Delacroix, A Vase of Flowers, 1833
We are nothing but links in a chain. Old Gauguin and I understand each other basically, and if we are a bit mad, what of it? Aren't we also thoroughly artists enough to contradict suspicions on that score by what we say with our brush? Perhaps someday everyone will have neurosis, St. Vitus' dance, or something else.
But doesn't the antidote exist? In Delacroix, in Berlioz, and Wagner? And really, as for the artist's madness of all the rest of us, I do not say that I especially am not infected through and through, but I say and will maintain that our antidotes and consolations may, with a little good will, be considered ample compensation.
Vincent van Gogh, from a letter to Theo van Gogh. Monday, 28 January 1889


No comments:
Post a Comment