One of my favourite artist, me all time favourite is the Frenchman Paul Gauguin. What a man! What an artist! Now Sofia and Arifah don't understand me devotion to Gauguin, they say things like...Well you're a better painter than him, and if he'd a seen your stuff, he'd a broke his brushes..HEE Hee.. Yer lots a nice embarrassing things like that...Course I don't mind, they love me see!
Ah but I do love me wanderlusting old sea dog, me crazy Frenchman, me lover of beautiful women, me painter of dreamy womb like paradises. Naturally he had is faults, he was a great artist after all, not some sick christian saint. And some do say he was a hard callous bastard, leaving his wife and children like that to travel half way round the world, living it up with native girls! Yes some do say that! But dear reader the man was a genius, he was stirred up and swept along by his God given gifts. Really he'd no choice. That I think is one of the main differences between a talent and a genius. A talent can stay unused, can work in a bank and play on Sundays. but a genius such as Gauguin, Well you just light em, and they're off like a rocket or a bomb, the poor mortal who's bin blessed with genius has no chance. Mind you Gauguin was a calm man, a slow man in some ways a powerful man. He got the initial idea to be a painter when he was in his twenties, and that was the lighting of the touch paper, but it burned slow for a few years, but then when it blew, it BLEW! What a man hay? What an artist? What a nose! Love his nose.
I got a few books on Gauguin, some of em got photo's of photo's as well as photo's of paintings. There's quite a few photo's of Paul gauguin, so we know very well what he looked like, he dun a lotta self portraits an all.
The first portrait he did, was while he was still with his wife and kids, his family. It's a tentative effort, his in his attic. Impressionistic it is, quite a modest picture, tentative, you can see he's simply looking at hisself, trying to see who he is, trying to get a likeness. Really it's a humble effort. You can see he was struggling, trying to paint, trying to be honest. Now you look at his later stuff, when his come into his full powers..Arrogant! Hah! Oh yes, suffering, contemptuous. A martyr, got iself into the martyr thing he did in a big way he did..
Sofia said yes, I think he was a great man, but he shouldn't ave gone with prostitutes...Well dear reader, Sofia just does have this habit of laying it on the line. Arifah's in full agreement here. And dear reader, I'm loath to criticize my beloved Gauguin, but really, he'd a done better steering clear of them glittering creatures of the night. Course he got syphilis off a one of em, he did. And there's no doubt, this helped to precipitate him into an early grave. Only fifty four when he died. Still he'd done is great work. He'd bestowed his God given blessings upon the world, and we are all the richer for his life, his legend and his beautiful pictures. I never encountered the work of Gauguin until I was a young teenager. Birmingham city Art
Gallery dint have any post-impressionist paintings when I was a kid. But when I did at last encounter him and his work, I said Yes! this man is my brother. Now you might think dear reader, there's a hell of a distance between the Pre-Raphaelites and a wild man like Paul Gauguin, and so there is, but they were both reacting against the rise of industry and science, and the super dominance of modern civilisation upon people, and the way society corrupts and destroys the natural innocence and goodness in men. Gauguin went off to regain his own lost innocence, regain his own lost Eden. He wanted to reject the modern world and it's values. Course we know it's not that easy, but yer've gotta admire a man who went to the end of the road like that.
Well dear sweet reader, there's lots more to say about Gauguin and his one time buddy Mad Vince(Vincent Van Gogh), but that's enough for now!
I got meself a cup a tea, made one for Arifah, and a coffee, for Sofia. Got meself a ciggie and here I am, me feet up on the bed, ready to gossip a bit more with me dear sweet reader. I can hear some of me dear sweet readers groaning, Oh no! I hear you saying, not more about that disreputable Frenchman, Gauguin, I mean really I'm reading a serious treatise on box decoration. and he keeps wandering off. I mean why can't he stick to the point..Hah, Hah dear sweet reader, I'm having a rest from me labours upon me box, more of that tomorrow. Today I feel like having an idle chat. You don't need to read it! Tomorrow I shall resume me struggle with me last panel. Today I'm on holiday, can't afford a day trip to the sea side. So I thought, Right, I'll sit here and have a good old chin-wag with me lovely faithful readers, me people, me disciples.
