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I just received your registered letter and thank you warmly
for it. I want to begin with the following. I enclose a copy of
the Graphic, Christmas, 1882.
Read it carefully, it is worth while.
What a colossal institution, isn't it, what an enormous
circulation. This much stated, what else?…Among other
things, that Hubert Herkomer's words contrast strangely with
those of the Graphic editors. The latter say: “Checking
our books, we find that besides our professional artists, we
have no less than 2730 friends scattered all over the world,
sending us sketches or elaborate drawings.”
H. Herkomer speaks of a “shortage of good
And in general his words are exactly the opposite of those
of the editors of the Christmas issue in question, the result
being something like this:
The Graphic editors say, “All right.”
H. Herkomer says, “All wrong.”
Now you will find something striking on page four of the
copy I sent: When strong enough to stand on its own feet, the
Graphic rented a house and began to print with six
I have full respect for this; here I feel something holy,
something noble, something sublime. Then look at that group of
great artists, and think of foggy London and the bustle in that
small workshop. Moreover, I see in my imagination the
draughtsmen in their several studios, starting their work with
the best enthusiasm.
I see Millais running to Charles Dickens with the first
issue of the Graphic. Dickens was then in the evening of his
life, he had a paralyzed foot and walked with a kind of crutch.
Millais says that while showing him Luke Fildes's drawing
“Homeless and Hungry,” of poor people and tramps in
front of a free overnight shelter, Millais said to Dickens,
“Give him your Edwin Drood to illustrate,” and
Dickens said, “Very well.”
Edwin Drood was Dickens's last work, and Luke Fildes,
brought into contact with Dickens through those small
illustrations, entered his room on the day of his death, and
saw his empty chair; and so it happened that one of the old
numbers of the Graphic contained that touching drawing,
“The Empty Chair.”
Empty chairs - there are many of them, there will be even
more, and sooner or later there will be nothing but empty
chairs in place of Herkomer, Luke Fildes, Frank Holl, William
Small, etc. And yet the publishers and dealers, not listening
to a prophecy like that of H. Herkomer's, will continue to
assure us, in the same terms as in the enclosed number, that
everything is all right, that we are getting on famously.
But how hard-hearted they are, how mistaken they are, if
they think they can make everybody believe that material
grandeur outweighs moral grandeur, and that any good can be
accomplished without the latter.
It is the same with the Graphic as it is with many other
things in the realm of art. Moral grandeur dwindles, material
grandeur supersedes. But will the much-desired change come? I
think that everybody must find that out for himself, but the
old parable mentions a broad way which leads to destruction,
and a narrow path which leads to another result
The Graphic started on the narrow path, has now passed to
the broad one. This morning I saw the last number, there wasn't
a single good thing in it; this morning I took an old,
dirty torn number of 1873 from a bundle of waste-paper at a
bookstall, and almost everything in it is worth
But as to me - que faire?
A few years ago Rappard and I walked outside Brussels on a
spot which they call la Vallé Josaphat, in the
neighborhood where Roelofs, among others, lives. At that time
there was a sand quarry where diggers were at work, there were
women looking for dandelion leaves, a farmer was sowing; we
looked at all that, and I was almost in despair then:
“Shall I ever succeed in painting what I admire so
much?” Now I no longer despair, now I can capture those
farmers and women better; and working on with patience, I can
now succeed to a certain extent. But I am sorely oppressed by
the way things are going and can no longer think of those
magazines with pleasure and enthusiasm. The Graphic neglects to
say that many in the group of artists refuse to give their
work, and withdraw more and more. Why? because a painter paints
to do some good and has some sincerity in his heart which
despises all that grandeur. What more shall I say?… I
can only repeat, “Que faire!”
Of course, continue to work, but conscious of a dark
Here in The Hague there are clever, great men, I readily
admit it; but in many respects what a miserable state of
affairs - what intrigues, what quarrels, what jealousy. And in
the personality of the successful artists who, with Mesdag at
their head, set the tone, material grandeur is unmistakably
substituted for moral grandeur.
My ideal was to achieve this, and, after all, it still is;
this was what enabled me to surmount the enormous difficulties
in the beginning. But my heart gets heavy at times when I think
of the way things are going, it's not so much fun any more. Of
course, I love to do my best on the drawings, but to present
myself at all those publishers' offices - oh, I hate the
thought of it!
I mean, I feel depressed because I have a strength in me
which circumstances prevent from developing as well as it
could; the result is that I often feel miserable. A kind of
internal struggle about what I must do - which is not as easy
to solve as might seem at first.
I wish I had a job which would help me make progress. Many
jobs which might possibly be within my reach would lead me to
things quite different from those I aim at. These jobs are out
of my reach, for though I might be accepted at first, they
would not be satisfied with me in the long run; they would fire
me or I would leave of my own accord, as at Goupil's.
