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Your letter and its contents were very welcome to me. The
question you refer to will perhaps become more and more urgent.
People will be obliged to acknowledge that many a new thing in
which one at first thought to find progress proves in fact to
be less sound than the old ones, and in consequence the need
for strong men to redress things will manifest itself. As
arguing about this can do little good, I think it rather
superfluous to write more about it.
But I can hardly say that I share your thought which you
express in the following words: “To me it seems quite
natural that the desired change will occur.” Just think
how many great men are dead or will not be with us for long -
Millet, Brion, Troyon, Rousseau, Daubigny, Corot - so many
others are no longer among the living; think further back,
Leys, Gavarni, de Groux (I name only a few), still further
back, Ingres, Delacroix and Géricault, think how old
modern art already is, add many others as well who have
already reached old age.
Up to Millet and Jules Breton, however, there was always in
my opinion progress, but to surpass these two - don't even
Their genius may be equalled in former, present or later
times, but to surpass it is not possible. In that high range
there is an equality of genius, but higher than the top of the
mountain one cannot climb. Israëls, for instance, may
equal Millet, but among genius superiority or inferiority is
out of the question.
Now in the realm of art the summit has been reached.
Certainly we shall still see beautiful things in the years to
come, but anything more sublime than we have seen already - no.
And I for my part am afraid that perhaps in a few years there
will be a kind of panic in this regard. Since
Millet we have greatly deteriorated; the word decadence,
now whispered or pronounced in covert terms,
(see Herkomer) will then sound as an alarm bell.
Many an one, for instance I myself, keeps quiet now because one
is already labelled as a mauvais coucheur, and to
speak about it doesn't help. Speaking about it, that is to
say, is not what one ought to do, one must work, even if it be
with a sorrowful heart; those who will subsequently cry the
hardest about decadence will be the most decadent themselves. I
repeat - “ By these fruits ye shall know them,” by
their work, nor will it be the most eloquent who will say the
truest things, look at Millet himself, look at Herkomer; they
are indeed no orators and they speak almost à contre
Enough of this, I find in you someone who understands many
of the great men, and I think it delightful to hear now and
then things about them which I did not know; for instance, what
you tell me about Daumier. The series of portraits of
deputies, etc., the pictures “Third Class Railway
Carriage,” “The Revolution,” I know none of
them. It is true that your writing doesn't make me see them
myself, but in my imagination Daumier's personality becomes
more important as a result of it. I prefer to hear about such
men more than, for instance, about the last Salon.
If I could have a trial before you come, we might on that
occasion consult about what we can do with it.
As for me, if I fill my portfolios with studies from every
model I can get hold of, I will have enough of a skill to hope
to get employment. To keep illustrating, as did for
instance Morin, Lançon, Renouard, Jules Ferat, Worms in
their times, one needs quite a lot of ammunition, in the form
of different studies of all kinds of subjects.
Those I try to get together, as you know, and as you will
see when you come.
By the by, I have not so far received the package of
studies, which according to your letter you returned to me via
the Rue Chaptal. Do you think they have already arrived at the
Plaats? If you think so I will send for them, as they will be
of use to me in connection with things which I have recently
Do you know whose portrait I drew this morning? Blok, the
Jewish book dealer - not David, but the little one who stands
on the Binnenhof.
I wish I could draw more members of that family, for they
are real good types.
It's awfully difficult to get the types that one likes best;
meanwhile I think I'm right in working on those I can
get, without losing sight of those I would draw if only I
could get them.
I am very glad about Blok, he reminds me of things from many
years ago. I hope he will come again some Sunday morning.
Of course one always feels, and one must feel, when at work,
a kind of dissatisfaction with oneself, a longing to do it much
better; but still it is delightful and comforting little by
little to get a collection of all kinds of figures together,
though the more one makes the more one wants to make.
One cannot do everything at once, but it will be absolutely
necessary for me to make a number of horse studies, not only
just scratches made in the street, but to take a model for
them. I know an old white horse, just the poorest nag
imaginable (at the gas-works); but the man, who lets the poor
beast do the hardest possible jobs, and draws from it what he
can get, asked me a lot for it, namely, three guilders a
morning to come to me and one guilder and a half at least to
come to him, but then it must be on a Sunday.
And when you consider that to get what I need, about thirty
large studies for instance, I should have to work many a
morning, it would prove to be too expensive. But I shall get a
better chance some time.
I can get a horse here and there easily enough for a very
short time, people are willing enough for that
occasionally; but one cannot in a very short time do
what really must be done, so that does not help me much.
I try to work quickly, for that is necessary, but a study
that is of any use requires at least half an hour, on average,
so one always falls back on to real posing. At Scheveningen,
for instance, on the beach, I have had a boy or man standing
for me for a moment, as they call it; the result was always a
great longing in me for a longer pose, and the mere standing
still of a man or a horse doesn't satisfy me.
