scarlet, a surprisingly soft green, and that searing yellow. “Ah. This is what I was looking for.” He held up a horizontal rectangular canvas. At first I could only make out the simplest forms: round tables with crude chairs, clumsy ceiling lamps, a billiards table, awkward, blocky figures. Theo lifted the canvas to take it closer to the lantern on the wall. The colors became more distinct, but I almost wished they had not—the walls of the room were a throbbing red, trimmed with a green so vivid the eye bounced off it. The perspective was distorted so that the floorboards rushed upward while the chairs tilted, ready to eject anyone unfortunate enough to sit on them.
I could not look away from it, but I hated what it made me feel—despair, dislocation, and agitation. Melancholy seemed peaceful compared to this jangling, buzzing, lopsided room peopled with the vacant and desolate. As a window into Vincent’s mental state, it was startling. Could this be the same artist who had painted the fritillaries, or the lovely portrait of Tanguy? “I see,” I told Theo. “This is very disturbing.”
Theo craned around to see the image more clearly. “He calls it The Night Café . He intentionally put all those colors together, to make it harsh. I think he said ‘like a devil’s furnace.’ I hate to think that this was what his life was like in Arles, where he painted it. Do you see that figure standing in the center?”
“Yes, the waiter? With his hands hanging down?”
“Yes. He looks so helpless to me. As if he were trapped in this infernal place. Look at how much paint he used for the lamps.” I reached out and touched one of them gently, a small ridged dome on the canvas. I remembered how the skin of Vincent’s hands was seamed with paint. It was as though he sculpted with his pigments.
Theo lowered the painting, as if to set it down at the front of a row of canvases, facing the room. But he changed his mind and slipped it in behind, no doubt to conceal the alarming image. “The worst of his illness dates from Arles,” he said, dusting off his hands. “The doctor in the asylum told us that when he was very ill he did not know who he was. At times he could describe his feelings, but in just a few hours, he would turn morose. He suspected everyone around him of seeking to do him harm.”
“That is very common with melancholiacs,” I said, watching Theo as he idly flipped through more pictures. “They feel they must be perpetually on guard. It is very difficult to win their trust.” He pulled one out and put it at the front of the stack. A golden pottery vase of sunflowers stood against a cream background. Even in the dim light, the blossoms appeared to be so thick they were almost three-dimensional. Aside from the green stems and a narrow blue line dividing the lemon surface on which the vase stood from the pale background, the entire painting was yellow: primrose and mustard and egg yolk, ocher and daffodil and straw. It should never have worked. Yet it was a tour de force. Stepping closer, I could see the signature, “Vincent,” in blue on the side of the vase. He must have been proud of it.
“Vincent painted a series of these sunflowers to decorate his little house in Arles for Gauguin,” Theo said, straightening up. “His expectations were so high that his disappointment must have been dreadfully painful. Do you think he suffers from melancholy? Is that what ails him?” He stood, I couldn’t help noticing, as stiffly as the waiter in The Night Café , hands empty at his sides.
“Not at the moment,” I told him. “Patients afflicted by melancholy are always on the verge of fading away. You feel they would like to vanish if they could. But Vincent has such force. You can feel his eyes always moving, seeking motifs and rejecting them. He seems to think of nothing but painting.”
“That is almost true,” Theo agreed and turned to lift his lantern from the shelf. “To the extent that he
I could not look away from it, but I hated what it made me feel—despair, dislocation, and agitation. Melancholy seemed peaceful compared to this jangling, buzzing, lopsided room peopled with the vacant and desolate. As a window into Vincent’s mental state, it was startling. Could this be the same artist who had painted the fritillaries, or the lovely portrait of Tanguy? “I see,” I told Theo. “This is very disturbing.”
Theo craned around to see the image more clearly. “He calls it The Night Café . He intentionally put all those colors together, to make it harsh. I think he said ‘like a devil’s furnace.’ I hate to think that this was what his life was like in Arles, where he painted it. Do you see that figure standing in the center?”
“Yes, the waiter? With his hands hanging down?”
“Yes. He looks so helpless to me. As if he were trapped in this infernal place. Look at how much paint he used for the lamps.” I reached out and touched one of them gently, a small ridged dome on the canvas. I remembered how the skin of Vincent’s hands was seamed with paint. It was as though he sculpted with his pigments.
Theo lowered the painting, as if to set it down at the front of a row of canvases, facing the room. But he changed his mind and slipped it in behind, no doubt to conceal the alarming image. “The worst of his illness dates from Arles,” he said, dusting off his hands. “The doctor in the asylum told us that when he was very ill he did not know who he was. At times he could describe his feelings, but in just a few hours, he would turn morose. He suspected everyone around him of seeking to do him harm.”
“That is very common with melancholiacs,” I said, watching Theo as he idly flipped through more pictures. “They feel they must be perpetually on guard. It is very difficult to win their trust.” He pulled one out and put it at the front of the stack. A golden pottery vase of sunflowers stood against a cream background. Even in the dim light, the blossoms appeared to be so thick they were almost three-dimensional. Aside from the green stems and a narrow blue line dividing the lemon surface on which the vase stood from the pale background, the entire painting was yellow: primrose and mustard and egg yolk, ocher and daffodil and straw. It should never have worked. Yet it was a tour de force. Stepping closer, I could see the signature, “Vincent,” in blue on the side of the vase. He must have been proud of it.
“Vincent painted a series of these sunflowers to decorate his little house in Arles for Gauguin,” Theo said, straightening up. “His expectations were so high that his disappointment must have been dreadfully painful. Do you think he suffers from melancholy? Is that what ails him?” He stood, I couldn’t help noticing, as stiffly as the waiter in The Night Café , hands empty at his sides.
“Not at the moment,” I told him. “Patients afflicted by melancholy are always on the verge of fading away. You feel they would like to vanish if they could. But Vincent has such force. You can feel his eyes always moving, seeking motifs and rejecting them. He seems to think of nothing but painting.”
“That is almost true,” Theo agreed and turned to lift his lantern from the shelf. “To the extent that he
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