Purchase cataloguePainted with Words is a compelling look at Vincent van Gogh's correspondence to his young colleague Émile Bernard between 1887 and 1889. Van Gogh's words and sketches reveal his thoughts about art and life and communicate his groundbreaking work in Arles to his fellow painter.
Van Gogh's letters to Bernard reveal the tenor of their relationship. Van Gogh assumed the role of an older, wiser brother, offering praise or criticism of Bernard's paintings, drawings, and poems. At the same time the letters chronicle van Gogh's own struggles, as he reached his artistic maturity in isolation in Arles and St. Rémy. Throughout the letters are no less than twelve sketches by van Gogh meant to provide Bernard with an idea of his work in progress, including studies related to the paintings The Langlois Bridge, Houses at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, Boats on the beach at Saintes-Maries, The Sower, and View of Arles at Sunset.
The translations used in this presentation are from the catalogue for the exhibition: Vincent van Gogh
Painted with Words, The Letters to Émile Bernard and are reproduced by kind permission of the Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.
Major support for Painted with Words: Vincent van Gogh's Letters to Émile Bernard and its accompanying catalogue was provided by the International Music and Art Foundation. Generous support was also provided by the Robert Lehman Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts.
Vincent van Gogh, letter to Émile Bernard, Saint-Rémy, 20 November 1889, Letter 22, page 1
My dear friend Bernard,
Thank you for your letter, and thank you especially for your photos, which give me an idea of your
Incidentally, my brother wrote to me about it the other day, saying that he very much liked the
harmoniousness of the color, a certain nobility in several figures.
Look, in the adoration of the shepherds, the landscape charms me too much for me to dare to
criticize, and nevertheless, it's too great an impossibility to imagine a birth like that, on the very
road, the mother who starts praying instead of giving suck, the fat ecclesiastical bigwigs, kneeling as
if in an epileptic fit, God knows how or why they're there, but I myself don't find it healthy.
Because I adore the true, the possible, were I ever capable of spiritual fervor; so I bow before
that study, so powerful that it makes you tremble, by père Millet—peasants carrying to the farmhouse
a calf born in the fields. Now, my friend—people have felt that from France to America. After
that, would you go back to renewing medieval tapestries for us? Truly, is this a sincere conviction?
No, you can do better than that, and you know that one has to look for the possible, the logical, the
true, even if to some extent you had to forget Parisian things à la Baudelaire. How I prefer Daumier
to that gentleman!
An annunciation of what—I see figures of angels, elegant, my word, a terrace with two
cypresses, which I like very much; there's an enormous amount of air, of clarity in it. . . . but in the
end, once this first impression is past, I wonder if it's a mystification, and these secondary characters no longer tell me anything.
But this is enough for you to understand that I was longing to get to know things from you like
the painting of yours that Gauguin has, those Breton women walking in a meadow, the arrangement
of which is so beautiful, the color so naively distinguished. Ah, you're exchanging that for
something—must one say the word—something artificial—something affected.