As They Were
Title: As They Were
Rating: G
Summary: A series of correspondences between artists. Featuring letters to/from Gaugain to Van Gogh, Delacroix, Pissarro, Courbet, and Renoir.
Author's Notes: In my Modern Art Class we were tasked to write letters within the time frame of the modern period, and were each asked to choose the artists for this project. It proved to be very challenging (huge understatement), but I actually quite enjoyed it in the long run...even if I lost sleep over this, and had to do tons of research!
Excerpts from a series of letters by a pupil to his master (Courbet)
Paris, 1869
I am now writing this letter in our studio, right after you told us that painting cannot be taught. Forgive me monsieur, but it was quite confusing to hear this, especially from someone who wanted to learn much from you...
...with the discovery of this complex yet fascinating machine, the camera, and its product, the photograph, then is it not the perfect instrument to capture actual events and faces? With this in mind, realism must be left to the photographers, who then can truly create lifelike images efficiently, and we must move on the other realms and possibilities in painting like color, which photography lacks…
…I have always found it strange to paint reality in the confines of a room, but now this new group of artists have are able to paint en plein air, painting landscape and the outside world. Truly their art defines reality, is true to nature?…
…this new way of thinking is also concerned with the urgency of the current times, I believe. Depicted also are contemporary images, those we see the moment we step out of the door. This realism could be called subjective realism, as seen through the artist’s eyes. To reproduce an object in an exact manner is for the photographers; we must pour our energies into discovering what color and light do to a subject…
…at the Salon des Refuses. I am honored to receive your missives, monsieur, and I bid you a good day.
Arles, 25 September 1888
My Dear Vincent,
You can’t imagine, dear Vincent, how glad I was to see an envelope with your writing this morning. Your last letter was a pleasure to read, and now I finally have the time to write back.
Your descriptions of your lodgings in Arles seem delightful, as well as your collection of Japanese objects and the lithographs by Daumier and Delacroix. You say that my little room is almost furnished, with a window revealing a quiet garden. Beautiful. It seems that your Artist’s House, your Japan, has been completed, and I am already thinking of packing my bags for my visit in November! Your brother took no pains in writing me a rather blunt letter, asking me outright if I could come, but I was hampered by other events.
I am extremely happy with the knowledge that you and Theo are doing well, though I cannot say the same for myself. I am currently in a deplorable state of affairs, however, and I am spiraling down, into debt. I owe my landlord a large sum of money, and I am planning to offer my paintings as payment, though it would be painful to lose them, I must admit. And now this: travel expenses. I am not sure if I will be able to come to you, but I shall do my best, assuredly. And if I do not come now, I will come another time. If I cannot arrive, then perhaps Bernard can sleep in my room for the meantime.
Last night I had a dream. Figures of women weeping. Bronze-skinned girls with flowers in their hair. In your last letter you mention the reason why you remain wholeheartedly with Impressionism, for you say it professes nothing, and binds you nothing. And yet I sense that Europe has nothing to offer, anymore, that Impressionism may try to hide our weary lives through bright colors, without any real depth. I cannot help but be repulsed at the hollowness that is the European way of life, and nothing is new anymore.
Perhaps we should explore the world outside Europe and find other inspiring areas fit for artists like us. You have found your niche with Japanese prints, of the master painter Hokusai, and recently I am fascinated with the barbaric cultures of those who live in the Eastern islands. These primitive peoples show resilience and strength of character, and are perfect subjects for an artist.
It is true that we must stand firm with our beliefs and principles, but I tire of the flak that is always brought to us artists, especially to the Impressionists. Maybe all our exhibitions are in vain, though I would not guarantee this. When then, can we get the recognition we deserve?
Enclosed is “The Night Café” that you sent Theo in your letters, which he sent to me. You emphasize the ugliness and chaos of the brothel, but I find it charming somehow. I have also purchased myself copies of everything written by Guy de Maupassant, as you have urged me so insistently to read. This suffering without you will come to pass, and I shall dream of your house until I see it for myself. Please leave my room for me, at least.
I will endeavor to make this letter more worthy your acceptance than my last, which was so shabby a one that I think they could never charge you with the postage.