I mean, they would demand current events, topics of the day,
which people like Adrien, Marie, or Godefroid Durand make to
perfection. I begin to see more and more clearly that the
magazines drift with the superficial tide, and I think they do
not try to be as good as they ought to be. No, to fill the
magazines with things which cost neither time nor trouble, to
give a good thing now and then, but reproduced in a cheap,
mechanical way, further, to make as much money as possible -
this is what they do.
I do not think this method wise. I think it will make them
go bankrupt, and they will bitterly regret it in the end, which
may still be far away, but nevertheless, things are as they
are. They do not think of renewing themselves. Suppose the
Graphic, Illustration, or Vie Moderne published an issue full
of dull, insignificant things - they'd still sell it by the
carload, and by the boatload; the managers would rub their
hands and say, “It sells just as well this way; who's the
wiser - they swallow it anyhow.”
Yes, but if their lordships the managers could follow their
publications and see how thousands take the paper up greedily,
and then, when they put it down, involuntarily have a feeling
of dissatisfaction and disappointment, perhaps their frenzy for
current events would abate somewhat.
However, this is by no means the case; as you see from the
report in the Graphic, they do not lack self-confidence.
In the meantime, people intrude themselves, as employees,
who would never have been accepted in the difficult but noble
days. It is what Zola calls “triomphe de la
médiocrité.” Snobs, nobodies, take the
place of workers, thinkers, artists; and it isn't even
The public, yes, one part of it is dissatisfied, but
material grandeur also finds applause; however, do not forget
that this is merely a straw-fire, and that those who applaud
generally do so only because it has become the fashion. But on
the day after the banquet, there will be a void - a silence and
indifference after all that noise.
The Graphic will give “Types of Beauty” (large
heads of women), as this prospectus says - I dare say to take
the place of “Heads of the People” by Herkomer,
Small and Ridley.
All right, but some people will not admire the “Types
of Beauty” and will remember the old “Heads of the
People” with sadness (this series has been stopped).
The Graphic says they will make chromos!!! Give us
back Swain's studio.
Look here, Theo boy, it cuts me to the heart, things are
going wrong. You know I would have counted it the highest
honour - an ideal, in fact - to contribute to what the Graphic
started. The sublime beginning of the Graphic was something
like what Dickens was as an author, what the Household Edition
of his work was as a publication.
And now everything is gone - once again materialism instead
of moral principle. Do you know what I think of the copy I'm
sending you? It is just like Obach's kind of talk, for
instance, the manager of Goupil and Co. in London. And it has
success, yes, that has success, yes, that is listened to and
that is admired. Do you know, boy, what I think of this
number of the Graphic? It is something like Mesdag's talk about
his panorama. I respect all kinds of work, I despise neither
Obach nor Mesdag, but there are things which I rank infinitely
higher than that kind of energy.
I want something more concise, more simple, more serious; I
want more soul and more love and more heart.
But you may be sure that I will not and cannot cry out
against it, that I will not rebel against it. But it
makes me sad, it takes away my pleasure, it upsets me, and
personally I am absolutely at a loss about what to do. What
sometimes makes me sad is this: formerly, when I started, I
used to think, If only I make so or so much progress, I shall
get a job somewhere, and I shall be on a straight road and find
my way through life.
But now something else occurs, and I fear, or rather expect,
instead of a job, a kind of jail - I expect such things as,
Yes, some things in your work are rather good (I doubt if they
really mean it), but, you see, we have no use for work like
yours, we need current events (for example, the Graphic - we
print on Saturday what happened on Thursday).
Look here, Theo boy, I cannot make `Types of Beauty'; I do
try my best to make `Heads of the People.' You know, I would
like to do the kind of work those who started the Graphic did,
though I do not count myself their equal; I would take a fellow
or woman or child from the street, and draw them in my studio.
But no, they would ask me, “Can you make chromos by
electric light?” In short, instead of meeting with an
opinion, a sentiment, an aim like Dickens's (for such the
Graphic originally stood for), one is confronted with a
philosophy like Obach's. It makes me sad, and then I feel
helpless. One can only undertake a thing if one has sympathy
Now this brings me to another matter. Do not take offense
when I write you my thoughts, and continue to do so. If you
have no time to write and cannot answer at once, at all events
when we meet again, you will know what I have in mind, and
perhaps we shall find a practical way.
This number of the Graphic is a fact which speaks clearly
for itself, and that's why I am sending it to you.
With a handshake in thought,
Yours sincerely, Vincent
At this time, Vincent was 29 year old
Vincent van Gogh. Letter to Theo van Gogh. Written c. 11 December 1882 in The Hague. Translated by Mrs. Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, edited by Robert Harrison, number 252.
This letter may be freely used, in accordance with the terms of this site.