That Gauguin! he got iself an harmonium, had it, he did in his tropical studio. I love to think of him there, in his native built hut, in the cool of the evening, beautiful native girls around him. Him sitting at his harmonium, playing and singing into the still night air, his strange and beautiful paintings on the walls gathering shadows about them, gathering time.
I don't think he can have been a great singer like me. If he had a bin his followers ud ave said so. No not a great singer but he loved to play and sing all the same. I expect he was hearty, spect he was sensitive, probably sang the popular songs of his day, probably got home sick sometimes for Paris and Brittany, where he had such a great time with his mates. Yer and don't forget he was an old sea dog as well as an old Parisian. Spect he'd quite a repertoire of drawing room ballads, old sea shanties, Brittany folk songs and maybe Maori folk song too. He liked to play upon the mandolin and guitar too. Yer I can see him there, prematurely old and sick, legs giving him gypp, but loving them beautiful young native girls, loving his art, loving his life despite it all.
He was as well as a French man, a man who could claim Peruvian ancestry on his mother's side. He said I am Maori. He said I am a French man, He said I am sensitive, He said I am a savage, but in the end, he was a man like you or me, having a rough ride, singing into the darkening night, like we all do Hay? Geniuses and talentless bastards alike, we all sing into the darkness sometimes, don't we dear sweet reader Hay?
I lived on an island meself once, dear reader. Not a tropical island though, far from it. Orkney it was! South Ronaldsay. Me and Sofia and Arifah (No little Sebastian though, he came along later) A barn it was, bin converted to a house, stood in it's own six acres a grassy field. Our nearest neighbours was a quarter of an hour walk away. Oh yes we lived in that barn, for almost three years we did. I had an harmonium and I played and sang me own songs into those long dark Orcadian nights, sometimes though the wind howled so loud and crashed around the house, like bin in a drum it was, and a wild man outside beating out his crazy rhythms, drowned me out it did., drown us all out. Never heard in me life such a wind as I heard on Orkney. I could tell you some stories about our time there. Oh yes, and the songs I sang, and the pictures I painted. And Arifah did too, sing and paint that is. And Sofia did. What a time we had there, in that remote and wild place called Hestily. Me and Sofia and Arifah, and the cats and the rats, and the fearsome Orkney owls. I must tell you all about it some time. Especially I must tell you of Seraphina!
But for now sweet reader lets get back to me old sea doggy friend Gauguin and his pal, Mad Vince Hay!
They Met in Paris, in the eighteen eighties, couple a nutters, end of the roaders both. Vince? Well, I spect a lotta ya heard about him already. Seen the film most like, Kirk Douglas plays the mad dutchman, and Antony Quinn is Gauguin. Yer! Did yer? See the film? Maybe yer did, and maybe yer didn't. Too busy having a good time to sit around watching hollywood films about dead Dutch artists Hay? Well, for them what don't know, let's go back to 1888. Back to the real men. Vince was indisputably a very, very highly strung kinda chap, he got an affair going with sorrow and despair. he was a poor man sick in his heart and his mind and who knows his soul too. Course I don't know that, only God knows that! He embraced sorrow as a creed, he believed in it. Now he loved Gauguin, I don't know why, maybe Gauguin was the kind a man who inspired devotion and admiration. He did unhappily also inspire hatred and ill-feeling too. Anyway he want wishy washy, like yellow ochre, that's for sure. Vince got sick a Paris, zoomed off to a place called Arles, little town in Provence. He was desperate for Gauguin to join him there. Gauguin want dead keen, but he was stone broke, and so when Vince's brother said he'd finance the venture Gauguin said O.K. Mon Amie, yer on.
That's how it came about that two out of the three major post impressionists came to be living together in what was later to become famous as the yellow house. Cus Vince, who mad a mania for the colour yellow painted all the bloody walls in the place chrome yellow. Not a great decor idea for a highly strung type like Vince!