If I am properly informed, the draughtsmen for the Graphic
could always turn by turn find a model at their disposal in a
studio at the office. Dickens tells a few good things about the
painters of his time and their wrong way of working,
namely, their following the model servilely, yet only half-way.
He says: "Fellows, try to understand that your model is
not your final aim, but the means of giving form and
strength to your thought and inspiration. Look at
the French (for instance, Ary Scheffer) and see how much better
they do it than you do." It seems the English listened to him;
they continued working with the model, but they have
learned to view the model in a broader, stronger way and to use
it for healthier, nobler compositions than those of the
painters of Dickens's time.
Two things that in my opinion reinforce one another and
remain eternally true are: Do not quench your inspiration and
your imagination, do not become the slave of your model; and
again: Take the model and study it, otherwise your inspiration
will never become plastically concrete.
When your letter came, I immediately had many things to pay
for. I hope it will not inconvenience you to send again not
later than the 10th of November. That question of the process
about which Buhot spoke to you seems very important to me, you
know. I shall be very happy to learn it and will try my best to
Adieu, with a handshake,
Do you know what effects one sees here at present early in
the morning? - it is splendid - the sort that Brion painted in
his picture at the Luxembourg: "The End of the Deluge," namely
that streak of red light on the horizon with rain clouds over
it. This brings me to the landscape painters. Compare those of
the time of Brion with the contemporaries. Is it better now? I
I will readily acknowledge that they are more productive
now, but though I cannot help admiring what is produced now,
the old landscapes done in a more old-fashioned way please me
whenever I see them. There was a time for instance when I
passed a Schelfhout thinking: that's not worth while.
But the modern way, though it has its attraction, doesn't
make that strong, deep, durable impression, and when one has
been looking for a long time at new things, one sees again with
great pleasure a naive picture like a Schelfhout or a
Ségé, a Jules Bakhuysen. It is really not
intentionally that I feel rather disenchanted about the
progress, on the contrary quite against my will; the feeling
involuntarily entered my thoughts, because I feel more and more
a kind of void, which I cannot fill with the things of
While looking for an example, I happened to think of some
old woodcuts by Jacque, which I saw at least ten years ago at
Uncle Cor's; it was a series called “The Months,”
done in the manner of those etchings which appeared in yearly
series, or even more old-fashioned still. There is less of the
local tone in it than in his later work, but the drawing and an
element of pithiness remind one of Millet. Look here, in the
many sketches in today's magazines, it seems to me that a
not quite unconventional elegance threatens to replace
that typical, real rusticity of which the sketches of Jacque,
which I mentioned, are an example.
Don't you think the cause of this lies also in the life and
personality of the artists? I do not know your experience, but
do you find, for instance at present, many people who like to
take a lengthy walk in grey weather? You yourself would love it
and enjoy it as I do, but for many people it would be
unattractive. It also struck me that when one talks with
painters, the conversation in most cases is not
interesting. Mauve has at times the great power of describing a
thing in such words that one sees it, and certainly others have
that too, when they want to. But that peculiar open-air feeling
when you speak to a painter - do you think it is as strong as
it used to be?
I read this week in Forster's Life of Charles Dickens all
kinds of particulars about long walks on Hampstead Heath, etc.,
outside London, with the object for instance of eating bacon
and eggs in a little old inn far away, well out in the country.
Those walks were very pleasant and merry, but for all that it
was generally in this way that serious plans were made for
books, or discussions were held about what changes Dickens
should make in this or that figure. There is nowadays a hurry
and bustle in everything that doesn't please me, and it seems
as if the joy has gone out of most things. I wish your
expectation would come true: "that the desired change will
come," but to me it doesn't seem “quite
However this may be, it is of very little use to fight back
in words, I think, and the thing for everyone to do who has an
interest in the matter is to try in his little circle to make
something or to help make something.
I worked again on a watercolour of miners' wives carrying
bags of coal through the snow. But especially I
drew about twelve studies of figures for it and three heads,
and I am not ready yet. In the watercolour I think I found the
proper effect, but I do not think it broad enough of character.
In reality it is something like “The Reapers” by
Millet, severe, so you understand that one mustn't make a snow
effect of it, which would be merely an impression and would
only then have its raison d'être if it were done by way
of a landscape. I think I will start afresh, though I believe
the studies that I have at the moment will please you, because
they succeeded better than many others. It would really be fit
for the Vie Moderne, I think. When I get the paper I
shall anyhow have one of the figures to try out, but it
must become a group of women, a small caravan.
At this time, Vincent was 29 year old
Vincent van Gogh. Letter to Theo van Gogh. Written c. 2 or 3 November 1882 in The Hague. Translated by Mrs. Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, edited by Robert Harrison, number 241.
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