letters from vincent V

the hague/july 1882

to brother theo

Do not imagine that I think myself perfect or that I think that many people's taking me for a disagreeable character is no fault of mine. I am often terribly melancholy, irritable, hungering and thirsting, as it were, for sympathy; and when I do not get it, I try to act indifferently, speak sharply, and often even pour oil on the fire. I do not like to be in company, and often find it difficult to mingle with people, to speak with them. But do you know what the cause is-- if not of all, of a great deal of this? Simply nervousness; I am terribly sensitive, physically as well as morally . . . But you, or anyone who will take the trouble to think it over, will not condemn me, I hope, because of it, not find me unbearable. I try to fight it off, but that does not change my temperament; and even though this may be my bad side, confound it, I have a good side too, and can't they credit me with that also?

*

It is true that I am often in the greatest misery, but still there is a calm pure harmony and music inside me.

*

august/september

Last Saturday night I attacked a thing I had been dreaming of for along time. It is a view of the flat green meadows, with haycocks. It is crossed by a cinder path running along a ditch. And on the horizon in the middle of the picture the sun is setting, fiery red.I cannot possibly draw the effect in such a hurry, but this is the composition.

But it was surely a question of colour and tone, the variety of the sky's colour scheme-- first a violet haze, with the red sun half covered by a dark purple cloud which had a brilliant fine red border; near the sun reflections of vermilion, but above it a streak of yellow, turning into green and then into blue, the so-called cerulean blue; and then here and there violet and grey clouds, catching reflections from the sun.

The ground was a kind of carpetlike texture of green, grey and brown, but variegated and full of vibration-- in this colourful soil the water in the ditch sparkles.

Then I have painted a huge mass of dune ground-- thickly painted and sticky.

*

I know for sure that I have an instinct for colour, and that it will come to me more and more, that painting is in the very marrow of my bones.

*

I feel such a creative power in myself that I know for sure that the time will arrive when, so to speak, I shall regularly make something good every day.

But very rarely a day passes that I do not make something, though it is not yet the real thing I want to make . . .

*

november

This is something unbearable for many a painter, or at least almost unbearable. One wants to be an honest man, one is that, one works as hard as a slave, but still one cannot make both ends meet; one must give up the work, there is no chance of carrying it out without spending more on it than one can get back, one gets a feeling of guilt, of shortcoming, of not keeping one's promises, one is not honest, which one would be if the work were paid for at its natural, reasonable price. One is afraid of making friends, one is afraid of moving; like one of the old lepers, one would like to call from afar to the people: Don't come too near me, for intercourse with me brings you sorrow and loss. With all that huge burden of care on one's heart one must set to work with a calm everyday face . . . .

*

But one feels so miserable at such a time; I have a large pile of studies, but they don't interest me then, and I find them all bad . . . .

*

The crayon has a real gypsy soul.

letters from vincent IV

brussels/april 1881
to brother theo


Though I feel my weakness and my painful dependence in many things, I have recovered my mental balance, and day by day my energy increases.

*

Wait, perhaps some day you will see that I too am an artist.

letters from vincent III

the boringae/ october 1879

to brother theo

Sometimes in winter the cold is so biting that one says, It is too cold; what do I care if summer will follow, the evil far surpasses the good. But with or without our permission, an end to the bitter frost comes at last, and on a certain morning the wind has turned and we have a thaw.

*

Well, what shall I say? Do our inner thoughts ever show outwardly? there may be a great fire in our soul, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passersby see only a wisp of smoke coming from the chimney, and go along there merry way.

*

But I should be very glad if it were possible for you to see me as something more than an idle man of the worst type.

letters from vincent II

amsterdam/august 1877
to brother theo


A phrase in your letter struck me: 'I wish I were far away from everything; I am the cause of all, and bring only sorrow to everybody; I alone have brought all this misery on myself and others.' These words struck me because that same feeling, exactly the same, neither more nor less, is also on my conscience . . . .

*

There are moments when the common everyday things make an extraordinary impression and have a deep significance and a different aspect

*

I want to ask you one thing: couldn't you arrange it so that we could be together, quiet and undisturbed, for at least one whole day?

letters from vincent I

london/march 1875

to brother theo

Father wrote to me once, 'Do not forget the story of Icarus, who wanted to fly to the sun, and having arrived at a certain height, lost his wings and dropped into the sea.' You will often fel that neither you nor I are what we hope to become someday, that we are still far beneath Father and other people, and are wanting in stability, simplicity and sincerity. One cannot become simple and true in one day. But let us persevere . . . .

worth a look-- African Beaded Art

Here

fibulae

Wikipedia says, "A Fibula (Latin "to fasten"[1]) is an ancient brooch. Technically, the Latin term fibulae refers specifically to Roman brooches, however, the term is widely used to refer to brooches from the entire ancient and early medieval world. Unlike modern brooches, fibulae were not only decorative, they originally served a practical function: to fasten clothes, including cloaks. Fibulae replaced straight pins that were used to fasten clothing in the Neolithic period and Bronze Age. In turn, fibulae were replaced as clothing fasteners in the Middle Ages by buttons. Their descendant, the modern safety-pin, remains in use today.

Fibulae, thebeadedlily style---