Gauguins misgivings about the whole venture of a studio in the south with Mad Vince were to prove fully justified. (And that dear reader is some understatement!)
My dear reader is probably thinking who was the other major post impressionist, why weren't he in the yellow house in Arles an all? What would have happened if he had bin, and what the fucks a post impressionist anyway? Hah! Hah! (That dear reader is me benign, paternal Hah, Hah,) patience dear disciples, all will be revealed.
The other major post impressionist was a guy called Paul Cezanne and he want in the yellow house, cus he want invited, and if he had bin, he'd not ave gone, cus he'd not ave touched Mad Vince with a barge pole. "Vincent!" he said ter him once, "Truly you paint like a madman!" I don't know what Vince said in reply, probably something like "Up yours, yer catholic son of a capitalist pig hat maker." Maybe not, I don't know. Anyway even if Cezanne hadn't bin mad keen to avoid Vince, he'd still not a gone, cus he had a deep deep distrust of Gauguin, who he regarded as a talent less bastard of an old sea dog. "A maker of Chinese images" he called Gauguin. This statement was meant to be a withering, blistering criticism, but it's probable Gauguin was flattered. Now dear reader, Gauguin was a proud and arrogant man, at times touchy, ready for a fist fight, or even a law suit, if necessary to protect his honour against the slightest slight, real or imaginary. But he was mightily impressed by Cezanne's painting, and had bought some of em when he'd bin in funds, and he'd literally starved rather than sell his precious Cezannes.
He'd even place em in the backgrounds of some of his own paintings. In short he loved Cezanne's work, and was influenced by it. So he most likely would have loved Cezanne to have bin at the yellow house, but it weren't his scene, it was Vince's scene. And so dear reader, it was Vince and Gauguin, two of the three major post impressionist, alone together at the yellow house. Two months they spent together, writing about that period later Gauguin said it felt like bloody years, Hah Hah dear reader I bet it did an all!
Nobody now can imagine what is was like, not really. Course Vince wrote to his brother, the saintly Theo, every day. These letter's have been published. We can be as grateful as no doubt Theo, would ave bin if he'd a known about the danger, that telephones had not yet bin invented! Cus we've got Vince's letter's ter read, and poor old Theo, dint have ter press a telephone to his earhole to listen to his lunatic brother, bin excited. "Phew, that was a close shave", Theo, ud a said if he'd a known, and he was an educated man a the world type guy, so it's possible he did know, because Alexander Graham Bell, did in fact patent his telephone devise in America in 1876, course it took a good few years after that for the thing to become the world wide pest it later become. Still must a bin anxious times for poor Theo.
Maybe one for the historians this, was Theo Van Gogh in communication with Mark Twain the famous American humorist writer, who turned Alexander Graham Bell away from his door saying, no I int gonna back yer, I'm with Theo, on this one, Well as I say, this is one for yer research grant type historian. The fact is Vince had ter write to his brother, the letters make fascinating reading. Like wise Paul who was severely traumatised by the whole thing with Vincent, wrote all about it later, so dear reader while we can't really imagine what it was like back in the yellow house in 1888, we can to a degree reconstruct the time, from the two geniuses writing, and of course, give thanks to the god's that Mark Twain was too smart to back a nutty idea, like a device whereby two people could talk to each other from a distance. Phew, that was close Theo!
So Back to Arles 1888, winter, well late October anyway, First there was pleasure! Two lonely men, passionately devoted to there art, meeting, having a few jar's together, visiting the local sights, ending in a visit to the local brothel, for them guys a nice day. Yes,Yes I know dear reader, but what can I do? It's no good me saying look here chaps, this messing around in brothels int a good idea, really it's not. No! no good me saying that, people don't like yer interfering like that, anyway it's a mug's game trying to give advice to people what a bin dead for nearly a hundred years, they don't listen See!