With a good handshake and good-by for now,
Ever Yours,
Paul
Rating: G
Summary: A series of correspondences between artists. Featuring letters to/from Gaugain to Van Gogh, Delacroix, Pissarro, Courbet, and Renoir.
Author's Notes: In my Modern Art Class we were tasked to write letters within the time frame of the modern period, and were each asked to choose the artists for this project. It proved to be very challenging (huge understatement), but I actually quite enjoyed it in the long run...even if I lost sleep over this, and had to do tons of research!
Excerpts from a series of letters by a pupil to his master (Courbet)
Paris, 1869
I am now writing this letter in our studio, right after you told us that painting cannot be taught. Forgive me monsieur, but it was quite confusing to hear this, especially from someone who wanted to learn much from you...
...with the discovery of this complex yet fascinating machine, the camera, and its product, the photograph, then is it not the perfect instrument to capture actual events and faces? With this in mind, realism must be left to the photographers, who then can truly create lifelike images efficiently, and we must move on the other realms and possibilities in painting like color, which photography lacks…
…I have always found it strange to paint reality in the confines of a room, but now this new group of artists have are able to paint en plein air, painting landscape and the outside world. Truly their art defines reality, is true to nature?…
…this new way of thinking is also concerned with the urgency of the current times, I believe. Depicted also are contemporary images, those we see the moment we step out of the door. This realism could be called subjective realism, as seen through the artist’s eyes. To reproduce an object in an exact manner is for the photographers; we must pour our energies into discovering what color and light do to a subject…
…at the Salon des Refuses. I am honored to receive your missives, monsieur, and I bid you a good day.
Arles, 25 September 1888
My Dear Vincent,
You can’t imagine, dear Vincent, how glad I was to see an envelope with your writing this morning. Your last letter was a pleasure to read, and now I finally have the time to write back.
Your descriptions of your lodgings in Arles seem delightful, as well as your collection of Japanese objects and the lithographs by Daumier and Delacroix. You say that my little room is almost furnished, with a window revealing a quiet garden. Beautiful. It seems that your Artist’s House, your Japan, has been completed, and I am already thinking of packing my bags for my visit in November! Your brother took no pains in writing me a rather blunt letter, asking me outright if I could come, but I was hampered by other events.
I am extremely happy with the knowledge that you and Theo are doing well, though I cannot say the same for myself. I am currently in a deplorable state of affairs, however, and I am spiraling down, into debt. I owe my landlord a large sum of money, and I am planning to offer my paintings as payment, though it would be painful to lose them, I must admit. And now this: travel expenses. I am not sure if I will be able to come to you, but I shall do my best, assuredly. And if I do not come now, I will come another time. If I cannot arrive, then perhaps Bernard can sleep in my room for the meantime.
Last night I had a dream. Figures of women weeping. Bronze-skinned girls with flowers in their hair. In your last letter you mention the reason why you remain wholeheartedly with Impressionism, for you say it professes nothing, and binds you nothing. And yet I sense that Europe has nothing to offer, anymore, that Impressionism may try to hide our weary lives through bright colors, without any real depth. I cannot help but be repulsed at the hollowness that is the European way of life, and nothing is new anymore.
Perhaps we should explore the world outside Europe and find other inspiring areas fit for artists like us. You have found your niche with Japanese prints, of the master painter Hokusai, and recently I am fascinated with the barbaric cultures of those who live in the Eastern islands. These primitive peoples show resilience and strength of character, and are perfect subjects for an artist.
It is true that we must stand firm with our beliefs and principles, but I tire of the flak that is always brought to us artists, especially to the Impressionists. Maybe all our exhibitions are in vain, though I would not guarantee this. When then, can we get the recognition we deserve?
Enclosed is “The Night Café” that you sent Theo in your letters, which he sent to me. You emphasize the ugliness and chaos of the brothel, but I find it charming somehow. I have also purchased myself copies of everything written by Guy de Maupassant, as you have urged me so insistently to read. This suffering without you will come to pass, and I shall dream of your house until I see it for myself. Please leave my room for me, at least.
I will endeavor to make this letter more worthy your acceptance than my last, which was so shabby a one that I think they could never charge you with the postage.
With a good handshake and good-by for now,
Ever Yours,
Paul