![]() Myself, I only have the choice between being a good painter or a bad one. So I assure you that if by chance you sometimes sent me a little more money, that would benefit the paintings, but not me. If I have models, then I suffer considerably as a result. Whatever I do, living is pretty expensive here, more or less like Paris, where, while spending 5 or 6 francs a day, you don’t have much. I must tell you now that materially speaking, these days are extremely hard. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to get that in a pose, and yet you need an intelligent model to be able to do the painting. It was something out of Delacroix, out of Daumier, out of the old Dutch painting entirely. But one day I saw him singing the Marseillaise – and I thought I was seeing ’89, not next year, but the one 99 years ago. I don’t know if I’ll be able to paint the postman as I feel him as a revolutionary this man is like père Tanguy, he’s probably considered a good republican because he heartily detests the republic we currently enjoy, and because, in short, he’s a little dubious and a little disillusioned with the republican idea itself. But what does that do to us, we’ve read La terre and Germinal, and if we paint a peasant we’d like to show that this reading has in some way become part of us. Ah, my dear brother – – and the good folk will see only caricature in this exaggeration. Hence the oranges, blazing like red-hot iron, hence the old gold tones, glowing in the darkness. However, without wishing to evoke the mysterious brilliance of a pale star in the infinite blue in this case.īut imagining the terrific man I had to do, in the very furnace of harvest time, deep in the south. Similarly, I’ve proceeded in this way in the peasant’s portrait. I make a simple background of the richest, most intense blue that I can prepare, and with this simple combination, the brightly lit blond head, against this rich blue background achieves a mysterious effect, like a star in the deep azure. Behind the head – instead of painting the dull wall of the mean room, I paint the infinite. I exaggerate the blond of the hair, I come to orange tones, chromes, pale lemon. To finish it, I’m now going to be an arbitrary colourist. I’ll paint him, then, just as he is, as faithfully as I can – to begin with.īut the painting isn’t finished like that. I’d like to put in the painting my appreciation, my love that I have for him. I’d like to do the portrait of an artist friend who dreams great dreams, who works as the nightingale sings, because that’s his nature. ![]() Well, let’s let that lie as far as theory goes, but I’m going to give you an example of what I mean. And I wouldn’t be very surprised if the Impressionists were soon to find fault with my way of doing things, which was fertilized more by the ideas of Delacroix than by theirs.īecause instead of trying to render exactly what I have before my eyes, I use colour more arbitrarily in order to express myself forcefully. It’s just that I find that what I learned in Paris is fading, and that I’m returning to my ideas that came to me in the country before I knew the Impressionists. Well, I know that one shouldn’t be discouraged because utopia isn’t coming about. What a mistake that Parisians haven’t acquired sufficient taste for rough things, for Monticellis, for barbotine. I don’t believe that my peasant will do any harm, for example, to the Lautrec that you have, and I dare even believe that the Lautrec will, by simultaneous contrast, become even more distinguished, and mine will gain from the strange juxtaposition, because the sunlit and burnt, weather-beaten quality of the strong sun and strong air will show up more clearly beside the face powder and stylish outfit. You’ve now changed since then, but you’ll see that he hasn’t changed, and really it’s a pity that there aren’t more paintings in clogs in Paris. ![]() The colour of this portrait of a peasant isn’t as dark as the Nuenen potato eaters – but the very civilized Parisian, Portier, probably so-called because he kicks paintings out of the door – will find himself up against the same question again. Today without fail I’ll send you the drawing I made after this painting, as well as the drawing of the portrait of Roulin the postman. You’ll shortly make the acquaintance of Mr Patience Escalier – a sort of man with a hoe, an old Camargue oxherd, who’s now a gardener at a farmstead in the Crau.
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