It dint take long for the initial bit a joy der vive, in each other's company to wear off, before yer know it, they're in there, two hard men, clashing like a storm, raging, and cursing and spitting and disagreeing about everything under the bleeding mad Arlesian sun, And that old mistral, blowing all around em, making em even madder, than they would ave bin anyway. So there they was in that claustrophobic yellow house, cussing and swearing and blinding this and blinding that, and chucking their hats on the floor, and jumping on em. Gauguin had a nice astrakhan hat, you can see it in his photo, and self portraits, Vincent had a straw hat, decorated with candle wax! (Hah, Hah, that dear sweet reader is an in joke for Van Gogh groupies, See footnote, if I ever get round to writing it) Now at this time Gauguin was in fact sporting a beret, that's a french word that is, so you ave to pretend the "T" is a "Y" so yer say berry. Really you'd a thought the French ud be more logical with their spelling, wouldn't yer?
Now doubtless, me dear sweet reader is thinking what ud Paul Cezanne have made of all this hat stomping? Well! Dear reader he'd a love it he would, yer loved it! all this stomping on hats, blissed out on it he'd a bin, cus see, Paul Cezanne's Dad was a hat-maker. Yes he was, that's right, and Paul hated his dad! So I think you can be pretty sure that big old surly Cezanne ud a bin sitting there saying things like "Yer, go on yer mad bastards, stomp on them hats, Hah, Hah" He might even have chucked is own hat on the floor and joined in the hat stomping. Then again maybe he wouldn't have, who can say for sure? Another one this for your art historian, so lets not get carried away here, after all, Cezanne want at Arles was he? No he want! Now all this excitement was O.K. for Gauguin, cus he was an old sea dog see! Hat stompin ud a bin not unlike doing a seaman's jig. But poor Vince, it ud a bin too much for him, bin so highly strung, see? The fact is dear sweet reader, Vince was getting nearer and nearer the edge, and afore long, he was gonna leap over it, laughing wildly no doubt, and seeing things an all, I expect!
Christmas eve, 1888, Mad Vince says, "Hay Paul, where's me Christmas card, you ave got me one int ya?" He shoots a dark suspicious side glance at Paul, who was playing cat's cradle with a strand a hair from is famous horse-shoe moustache. Paul started up, startled, and said "Ouch!" cus a pulling a long hair out his moustache see! Then he got a shifty look on his face "Christmas Card?" Ah Jesus! he thinks ter iself, I clean forgot. Now there'll be trouble! Christ his a touchy bastard, wish I'd stayed in bleeding Brittany. "I int got yer one Vince old son, I don't believe in all this christmas crap, it gets on me nerves, more of a Buddhist I am. Me!"
"Well!" Sez Vince, staring wildly outa his mad green eyes, "I'm a bit of a Buddhist meself I am! but I still expect a bleeding christmas card off me best mate I do!"
"O.K. Corporal!" says Paul in that maddeningly agreeable way of his. "I'll make yer one meself, lend us a pencil and a bitta paper!" Paul gives is famous sardonic grin here, Vince crashes his mad fist on the table "I don't wan a home made one I wan a proper one!, with sparkly stuff on it and snow and a little robin, sitting on a sprig a holly, in short a bleeding proper one see!" Vince is be now nose to nose with Gauguin, staring at im madly. Gauguin smiles and sez , "Calm down Vince old son, you'll give yerself hic-cups goin on like that!"
Vince stared madly at Paul fer a long, long minute, then in a sudden, unexpected jerky movement, he pulls a pair a scissors out a is coat pocket, picks up the local newspaper, what was lying innocently on the table, and begins snipping away at it with the scissors, snip, snip, snip, then with a cry of triumph, he throws the scissors down on the table, and holding what was left of the vandalized newspaper up to Paul's face, said somewhat cryptically "SEE! SEE!"
Paul thinks ter imself, Hm, better humour the lunatic, his starting ter look seriously over the edge-ish "Very Nice Vince, er what is it exactly?"
Vince rolled his beady green eyes a bit, and laughed maniacally. He shakes the newspaper in Paul's face, it falls into a row of dancing figures "See now, do yer? yer French lunatic?"
