, Roots, is
some tree roots in sandy ground.

I've tried to imbue
the landscape with the same
sentiment as the figure.

In all of nature, trees for
instance, I see expression and soul.

Well, it may be that I
felt more passion for Kee Voss,

and that in certain respects

she was more charming than Sien.

It is certainly not so that the love
for Sien is therefore less sincere.

This relationship generated even
more disgust in the family

than Vincent's
earlier infatuation with Kee,

and once again he was penniless.

But, old chap, this has
been an anxious fortnight.

When I wrote to you in the middle
of May, all I had left was three,

three-and-a-half guilder
after paying the baker.

The rent's due on 1st June, and
I have nothing, literally nothing.

I hope you'll be able
to send something.

But Theo was just as scandalised
and refused to send any extra money.

With Vincent unable
to support a family,

Sien decided to go back to
prostitution once the baby was born.

For Vincent, this was all too much.

Oh, Theo,

I have the most impossible and
highly unsuitable love affairs

from which, as a rule,

I emerge only
with shame and disgrace.

But I shall continue to think
of her often.

And so Vincent left, and went
deep into rural Holland,

to live and paint
among the peasants.

This time I'm writing to you from
the very back of beyond in Drenthe.

I see no way of describing
the countryside to you as it should
be done, because words fail me.

What I think is the best life is
a life made up of long years

of being in touch
with nature out of doors.

Here are a couple
of evening effects.

I'm still working on that
weed burner, whom I've caught better
than before in a painted study

as far as the tone is concerned, so
that it conveys more of the vastness

of the plain and the gathering dusk.

And one muddy evening after
the rain I found the little hut,

which was very beautiful
in its natural setting.

When I say that I'm a peasant
painter, that is really so,

and will become clearer
to you in future.

But living in such
an isolated place,

loneliness soon bore down on him.

Alone, one is sure to perish.

Only with another can one be saved.

The very best and most effective
medicine is still love and a home.

So home he went,
depressed and broke,

and with his tail between his legs,
to live with his parents again.

However, the medicine
wasn't quite right.

At first it seemed to be hopeless,

but it has gradually got better,
particularly since we agreed that he

will stay with us for the time
being, to make studies here.

He wanted the out house
to be fitted up for him.

We don't think it's a
particularly suitable place,
but we've had it spruced up.

Now, we shall just make it nice and
warm and dry and then it should do.

There's a similar reluctance
about taking me into the house

as there would be about having
a large, shaggy dog in the house.

He'll come into the
room with his wet paws,

and then he's so shaggy.
He'll get in everyone's way.

And his bark is so loud.

In short, he's a filthy animal.

Very well...

but the animal has
a human history and,

although it's a dog, a human soul,

and one with finer feelings
at that - capable of

feeling what people say about him,
which an ordinary dog can't do.

We're undertaking this new trial
with real good faith.

It's a pity that he isn't
a little more accommodating,

but there's simply no changing
the fact that he's eccentric.

And I, admitting that
I am a sort of dog...

..accept them

for what they are.

Despite the difficulties at home,
it was around this time

that Vincent came
into his own as an artist.

Starting with the drawings
of local weavers.

Every day, I paint studies
of the weavers here.

I think the looms, with that
quite complicated machinery,

in the middle of which sits
the little figure,

will also lend themselves
to pen drawings.

I must make sure that I get them
so that the colour and tone

match with other
Dutch paintings, though.

These Dutch painters he was
so impressed by were Anton Mauve

and Jozef Israels,
artists from The Hague School,

celebrated for their
rural scenes and peasant subjects.

Their palette was grey and brown,

matching the weather conditions
of The Netherlands.

Very different from
the revolutionary paintings being
produced in Paris at that time

by The Impressionists with their
bright and colourful paintings,

which Theo had written
to Vincent about.

When I hear you talk about a lot of
new names, it's not always possible

for me to understand when I've
seen absolutely nothing by them.

And from what you say about
Impressionism, it's not entirely

clear to me what one
should understand by it.

For my part, I find so tremendously
much in Israels, for instance, that

I'm not particularly curious
about or eager for something

different or newer.

