Perhaps something will happen to me like the thing E. Delacroix speaks of – “I found painting when I had neither teeth nor breath left”, in this sense that my sad illness makes me work with a pent-up fury – very slowly – but from morning till night without respite – and – this is probably the secret – work for a long time and slowly. What do I know about it, but I think that I have one or two canvases on the go that aren’t too bad, first the reaper in the yellow wheat, and the portrait on a light background. This will be for the Vingtistes, if indeed they remember me when the time comes. Now, it would be absolutely the same to me, if not preferable, if they forget me.
Since I myself don’t forget the inspiration that I gain from giving free rein to my memories of certain Belgians. That’s the positive thing, and the rest is so secondary.
Vincent van Gogh, from a letter to his brother, Theo, Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, Thursday, 5 and Friday, 6 September 1889.
Above is the last portrait van Gogh ever painted of himself.
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