July, 1890.
My name is
Vincent Van Gogh. Today I had the terrible misfortune of being shot. I am
afraid it is the end for me. However, in one sense, I shouldn’t be afraid. Not only
do I face my imminent death philosophically- all have died before me- I also
feel that this life- as it is- is no longer of any use. There is no purpose for
me anymore, in living.
Today I
began painting as usual. What else is there for me to do? I am resigned to
being a failed artist. I have no other certainty in my life. In fact, there is no
certainty either in painting. But perhaps more certainly in this than for
anything else. I am not a baker. I do not bake. I am not a tailor. I do not
mend clothes. And I am far from a chef, or a postman or a carpenter.
As I
wandered from Ravoux’s inn into the brilliant Auvers sun my thoughts began
hopefully. I saw the town hall that I painted the other day. I passed my dear
doctor’s garden. I went past the church which has frightened me all these days.
I painted the windows purple last month. I began to see yellow everywhere. You see
I had reached the wheatfields. It is not the first time I have tackled these
wheatfields. I did the same thing in Arles. They provide comfort for me somehow.
As I said before my day began hopefully. What is
there not to be hopeful about a new baby grandson, young Vincent, named after
me. I painted the almond tree near me, filled with blossom and an aching blue
sky as a surprise for Theo and Jo’s baby boy. When I was in Paris in the spring
I saw my pictures again. I mean the ones I painted in Arles. I turned away from
the ones I did at the asylum. But certain pictures. Well they made me weep. The
bedroom, my lovely sunflowers, the chair for Gauguin, some outdoor studies I
think are pretty good. Mostly cypress trees and wheatfields. I wept because I
saw my life flash before me. I know these are damn good. And together! What a
miracle they made. They have been made straight from my heart. God knows how
much they have cost me my life. But I would not change anything.
Here in
Auvers I have been in a kind of frenzy of creating things. But it’s all
different. If my genius is one day discovered they will say that ‘Vincent was
mad. He spent some time in an asylum. He was terribly nervous and had dizzy
spells. He even cut off a piece of his ear. No wonder he was committed and
locked away.’ They will speak the truth. But there is another truth. And it
will be seen in these pictures that I have done here in the North. Terribly desolate
landscapes after landscapes. I have not had to go out of my way to create this
feeling of loneliness and worthlessness that I have. It has all come to naught.
I am not old in years but,’ a quoi bon?’
Today I
ventured once again to these wheatfields of Auvers. I painted them the other
day with a dark, stormy sky made mostly from Prussian blue. I made sure I had
my little revolver with me. I use it to…. Oh well, it scarcely matters anymore.
I soon found myself a position to stand with my easel. I always find this to be
the easiest part. I simply setup and stare. Today as usual there were black crows.
Not a large number but I know a lot about symbolism by now. I urgently needed
these black crows in my painting. The lurid yellow. These black crows. Thinking
of my brother and how he would shield from his little boy. I apply the paint
thickly. I create more crows. And the sky…I can’t help myself. Thick streaks of
blue, dark and without hope…
Some boys are
in the distance. I have seen them before. Schoolboys like the ones in Arles. French
schoolboys who are bored and want to know why a madman with paintbrushes and an
easel is in the middle of this huge expanse of wheatfield. I can see them
coming and I am weary today. I don’t care anymore. I do not want to justify myself
to them. I try to fend them off, their laughs and their sneers. But I am
overpowered and they take hold of my gun… and then I am lying down and dizzy again.
I am afraid they will take my picture. I know I have been shot and sense the
boys have run away. I feel overwhelmed and must get back to Ravoux but my
stomach lurches in pain and I bleed like I did once by my ear.
My dear
brother. Thanks for the 50-fr. note you sent me. There are many things I would
like to write you about but I feel it would be useless. I have risked my life
for my work as you know. We are living in a time of comparative crisis. When you
leave Jo and the little one and come and see me you will see I am a changed
man.
'In 2011, another theory about the
artist’s death emerged, when two American researchers claimed that Van Gogh
didn’t actually kill himself, but was instead the victim of an accident. They
theorized that two young boys playing with a gun accidentally pressed the trigger and wounded Van Gogh by mistake.'