Despite this, Vincent was becoming
increasingly interested in colour,

fascinated by what he saw
emerging on the looms.

When the weavers weave those
fabrics, they try, as you know,

to get the very brightest colours
in balance against one another

in the multicoloured tartans,
so that, rather than the fabric

clashing, the overall effect
is harmonious from a distance.

You have to go straight
to Eugene Delacroix to find such
an orchestration of colours.

I'm talking about the blue,
green sketch with red and purple

and touches of lemon yellow.

It speaks a symbolic language
through colour itself.

So now Vincent starts to introduce
shards of colour into his work,

in landscapes, and then in a series
of portraits of local peasants.

I have a few of the heads
I promised you.

They are studies,
in the true meaning of the word.

I've already painted
at least 30 or so.

At the same time, I'm working
on those peasants around a
dish of potatoes again.

I hope that the painting of those
potato eaters will progress a bit.

You see, I really wanted
to make it so that

people get the idea that these folk,

eating their potatoes by the light
of their little lamp on the table,

have tilled the earth
themselves with these hands they
are putting in the dish,

so the whole speaks of
manual labour and thus they have
honestly earned their food.

I wanted to give the idea
of a way of life

wholly different from ours.

I certainly don't just want
everyone to admire it

or approve of it without
knowing why.

Admiration certainly
didn't come from Theo,

or from Vincent's friend and fellow
artist, one Anthon van Rappard.

My dear friend!
You can do better than this...

fortunately.

That coquettish little hand of
that woman at the back, how untrue!

And what connection is there between

the coffeepot, the table and the
hand lying on top of the handle?

What's that pot doing,
for that matter?

It isn't standing, it isn't
being held, but what then?

And why may that man on
the left not have a knee,

or a belly or lungs?

Or are they in his back?

And why must his arm be
a metre too short?

And why must he lack
half of his nose?

With such a manner of working, you
dare to invoke the name of Millet?

Come on! Art is too important,

it seems to me,
to be treated so cavalierly.

But perhaps van Rappard
had missed the point.

I want people to say of my work,

that man feels deeply,
that man feels subtly,

despite my so-called coarseness or
perhaps precisely because of it.

Do you understand?

It seems pretentious to
talk like this now, but
that's why I want to push on!

The Potato Eaters demonstrates the
level of accomplishment van Gogh

had reached in his art -

and remember, he'd only
been painting for four years.

It was also the first and the last
time he ever did a group portrait.

But the contemptuous critique of
van Gogh's masterpiece

wasn't the only matter featured
in van Rappard's letter.

The news of the death of your
father came so unexpectedly

that I very much
wanted some further message,

which didn't come, however.

Did you think that I had so
little interest in your father

that a polite formula to announce
something so affecting

was enough for that interest?

Vincent hardly mentions the death
of his father in the letters

of the time,
but despite the difficulties

of their relationship, he was
nevertheless affected by the news.

My dear Theo, I'm still
very much under the impression
of what has just happened.

I just kept painting
these two Sundays.

And he painted his father's Bible.

I'm sending you a still life of an
open, hence an off-white, Bible,

bound in leather,
against a black background.

I painted this one in a single day.

This is to show you that
when I say that perhaps I haven't

grafted entirely
for nothing, I mean it.

And, tellingly, Vincent placed next
to his father's Bible a book by the

French novelist Emile Zola, the
supreme chronicler of the oppressed

and tormented working class.

Vincent saw in Zola
a kindred spirit, embracing
the social purpose of art

as well as the artistic
interpretation of reality.

'Zola, in La Joie De Vivre
and L'Assommoir,

'and so many other masterpieces,

'paint life as we feel it ourselves
and thus satisfies that need

'which we have,
that people tell us the truth.'

Read lots of Zola,
it's healthy stuff

and clears the mind.

The next part of his journey
would take him to the
epicentre of the art world,

leaving the Netherlands
far behind him.

Vincent arrived in Paris
in February 1886,

when the art scene was
in transition.

Impressionism had already been
dominant for over a decade,

but now the hunt was on
for something new.

