Day One
Well, my friend, here we are again, one of us painting and the other being painted. How many times have I painted you now? Ten? Twenty? I forget. But it is the third time this year, I think. The funny thing is, I never tire of you as a subject, of trying to portray the heart of you, your essence. Sometimes I catch your lighter side but more often, I fear, it is the darker, dare I say depressive side. Or maybe that is simply a reflection of how I myself am feeling.
So. Let us begin. What will it be this time? Is your mood happy, gay? With the pipe, I think and, yes, the straw hat. Summer may be fading into autumn but we may as well pretend for a little longer that we are basking like lizards in the hot sun.
Since I last painted you, I have been busy with my brush. There are so many sights around here that captivate me – the countryside, the olive trees, the farmers ploughing and tilling the soil, the butterflies fluttering from flower to flower taking their fill of the honey-scented pollen. There is a wonderful wheat field that I can just see from my window; I’ve watched it grow and change from brown to green to golden and absorbed it into my mind and then poured it out onto canvas.
Your face is so familiar to me and yet, every time, it is different. I suppose we all grow older and alter without realising it; it is only when someone gazes at us intently like me, now, painting your portrait, that our imperfections, our lines, our wrinkles and age spots become apparent. No, don’t pull that dismayed expression. You are who you are and I am who I am, we cannot change that.
Time for a break, I think, and a glass of something to warm the hands and the soul. They tell me I drink too much, it is not good for me, it causes my bad dreams and fancies. But I need it to paint, it inspires me and gives me courage.
Day Two
Good morning, my friend. We made a fine start yesterday but I need to make progress today while my mood is optimistic. Tomorrow the black dog might be on me. Move your head so. I was talking about the drink. When I was growing up, my father the clergyman was filled with a supreme confidence, in God, the Church and in his calling. Regrettably, it had the opposite effect on me and I cowered in his shadow. He was powerful, I weak; he kept his emotions firmly under control, I let mine run riot. I had two unhappy love affairs which did not help my state of mind. It was only when I decided to devote my life to art that I found my own calling and my self-respect.
But sometimes, I waver and then the bottle is my companion: it does not judge me.
Would you wear the hat at a slightly jaunty angle, please. I want this portrait to show the frivolous – no, that is the wrong word, you are not a frivolous person – light-hearted side of your character.
Some of my paintings I consider quite good and a few, a very few, worthy of a wider audience. Others tell me this also. Do you know how many I have created while I have been living in this place? Over one hundred! One night – it was after two but I was still awake, as is quite normal for me, I find sleep elusive – I was so moved by the wonder of the starry sky that I picked up my brush to capture it before it faded into buttery dawn. They tell me the picture is good and I could sell it but I don’t know, I have been painting for almost ten years now and have produced many, many canvasses. But do you know how many I have sold? Go on, guess. No? One! It’s just as well I’m not dependent on selling them for my living! They say that all great artists are only recognised as such after their death. And I cling onto this belief, otherwise why bother?
Day Three
Once more we meet. I had a bad night. My head was spinning round and round until I felt I would faint even while I was lying in bed. When I finally sank, exhausted, into a deep sleep, the dreams I dreamt! Men and women dressed in strange clothes running this way and that, fighting, shouting, chasing me, all shot through with vivid flashes of dazzling reds and blues and yellows like an artist’s palette!
I am exhausted and the side of my head aches but I must press on. Place the pipe in your lips thus. The portrait should be more or less completed today, I can add the final touches without looking at you. I know that sometimes you grow weary of the long hours posing. I’ve painted other people in the past, of course, but I cannot afford to pay a sitter now and I am immensely grateful that I have you on whom to practise my technique.
There! I am finished and I am reasonably satisfied. But next time it will be perfect.
*
Yes? Who is that knocking? It’s time for my medication? Well, come in, come in. You don’t normally care about the niceties. No, there’s no-one here. I’m all alone at my easel. What’s my subject this time? Self-portrait by Vincent Van Gogh.
