What life I think best, oh, without the least shadow of a
doubt it is a life consisting of long years of intercourse with
nature in the country - and Something on High - inconceivable,
“awfully unnamable” - for it is impossible to find
a name for that which is higher than nature. Be a peasant - be,
if it could be considered possible nowadays, a village
clergyman or a schoolmaster - be - and in my opinion this ought
to be thought of first, the present times being what they are -
be a painter, and as a human being, after a number of years of
living in the country and of having a handicraft, as a human
being you will in the course of these years gradually become
something better and deeper in the end.
This is my firm belief. Whether one is more or
less clever at the start, whether one has the advantage
of favorable circumstances to a greater or to a lesser extent,
is, to my way of thinking, far from being the main thing. One
should start with the conviction that one is in need of
intercourse with nature, with the conviction that one cannot
lose one's way by taking this road, and that one's course will
be straight. And ... there is that other important thing: if
one should have an easy time of it, like a man living on his
private means, it would be of very little help; the very fact
that there is many a hard day and many an “effort of lost
souls” will make one a better man.
And I believe not being absolutely alone does a lot of good,
as one is apt to become absorbed in one's work; but this should
not lead to losing one's way, and by taking each other's advice
the right way can be followed steadily.
If you talked it over with other people, they would say, What
are you thinking of? - how wild a venture to give up this, that
and the other! In short, they would think it madness - a
blunder. As for myself, I find wildness in a conception of life
other than the one I am talking about - i.e. being a painter -
I think it wildly reckless to tie oneself down
irrevocably to the city and the affairs of the city.
They will tell you that you are a fanatic, but most certainly
you - after having undergone so many mental trials - will know
that it is impossible for you to be fanatical, for you are in a
period of disenchantment. Don't let them try to turn things
upside down, that won't do for me!
far from it. In your mood one is “in damned
earnest,” as the English say. You do not expect to find
something soft or sweet, no, you know that you are in for a
fight against something like a rock, no, you know that it is
impossible to conquer nature and to make her more amenable
without a terrible struggle and without more than ordinary
And when speaking of your being a painter, they would describe
your state of mind as that of a dreamer, imagining himself on a
bed of roses. I ask you, what do those who represent things
that way know? But people being what they are, this is only one
of their enormities and not even the worst by a long shot. This
hopeless absurdity of public opinion makes it only natural for
one to want to avoid the world.
One feels things to be wretched and much too distorted, and
however peaceful and cheerful and full of serenity one's
natural disposition may be, one feels that this cannot be
otherwise - but then I ask, what is more practical than telling
yourself: If I don't do anything about it, I shall lose my
energy and strength of mind; I am going to refresh, to
rejuvenate myself in nature; I am going to attack things in a
new way, and I will arrange my life in such a way that, let's
say, in a few years I shall have quite new and sure ground
under my feet.
I have no patience with “so-called” common sense
(a spurious article, unutterably different from the genuine
one) one is told to use, and which they say one does not use as
soon as one deviates from the ordinary course and takes a risk.
I repeat, I have no patience with it. I have no patience with
it for the very reason that my own natural common sense, if I
reflect, leads me to wholly different results than the
conclusion of narrow-minded worldly wisdom and prudent,
Oh, that dawdling, oh, those hesitations, oh, that not
believing that good is good, that black is black, that white is
Dear brother - I cannot speak; at the present
moment I am glad I can express myself stumblingly,
incoherently, roughly. I am glad I cannot write you like
Tersteeg or Father - for the moment - anyway.
I am so deeply convinced of your artistic talent that to me
you will be an artist as soon as you take up a brush or a piece
of crayon and, adroitly or maladroitly, make something.
Before you are able to express yourself, that is, your
plain-thinking virile soul - peaceful, good - before you can
express this in your work, quite a lot of things must happen;
but it will come, for as you are, so you
paint - not in the beginning, assuredly, if one is
It is clear to me that there is a je ne sais quoi - I already
see it in your words, pictures of some little corners in Paris,
etc., even now I should see it in your first sketches and
studies. When I think of Father, it seems to me that the good
in him is due to his intercourse with nature, and in my opinion
his error is that he attaches more value to other things than
they are really worth.
In my eyes Father is a man who, when he ought to have had it,
did not possess any knowledge of the intimate life of some
great men. What I mean to say is that in my opinion Father
never knew, and does not know now, and never will know what the
soul of modern civilization is. What is it? The eternal quality
in the greatest of the great: simplicity and truth.
Dupré, Daubigny, Corot, Millet, Israëls, Herkomer -
as well as Michelet, Hugo, Zola, Balzac, and many another
master of older and newer times. Father is too much
circumvented by his prejudices to understand this; all through
life he applies them with a punctiliousness worthy of a better
cause. For me he is the rayon noir. Why isn't he a rayon blanc?
- this is the only fault I find in Father. True, it is a great
fault - I cannot help it. And listen to what I say: Try to find
the rayon blanc, but blanc, do you hear?
With a handshake,
Yours sincerely, Vincent
I do not say - far, very far be it from me to say - that I
myself have the rayon blanc, but I am not ashamed to say that
it exists, this White Light - and that I seek it, and only this
do I consider simplicity.
At this time, Vincent was 30 year old
Vincent van Gogh. Letter to Theo van Gogh. Written c. 29-2 Oct-Nov 1883 in Drenthe. Translated by Mrs. Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, edited by Robert Harrison, number .
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