Somehow, he finally understood
that to be taken seriously as an
artist, he had to come to Paris.

However, he didn't bother to inform
Theo until he'd already arrived,

sending him a note to meet him in
The Louvre in the Salle Carree,

where the great European
masters were hung -

the Rembrandts and Delacroixs.

Vincent intended to immerse himself
in the artistic life of the city,

and moved to Montmartre with Theo,
into this house at 54 Rue Lepic.

Fortunately, we're doing
well in our new home.

You'd no longer recognise Vincent,
he's changed so much,

and that strikes others
even more than me.

He has had a major operation on his
mouth, for he had lost almost all

his teeth because of
the poor state of his stomach.

The doctor says he is
now completely recovered.

He's making tremendous progress
with his work,

and proof of that is that he is
starting to make a success of it.

Vincent enrolled at the studio of
the artist Fernand Cormon, where he

befriended many of the aspiring
artists of the day, including

Toulouse Lautrec, sitting
here on the left, with, reputedly,

Vincent beside him
holding the palette.

But he became bored and frustrated

after three months working
from plaster casts, so he left.

What I think about my own work
is that the painting

of the peasants eating the
potatoes that I did in Nuenen is,

after all, the best thing I did.

What I hope to achieve...

..is to paint a good portrait,
anyway.

For inspiration, he turned to
the Dutch master Rembrandt, who

painted more than 90 self portraits
from the outset of his career

to the year of his death in 1669.

So, Rembrandt painted angels.

He paints himself as an old man,

wrinkled, toothless,
wearing a white cap.

First, painting
from life in the mirror,

he dreams, dreams,
and his brush begins to paint
his own portrait again,

but from memory, and
his expression is sadder...

..and more saddening.

For my own part, my fortunes dictate

that I'm making rapid progress in
becoming a little old man myself.

But what does that matter?

I have a dirty and difficult
occupation - painting.

Vincent started his self portrait
series with the dark brown
colours he'd been accustomed to.

But gradually, his colour
and brushwork changed,

as he came under the influence of
the new art that he saw around him.

The paintings become
lighter and more colourful.

My intention is to show that a
variety of very different portraits

can be made by the same person.

The painter of the
future is a colourist as there
has never been before.

He hasn't yet sold
any paintings for money,

but exchanges his work for
other paintings.

He also has acquaintances from
whom he receives a beautiful

delivery of flowers every week
that can serve him as a model.

I've made a series of colour studies
in painting simply flowers,

seeking oppositions of blue
with orange, red and green,

yellow and violet, seeking
the broken and neutral tones

to harmonise brutal extremes.

He's also much more
cheerful than before,

and he goes down well
with the people here.

To give you an example, hardly a
day passes without him being invited

to visit the studios of painters
of repute, or people come to him.

Just a few minutes' walk
from Rue Lepic,

and from Le Moulin de la Galette,
a bar and dance hall

masquerading as a windmill,
which Vincent loved to paint,

was Pere Tanguy's art supply shop.

This place became the hub for the
whole community of Parisian artists,

who would gather and
gossip and exchange their
pictures for materials

supplied by Pere Tanguy,
the legendary father figure
of the avant garde.

Paul Cezanne, Edgar Degas,
Toulouse Lautrec, George Seurat.

They all came here.

It's extraordinary to think
that this tiny room

was the principal gathering place

for what is probably
the most celebrated group
of artists in history.

Vincent, who was socially
awkward, had little appetite

for these gatherings or for the
competitive environment it fostered.

But there was one artist who
like him stood out from the crowd.

His name was Paul Gauguin,
and he shared with Vincent

a passion for Japanese prints.

This was the art-form that
transfixed the western world
in the late 19th century.

Japanese prints are certainly
the most practical way of

getting to understand the direction
that painting has taken at present.

Colourful and bright.

Theo and I have hundreds of them.

At first, he simply
started to copy the prints.

Then, he began to
experiment with his own work,

cropping objects at the edges
and introducing strong diagonals.

And Japanese prints started
to appear in the background

in several of his portraits,
including this one of Pere Tanguy.