Well, my friend, here we are again, one of us painting and the other being painted. How many times have I painted you now? Ten? Twenty? I forget. But it is the third time this year, I think. The funny thing is, I never tire of you as a subject, of trying to portray the heart of you, your essence. Sometimes I catch your lighter side but more often, I fear, it is the darker, dare I say depressive side. Or maybe that is simply a reflection of how I myself am feeling.
So. Let us begin. What will it be this time? Is your mood happy, gay? With the pipe, I think and, yes, the straw hat. Summer may be fading into autumn but we may as well pretend for a little longer that we are basking like lizards in the hot sun.
Since I last painted you, I have been busy with my brush. There are so many sights around here that captivate me – the countryside, the olive trees, the farmers ploughing and tilling the soil, the butterflies fluttering from flower to flower taking their fill of the honey-scented pollen. There is a wonderful wheat field that I can just see from my window; I’ve watched it grow and change from brown to green to golden and absorbed it into my mind and then poured it out onto canvas.
Your face is so familiar to me and yet, every time, it is different. I suppose we all grow older and alter without realising it; it is only when someone gazes at us intently like me, now, painting your portrait, that our imperfections, our lines, our wrinkles and age spots become apparent. No, don’t pull that dismayed expression. You are who you are and I am who I am, we cannot change that.
Time for a break, I think, and a glass of something to warm the hands and the soul. They tell me I drink too much, it is not good for me, it causes my bad dreams and fancies. But I need it to paint, it inspires me and gives me courage.
Day Two
Good morning, my friend. We made a fine start yesterday but I need to make progress today while my mood is optimistic. Tomorrow the black dog might be on me. Move your head so. I was talking about the drink. When I was growing up, my father the clergyman was filled with a supreme confidence, in God, the Church and in his calling. Regrettably, it had the opposite effect on me and I cowered in his shadow. He was powerful, I weak; he kept his emotions firmly under control, I let mine run riot. I had two unhappy love affairs which did not help my state of mind. It was only when I decided to devote my life to art that I found my own calling and my self-respect.
But sometimes, I waver and then the bottle is my companion: it does not judge me.
Would you wear the hat at a slightly jaunty angle, please. I want this portrait to show the frivolous – no, that is the wrong word, you are not a frivolous person – light-hearted side of your character.
Some of my paintings I consider quite good and a few, a very few, worthy of a wider audience. Others tell me this also. Do you know how many I have created while I have been living in this place? Over one hundred! One night – it was after two but I was still awake, as is quite normal for me, I find sleep elusive – I was so moved by the wonder of the starry sky that I picked up my brush to capture it before it faded into buttery dawn. They tell me the picture is good and I could sell it but I don’t know, I have been painting for almost ten years now and have produced many, many canvasses. But do you know how many I have sold? Go on, guess. No? One! It’s just as well I’m not dependent on selling them for my living! They say that all great artists are only recognised as such after their death. And I cling onto this belief, otherwise why bother?
Day Three
Once more we meet. I had a bad night. My head was spinning round and round until I felt I would faint even while I was lying in bed. When I finally sank, exhausted, into a deep sleep, the dreams I dreamt! Men and women dressed in strange clothes running this way and that, fighting, shouting, chasing me, all shot through with vivid flashes of dazzling reds and blues and yellows like an artist’s palette!
I am exhausted and the side of my head aches but I must press on. Place the pipe in your lips thus. The portrait should be more or less completed today, I can add the final touches without looking at you. I know that sometimes you grow weary of the long hours posing. I’ve painted other people in the past, of course, but I cannot afford to pay a sitter now and I am immensely grateful that I have you on whom to practise my technique.
There! I am finished and I am reasonably satisfied. But next time it will be perfect.
*
Yes? Who is that knocking? It’s time for my medication? Well, come in, come in. You don’t normally care about the niceties. No, there’s no-one here. I’m all alone at my easel. What’s my subject this time? Self-portrait by Vincent Van Gogh.