Paul decides not to take offence at this slur on both his character and his nationality. The poor Dutch idiot has clearly flipped right over, thinks the blessed Paul, he deserves sympathy, understanding and avoiding like the bloody plague.
"Hah, Hah" laughs Vince wildly "Yer still don't see do ya you moron, you low foreheaded French oaf? Dancing Nun's see! Twenty dancing Nuns" Vince's laughter become to much even for the great Frenchman. it would not be true to say he fled the yellow house, but it would be true to say Paul felt a fairly urgent need for "A breath of air Vince old chum!" And he exited, with dignity of course! after all he was the great Gauguin, but also he exited with a fair amount a speed! as he slammed the door behind him,he heard Vincent laughing wildly and saying in a strangely insistent voice "Twenty dancing nun's! Twenty of the bastards all dancing Hay??Hah, Hah!"
Well dear sweet reader I make no judgements, only the great creator iself knows the rights and wrongs of what went on in Arles, that fateful Christmas eve. Gauguin was by his own accounts severely unnerved by Mad Vince's increasingly wild behaviour, and as we've seen it all came to a head on Christmas eve! So often I find birthdays and christmases are crisis points for highly strung types like poor old Vince. To rush through the harrowing events with all possible speed let me give my dear sweet reader a brief description of what happened, and then let us move on to more cheerful topic's.
Vince cracked up, Gauguin panicked and fled, which shows you just how strung up he'd gotten in the two month's he'd spent with Vince, cus he was by no means a panicky nor cowardly man. But by this stage he was certainly as wound up as a virgin in a brothel. As he walked out that Christmas eve, "Taking the air!" he heard behind him over the cobbled streets, them oh too familiar quick nervous foot steps, he turned to see what? Mad Vince rushing at im with one of them old fashion razors! Paul said "Hay watch it Vince!" Vince froze in his tracks, turned and ran off into the night.."Twenty dancing nun's" he cried, "twenty a the bastards! dancing!" When Vince got back to the Yellow house he cut a bit off is own ear, put it in a box and delivered it to the local brothel, as a present to is favourite lady there.Then he went home wrapped is bleeding head in a towel, and promptly fell ter sleep.
Meanwhile Gauguin unaware of all this, had decided he had enough a mad Vince for one night, and had gone off found himself a cheap hotel and booked hisself in for the night. Wedging a chair under the door handle for extra security, he'd fallen into a fitful, nightmarish sleep. Christ what a christmas Hay!
Poor old Gauguin, his iron nerve's was all shot ter pieces, Ah but there was worse to come, with the morning light. In burst the local Police. "You've murdered yer friend, you mad bastard" sez the policeman, Poor old Paul wus dragged willy nilly to the scene of his crime. There in the yellow house, on his bed, head wrapped in blood soaked towels, lay one very poorly Vince. Vince stirred and groaned a bit. "Right! Sez the police man, "I see it all now he int dead, is a nutter, he did it ter imself, O.K. Paul old son, yer can go!" Paul din't need telling twice, fled back to Paris, and who can blame im? Not me. He went and dossed on his ever faithful old friend Scuff.
Oh Yuk! I can hear me dear sweet sensitive reader saying, what a gruesome christmas tale, well dear sweet reader, I int Dickens, Vince want nobody's fairy godmother, and Paul, well, he want Florence Nightengale. So yer see, everyone was somebody else, which is after all, only what yer'd expect from a book entitled the Way ward way..Well init, Ah! but I love ter a bin a fly on the wall, in Emile Schuffenecker"s house that christmas, when his erst-while buddy Paul turned up, nerves in taters, most likely gibbering about mad dutchmen and a course twenty dancing nun's!
Well! dear reader what ya make of all that Hay? Mad bastards wan they??? Still, no doubt it'd all bin different if surly old Paul Cezanne ud a bin there! But that as they say int history! And yet yer know, although Vince and Gauguin never met again, they continued to be friends, wrote to each other a lot. Gauguin had a magnanimous streak, and mad Vince had a humble one, So they got on O.K. by post...
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