However, other Parisian indulgences
were not so beneficial.

Vincent was drinking
large amounts of absinthe.

The bohemian lifestyle was damaging
his already fragile health.

And his relationship with Theo
was becoming seriously strained.

'It's as if there
are two people in him -

'the one, marvellously gifted,
sensitive and gentle,

'and the other,
self-loving and unfeeling.'

There was a time when...

I loved Vincent very much and he was
my best friend, but that's over now.

It seems to be even worse,
as far as he is concerned,

for he loses no
opportunity to let me see

that he despises me and
that I inspire aversion in him.

This makes it almost
intolerable for me at home.

No-one wants to come by any more
because it always leads to rows,

and he's so filthy
and slovenly that the household
looks anything but inviting.

Vincent had had enough
of the quarrels with Theo,

and of the artistic egos
of the avant-garde.

Longing for the peace of
the countryside, he left Paris

in February 1888 and headed south
to Arles, in Provence.

'I want to begin by telling you that
this part of the world seems to me

'as beautiful as Japan for
the clearness of the atmosphere

'and the charm of
the colour effects.'

Pale orange sunsets,

making the fields almost blue.

Glorious yellow suns.

Soon after his arrival,

Vincent moved into The Yellow
House on Place Lamartine, and

set to work at once, experimenting
with an increasingly vivid palette,

convinced that this
would be his artistic legacy.

'Now that I've found my bearings
a little more, I'm beginning
to see the advantages here.

'For myself, I'm in better
health here than in the north.

'I even work in
the wheat fields at midday,

'in the full heat of the sun,
without any shade whatever,

'and there you are,
I revel in it like a cicada.'

If only I'd known this country at
25, instead of coming here at 35,

but then I was enthusiastic about
grey, or rather, absence of colour.

Ah, but this!

I don't need Japanese prints here,

because I'm always saying
to myself I'm in Japan.

I'd like to do drawings
in the style of Japanese.

I can't do anything but strike
while the iron's hot.

I hope to make real progress this
year, which I really need to do.

However, working alone for
days on end took its toll,

and depression set in.

From the letters, it's clear that he
was suffering from bipolar disorder.

So many days pass without me
saying a word to anyone

except to order...

supper or a coffee.

It's been like that from the start.

For my part, it worries me to spend
so much time by myself, alone.

Vincent dreamed of establishing
an artists' colony,

a "Studio in the South", as he
called it, where artists could work

together in a collegiate culture,

unlike the more combustible
Parisian artworld he'd left behind.

Gauguin is in Brittany,
but has again suffered an attack
of his liver complaint.

I wish I were in
the same place as him,

or he here with me.

My dear...old...Gauguin.

I've just rented a
four-room house here in Arles.

It seems to me that...

if I could find a painter who
wanted to make the most out of the

south, and who was sufficiently
absorbed in his work like me,

to be inclined to live like a monk,
bound up in his work and not

inclined to waste his time, then
the thing would be very good.

"And you would give my
brother one painting a month,

"while you'd be free to do
whatever you liked with the rest."

In the hope of living in a studio
with Gauguin, I'd like to do
a decoration for the studio.

'Nothing but large sunflowers.'

I also did a canvas of
my bedroom with the whitewood
furniture that you know.

It amused me enormously
doing this bare interior.

My aim was to give it
colours like stained glass,

and a design of solid outlines.

Unfortunately,
Gauguin procrastinated,

so Vincent bided his time,
determined to focus on his work

in preparation for the great
man's arrival - even prepared,

in principal at least, to curtail
some of his favourite pursuits.

Painting and screwing around
a lot aren't compatible -

it weakens the brain, and that's
what's really so dammed annoying.

I'd prefer to be
cloisted up like the monks.

Free to go to the brothel,
just like the monks,

or to the wine shop,
if my heart chooses to!

In my painting of the night
cafe, I've tried to express

the idea that the cafe is the place
where you can ruin yourself, go mad,

commit crimes.

Included here, a square canvas,
the starry sky - actually painted

at night, under a gas-lamp.

The fields are mauve.

The town is blue and violet.

Two small coloured figures
of lovers in the foreground.

