Fateful women - Dramatic monologue of Vincent talking to Dr Gachet for the last time in his absence
So where was I, Dr Gachet?
May.
Yes, then I was not a painter.
But I was. Already. Effects appeared to me in colours
So when she rejected me I felt everything swallowed up in browns.
The Dutch school is very dull and full of dark and turgid colours and that must have influenced me unconsciously.
The miners at Rouen were all shades of black, green, and gold but strangely vivid like the night sky seen when one is having a fit of epilepsy
The women looked out of shape or carrying.
Perhaps there was something wrong with meto see them as they are, suffering, and try to draw them to evoke sympathy for them.
Later, there was that model Christine but she tortured me.
So I painted her in venomous blues and yellows that were not sun or sunflower or cornflower sky blue.
I painted my impressions, my thoughts, my feelings, I never looked at the brush or the colour something exact
I applied knife to canvas or squeezed the paint directly on
It lay thick on the world like a bad case of rash
like semen or food, left-overs at that
delicious and sometimes gone bad
And Rachel, she was orange and red
"Fou-rou" she called me but I made her bronzed
While I bled, tired of prostitutes and every one else
Strange sounds buzzed in my ears corresponding to colours
My head reeled as in the days of sun-stroke and heat haze and of my fights with Gauguin
I missed my brother, Theo
I missed my painter friends
I missed my miners
I missed May most pitiably
I missed my childhood and my family
I missed Paris but loved Arles more
I missed even the commune and the gospel
Now I have come to the end of days
This is my shot gun
I am in a daze
Talking to you
And will put things in place
The sun is in a mighty blaze
But even you are not here
Let me pull the trigger
May.
Yes, then I was not a painter.
But I was. Already. Effects appeared to me in colours
So when she rejected me I felt everything swallowed up in browns.
The Dutch school is very dull and full of dark and turgid colours and that must have influenced me unconsciously.
The miners at Rouen were all shades of black, green, and gold but strangely vivid like the night sky seen when one is having a fit of epilepsy
The women looked out of shape or carrying.
Perhaps there was something wrong with meto see them as they are, suffering, and try to draw them to evoke sympathy for them.
Later, there was that model Christine but she tortured me.
So I painted her in venomous blues and yellows that were not sun or sunflower or cornflower sky blue.
I painted my impressions, my thoughts, my feelings, I never looked at the brush or the colour something exact
I applied knife to canvas or squeezed the paint directly on
It lay thick on the world like a bad case of rash
like semen or food, left-overs at that
delicious and sometimes gone bad
And Rachel, she was orange and red
"Fou-rou" she called me but I made her bronzed
While I bled, tired of prostitutes and every one else
Strange sounds buzzed in my ears corresponding to colours
My head reeled as in the days of sun-stroke and heat haze and of my fights with Gauguin
I missed my brother, Theo
I missed my painter friends
I missed my miners
I missed May most pitiably
I missed my childhood and my family
I missed Paris but loved Arles more
I missed even the commune and the gospel
Now I have come to the end of days
This is my shot gun
I am in a daze
Talking to you
And will put things in place
The sun is in a mighty blaze
But even you are not here
Let me pull the trigger
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