It is, Shall I be able to go on or not? - that, in short, is
why I'm worrying.
You have the photographs now, and you will be able to
imagine my state of mind better with those in front of you than
before you saw them. The drawings I make now are only a shadow
of my intentions - but the shadow which already has a definite
shape, and which I seek, which I aim at, is not vague, but
consists of things taken from full reality, which can only be
mastered by patient and regular work. The idea of working in
fits and starts is a nightmare to me. Nobody can work without
money; I think it's right to work with as little as possible,
but the thought of being left absolutely without what's
strictly necessary would make anybody depressed and
Oh, Theo, the work brings its troubles and cares, but what
is it in comparison to the misery of a life of inactivity?
So let's not lose courage, but comfort each other, instead
of distressing or disheartening each other.
Now I have spoken to Blommers about my painting - he wants
me to keep it up; personally I also feel that having finished
those last ten or twelve large drawings, I have reached a point
where I must change my course instead of making more in the
What I wrote you about (which you wrote about, too, our
thoughts having met again), the meagerness or what is called
dryness, is the first thing to be conquered, lest it become a
chronic disease. I really think it remarkable that you and I
seem to have thought the same thing again, for though you wrote
only a single word about it, it is immediately noticeable in
the two lithographs and in the photographs, too. Except for
that defect, they don't seem so bad to me.
I've been thinking of ways and means to conquer it, but see
no other help than to renew my energy and also my physical
strength, for I am afraid it is going the wrong way. I
absolutely need some money, and must restore both my health and
my paintbox; otherwise I am afraid things will crop up later
which would be more difficult to redress. It is now just the
beginning - and all the same, here and there the last drawings
are less dry than before.
If in some way, Theo, I might find some help or sympathy, I
think it would redress itself soon enough.
In many lives I could show you similar periods of dryness
which have become completely overcome. I shan't cite examples,
for you will find many of your own accord, if you think it
over. Almost all the fellows who have gone through the
École de Rome and who had been drudging assiduously on
the figure for some time showed at the end of the course rather
clever, rather correct drawings which are unpleasant to look
at, however, because there is something of “une âme
en peine” [a soul in pain] in them, which they later lost
as soon as they could move and breathe a little more freely.
Now I don't consider myself as clever as those people, but
without being under the constraint of a definite course, just
to perfect my drawing, I have forced myself to study the figure
assiduously, and through that very strain, by constantly
exerting myself, I have drifted into this dryness.
I wish you could come soon.
I repeat, it would be good if my circumstances were a little
easier, not for my pleasure or comfort, but for the order and
progress of the work. If you read this letter in relation to
the photographs I sent you, I hope you will see that I myself
am perfectly aware of the weak points in the drawings, and that
I see how to remedy those weak points, and that I certainly do
not refuse to work hard to conquer them; but at the same time,
that I am confronted with the difficulty of how to get the
necessary means for it. It's not your fault that I don't have
them, but it isn't mine, either, and “que faire, que
Taking a rest is out of the question, but I think it would
be a good thing to find distraction in a change of subjects and
style. After these figure studies, I feel the need of looking
at the sea, the bronzed potato foliage, the fields of stubble,
or plowed earth. In order to save time I have not spared
myself, pinched on everything just to work on, but now I am
absolutely drained. I can draw no more bills on my personal
needs, on that side not a drop can be squeezed out, there is
sickness and dryness.
I submit for your consideration whether it is
incomprehensible that I feel pretty hopeless when I think of
the income getting even smaller, seeing that there is already
the beginning of want.
I wish you would come soon.
I had hoped that some of the ten or twelve drawings might
have been sold, but this too has come to nothing.
Well, I hope to keep courage after all, whatever may happen,
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
or sandbank by a wave, and can make use of a storm to save
herself from wrecking. But such maneuvers do not always
succeed, and it would be desirable to avoid the spot by tacking
a little. After all, 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, and at times one
feels that after all one also has a life of one's own, which is
not indifferent to the way it is treated.
But it is beyond my power. If I don't have anything extra
now and then, as soon as I receive the usual amount,
And one feels oneself sinking, and one cannot get or pay for
the necessary things. And then the inner struggle - shall I be
able to go on and continue going along this road? What can I do
At all events write soon whether you have found something in
the photographs. You don't see anything absurd in them, such as
one might infer from Tersteeg's remark that he “would
rather have nothing to do with it,” do you? After all, I
am too calm and collected for that.
Adieu, a firm handshake in thought,
At this time, Vincent was 30 year old
Vincent van Gogh. Letter to Theo van Gogh. Written 23 July 1883 in The Hague. Translated by Mrs. Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, edited by Robert Harrison, number 303.
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