He's an odd fellow,
but what a head he has on him.

It's enviable.

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

..for it makes me very worried
when I tell myself

that I've done so many paintings and
drawings without ever selling any.

Gauguin finally arrived on
the 23rd October 1888.

Turquoise, a vibrant,
alive turquoise,

as if the sea was bubbling...

A few days later,
the two artists set off for
the nearby Roman cemetery

at Les Alyscamps,
intent on depicting the same
subject, side by side.

Vincent painted what he saw
and what he felt,

the industrial scene in the
background is framed by the trees.

By contrast, Gauguin
had little time for reality.

He painted, as a rule, from memory.

And in the time it took
Gauguin to complete this picture,

slowly and methodically, Vincent, at
top speed, had knocked out two more.

Gauguin, in spite of himself
and in spite of me...

..has proved to me a little it
was time to change things a bit.

I'm now working from memory,

and all my earlier studies will
still be useful for that work,

as they will remind me of former
things that I have seen.

And one of these was a subject he
painted again and again, The Sower.

Now, the influence of
Gauguin can clearly be seen.

Immense lemon yellow
disk for the sun,

green-yellow sky with pink clouds.

The field is violet, the sower
and the tree, Prussian blue.

But Vincent found it difficult
painting purely from memory,

and soon returned to subjects
directly in front of him.

The last two studies are
rather funny canvases,

a wooden and straw chair all yellow
on red tiles against a wall.

Then Gauguin's armchair,
red and green, night effect.

On the seat,
two novels and a candle.

On sailcloth, in thick impasto.

But it wasn't long before tensions
developed between the two artists.

Gauguin's work was
selling well in Paris - Vincent
still couldn't find buyers.

He started to drink heavily again.

His behaviour was becoming
odder and odder,

and after just eight weeks, Gauguin
became increasing exasperated.

I feel completely
disorientated in Arles.

I find everything so small and mean,

both the landscape and the people.

In general, Vincent and
myself do not see eye to eye,
particularly on painting.

He likes my pictures very much,
but when I'm painting them,

he criticises me for this and that.

Vincent and I can absolutely not
live side by side without trouble.

In December 1888, Gauguin
painted this, Portrait Of
Van Gogh Painting Sunflowers.

Vincent looked at it in
silence, then said,

"It's me all right,
but me gone mad."

But is it?

When I look at this picture,
I don't see van Gogh at all.

I see Gauguin.

And that seems to me to explain
a lot about their relationship.

A few days later, the two artists
got into a heated argument.

'It was so bizarre
I couldn't take it.'

He even asked me,
"Are you going to leave?"

I felt I must go out alone
and take the air along some paths

when I heard behind me a familiar
step - short, quick, irregular.

I turned around on that instant

as Vincent rushed towards me,
an open razor in hand.

Vincent returned to
the Yellow House, where,

with perhaps the very same knife
that he threatened Gauguin with,

he mutilated his left ear.

I wouldn't exactly have chosen
madness had there been a choice,

but once one has something like
that, one can't catch it any more.

I find that his condition
has improved a little.

I don't believe his life is in
danger - for the moment at least.

He's eating quite well

and his physical strength enables
him to withstand his crises.

My assessment is that he'll be
able to recover in a short time,

while retaining the extreme
excitability that must form
the essence of his character.

From his hospital room, Vincent
painted this self-portrait,

one of the most arresting
works of art in the world.

The advantages I have here
are that they are all sick...

..and so at least
I don't feel alone.

I'm quite absorbed
in reading Shakespeare.

I've first taken the kings series...

..of which I've already read
Richard II, Henry IV, Henry V,

parts of Henry VI.

Have you ever read King Lear?

But anyway, I think I shan't
urge you too much to read such

dramatic stories...when after
reading them myself I...

..I'm always obliged to go
and gaze at a blade of grass...

..a pine tree branch,

an ear of wheat...

..to calm myself.

Vincent suffered repeated episodes
of mental instability

whilst in the hospital
here in Arles.

But in between these fits,
he was well enough to find

comfort in his art, painting
the grounds here and the ward.

