Arles, 31 July 1888
I will answer your letter of this morning without delay.
I shall probably hear from Paris by tomorrow what Theo is
going to do, whether he will be able to get away. I don't doubt
that he will go to you if he can. It is not always admirable
for a person one knows to set out on the great journey to that
other hemisphere of life whose existence we only surmise. But
it goes without saying that my best wishes are with today's
I am working very hard now, and I think the summer here
extremely beautiful, more beautiful than I ever saw it in the
North, but people here are complaining loudly that it is not
the same as usual. Now and then some rain in the morning or the
afternoon, but infinitely less than in our country. The harvest
was gathered long ago.
I have a study of a garden one meter wide, poppies and other
red flowers surrounded by green in the foreground, and a square
of bluebells. Then a bed of orange and yellow Africans, then
white and yellow flowers, and at last, in the background, pink
and lilac, and also dark violet scabriosas, and red geraniums,
and sunflowers, and a fig tree and an oleander and a vine. And
in the distance black cypresses against low white houses with
orange roofs - and a delicate green-blue streak of sky.
Oh, I know very well that not a single flower is drawn
completely, that they are more dabs of colour, red, yellow,
orange, green blue, violet, but the impression of all these
colours in their juxtaposition is there all right, in the
painting as in nature. But I suppose you would be disappointed,
and think it unbeautiful, if you saw it. But you see that the
subject is rather summery.
Uncle Cor has seen work of mine more than once, and he
thinks it execrable.
I am now engaged on a portrait of a postman in his dark-blue
uniform with yellow. A head somewhat like Socrates, hardly any
nose at all, a high forehead, bald crown, little grey eyes,
bright red chubby cheeks, a big pepper-and-salt beard, large
ears. The man is an ardent republican and
socialist, reasons quite well, and knows a lot of things. His
wife was delivered of a child today, and he is consequently
feeling as proud as a peacock, and is all aglow with
In point of fact I greatly prefer painting a thing like this
to doing pictures of flowers.
But since this can be done without ignoring the other, I am
taking advantage of the opportunities as they come
I also have a portrait of a twelve-year-old girl, brown
eyes, black hair and eyebrows, yellowish matte complexion. She
is sitting in a cane chair, a blood-red-and-violet-striped
bodice, a deep blue skirt with little orange dots, a branch of
oleander in her hand. The background light green, nearly white.
I am always looking for the same thing - a portrait; a
landscape; a landscape and a portrait.
I shall also get to paint the baby born today, at least I
hope so. I have also got a garden without flowers, that is to
say a lawn, newly mown, bright green with the grey hay spread
in long streaks. A weeping ash and a number of cedars and
cypresses, the cedars yellowish and spherical in form, the
cypresses rising high into the air, blue-green. At the back
oleander and a patch of green blue sky. The blue shadows of the
shrubs on the grass.
Also a portrait bust of a Zouave, in a blue uniform with red
and yellow trimmings, with a sky-blue sash, a blood-red cap
with a blue tassel, and face sunburned - black hair cropped
short - eyes leering like a cat's - orange and green - a small
head on a bull's neck. In this one the background is a harshly
green door and some orange bricks of the wall and the white stucco.
Now as regards what you ask, as to whether it is hot here,
and whether I am going to live with somebody else. Well, this
rather probably, and with a very clever painter too who, like
the other impressionists, is leading a life full of cares, and
who is the proud owner of a liver complaint besides. Some time
ago Theo bought a large picture from him portraying Negresses
in pink, blue, orange and yellow cotton dresses under tamarind,
coconut and banana trees with the sea in the distance. Like Le
mariage de Loti, that description of Otaheite. The fact is that
he has been in Martinique, and has painted amid the tropical
scenery there. We have a second painting of his besides, which
he exchanged for one of my studies, a dried river with violet
mud and pools of water, mirroring the pure cobalt blue of the
sky, green grass, a Negro boy with a red-and-white cow, a
Negress in blue, and a patch of green forest. He is a fellow
who works like one possessed and he does all sorts of things;
he is in Brittany at the moment.
We shall probably go live together for the sake of economy,
and to give each other company. He will come here if he or I
can sell something one of these days so that he can pay for his
journey. It is not impossible that some obstacle will crop up,
but on the whole it is quite probable that it will happen. And
even if it should not happen and I had to go on working alone,
yet working in the same direction as the other fellows,
although every one of them maintains his own style, brings
about something of a comradeship, and at times leads to an
How is your health? Good, I hope. Above all you should try
to get into the country as much as possible. But on the whole I
manage to steer clear of the rocks. When your body forsakes
you, use your brains - you and I with our constitutions should
take this to heart. For that matter work, if we are making
headway, can help a lot.
I think it exquisitely beautiful here in summer; the green
is very deep and rich; the air is thin and astonishingly clear.
But for all that the wide plain might often remind me very
strongly of the Dutch scenery - here where there are hardly any
mountains or rocks - if the colour were not so different. But
what pleases me very much is the gaily coloured clothes, the
women and girls dressed in cheap simple material, but with
green, red and pink, Havana-yellow, violet or blue stripes, or
dots of the same colours. White scarves; red, green and yellow
parasols. A vigorous sun, like sulphur, shining on it all, the
great blue sky - sometimes it is as enormously gay as Holland
What a pity that not everybody has these two extremes.
Now I must stop. Uncle's death is a big event for you and
Mother, and particularly for our aunt. The impression it makes
on me is very strange, because in my mind there is an
image of the man made up of memories of so long ago, of a great
many years ago, and I think it so peculiar that a man one once
knew at such close range should have become such a
stranger. I suppose you will be able to understand this. Looked
at from this point of view, life is so much like a dream; and
from the moment things are simplified again, and the sick man
undertakes his great journey, one understands it better, and it
is a certain fact that my feelings about it are similar to
yours. Theo will feel it very much too; he has had much more
intercourse with Uncle than I.
How is Mother these days?
I often think of you both, and it is from the bottom of my
heart that I give you my best wishes.
I am up to my ears in work, and it happens so seldom that I
have anything else in mind.
My address is:
2 Place Lamartine
If you can manage it, don't lose sight of those books
and prints of mine that I wrote you about.
At this time, Vincent was 35 year old
Vincent van Gogh. Letter to Wilhelmina van Gogh. Written 31 July 1888 in Arles. Translated by Mrs. Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, edited by Robert Harrison, number W05.
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