After five months in hospital,

mindful perhaps of
his precarious mental state,

he was reluctant to return
home alone to the Yellow House.

And with Theo's help, he
voluntarily admitted himself to
the nearby asylum at Saint-Remy.

Dear Director, with the agreement
of the person involved, who is my

brother, I am writing to request
the admission into your institution

of Vincent Willem van Gogh.

I ask you to admit him with
your third-class residents.

I hope you will have no objection
to allowing him the freedom to paint

outside your institution
whenever he wishes to do so.

Further, without elaborating on
the attention he will require, but

which I assume is given with the
same care to all your residents,

I hope you will be so kind as
to allow him to have at least

half a litre of wine with his meals.

Vincent arrived here
at Saint-Remy on 8th May 1889,

where he would remain for a year.

The letters he wrote
during that time are

a heart-wrenching confession of his
coming to terms with his condition.

I wanted to tell you that...

..I've done well to come here.

First, in seeing the reality
of the lives of the mad,

cracked people in this menagerie...

..I'm losing the vague dread,
the fear of the thing.

And little by little, I can
come to consider madness as

being an illness like any other.

As far as I know, the doctor here
is inclined to consider

what I've had as an attack
of an epileptic nature.

It's quite odd perhaps that the
result of this terrible attack is

that in my mind there's hardly any
really clear desire or hope left.

I'm thinking of squarely accepting
my profession as a madman.

There were days, sometimes weeks,
when Vincent was unable to work,

tormented by spells of
mental illness.

But these alternated with periods
of amazing creativity

in which he was extremely
productive.

He was given permission to paint in
the surrounding countryside and sent

dozens of paintings
to Theo in Paris.

"Thanks very much for the
consignment of canvases, colours,

"brushes, tobacco and chocolate,
which reached me in good order.

"I was very glad of it,

"for I was pining for work
a little."

Also, for a few days now
I've been going outside
to work in the neighbourhood.

What a beautiful land and what
beautiful blue and what a sun.

So then my brush goes
between my fingers as if it were
the bow on a violin

and absolutely for my pleasure.

I'm struggling with a canvas begun
a few days before my indisposition.

A reaper, the study is
all in yellow,

terribly thickly impasted, but the
subject was beautiful and simple.

A vague figure struggling like
a devil in the full heat of the day
to reach the end of his toil.

And then saw the image of death
in it...

..in the sense that humanity would
be like the wheat being reaped.

So, if you like, it's the opposite
of that sower I tried before.

But in this death,
nothing's sad, it takes place
in broad daylight with a sun

that floods everything with a light
of fine gold.

Your latest paintings have given
me a great deal to think about

as regards your state of mind
when you made them.

All of them have a power of colour

which you hadn't attained before,

which in itself is a rare quality,

but you've gone further.

But how hard your mind
must have worked

and how you endangered
yourself to the extreme point

where vertigo is inevitable.

Let me quietly continue my work.

If it's that of a madman,
well then, too bad.

Then I can't do anything about it.

And around this time,
Vincent got the only review
ever to appear in his lifetime,

by the young critic, Albert Aurier.

What characterises his works
as a whole is its excess

of strength, of nervousness,

its violence of expression.

His colour we know already,

unbelievably dazzling with this
metallic, jewel-like quality.

In his categorical affirmation
of character of things,

a powerful figure is revealed -
masculine...

..daring, very often brutal...

..yet sometimes ingeniously
delicate.

Vincent stayed at St Remy for
over a year, but he began to fear
being labelled the mad artist,

so once again,
he asked Theo for help.

I don't feel competent enough
to judge the way
they treat patients here,

and nor do I have any desire
to enter into the detail,
but please remember

that around six months ago
I warned you that if I was seized

by a crisis of a similar nature,
that I would wish to change asylums.

And I've delayed too long already,
having allowed an attack
to go by in the meantime.

I was then in the middle of work,
and I wanted to finish
canvases in progress,

otherwise I would no longer
be here by now.

Right, so I'm going to tell you...

that it seems to me
that a fortnight,
though a week would please me more,

should be enough

to take the necessary steps to move.

During his stay in the home,
this patient,

who is calm for most of the time,

has had several attacks lasting
for between two weeks and a month.

During these attacks, he is
subject to terrifying terrors,

and has on several occasions
attempted to poison himself,

either by swallowing colours
that he used for painting,
or by ingesting paraffin,

which he had taken from the boy
when he was filling his lamps.

In the interval between attacks, the
patient is perfectly calm and lucid,

and passionately devotes
himself to painting.

He is asking to be discharged today
in order to go to live
in the north of France,

hoping that climate
will suit him better.

In May 1890, he moved to Auvers,
close to Paris,

with a letter of introduction
from Theo to a Dr Paul Gachet.

And he rented an attic room
here at the Auberge Ravoux.

Once settled in Auvers, Vincent set
himself a punishing schedule,

leaving his room at five
in the morning

to go out and paint in fields and
not returning till nine at night.

It was a period of intense activity
in which he produced a canvas a day.

Being back north,

I am very distracted.

I did a portrait of
Dr Gachet the other day.

You have a face, the colour...

of over-heated
and sun-drenched brick,

with reddish hair,
a white cap, blue background.

He's very nervous and very bizarre.

My portrait of myself
is almost like this too -

so similar are we physically,
and morally.

"I think he is sicker than I am,
or shall we say, just as much?

"When one blind man leads another,
don't they both fall
into the ditch?"

Although Vincent doubted
Dr Gachet's ability to help him,
they did become good friends.

He dined at his house
and painted his daughter.

They had much in common.

Gachet was not only a physician
but also an amateur artist,

and deeply involved in the
treatment of mental malaise.

But despite the doctor's sympathetic
ear, Vincent is still alone.

Since my illness, the feelings
of loneliness

takes hold of me in the fields

in such a fearsome way
that I hesitate to go out.

With time, though, that will change.

It's only in front of the
easel while painting that I feel
a little of life.

I feel...

..a failure...

..that's it as regards me.

I feel that that's
the fate I'm accepting...

..and which won't change any more.

In July 1890, he returned to Paris to
visit Theo and his sister-in-law, Jo,

and to see for the first time
his recently-born nephew, Vincent.

Theo explained to him
that he now had responsibilities,
with a young family to support.

Vincent now feared that
he was becoming a liability.

Distressed, he returned to Auvers
that same evening.

I feared, not completely
but a little nonetheless,

that I was a danger to you...

..living at your expense.

I'd perhaps like to write
to you about many things.

I profess the desire has passed
to such a degree that I feel
the pointlessness of it.

"I'm applying myself to my canvases
with all my attention.

"They're immense stretches of wheat
fields under turbulent skies...

"..and I made a point of
trying to express sadness,

"extreme loneliness."

Look after yourself

and handshakes in thought.

Yours truly...Vincent.

Four days after writing
his final letter to Theo,

he went into the wheatfields
and shot himself in the chest.

He managed to crawl back here and
climb these stairs to his attic room.

Two days later, he died here,
in this room, at the age of 37,
with Theo at his side.

Dr Gachet and the other doctor
were excellent and looked
after him very well, but...

they realised from
the very first moment there was
nothing anyone could do.

Vincent said, "This is the way
I would like to go."

And half an hour later,
he had his way.

Life weighed so heavily upon him...

..but as always happens, everyone is
now full of praise for his talent.

Vincent wanted everyone
to understand his art,

he wanted it, he said, "To say
something consoling, like music."

Perhaps the only person who really
understood him in his lifetime
was his brother, Theo,

who died just six months later
of syphilis, at the age of 33.

They're now buried here,
side by side, in Auvers.

The ivy which seems to overwhelm
their graves

also serves to bind them together.

It was once a cutting
from Dr Gachet's garden.

Van Gogh only sold a few artworks
in his life.

Today, they're worth millions -

ironic, maybe, but Vincent seemed
to know all along what would happen.

We're now living here
in a world of painting,

where everything is occupied
by people,

who all intercept money.

And you mustn't think
that I'm imagining things.

People pay a lot for the work
when the painter himself is dead.

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