first!

right now, i am re reading a book called the yellow house. it is a narrative account- with great artistic license taken- of vincent van gogh's life in arles, with gaugin, in his yellow house.
reading like a novel, but visible like a play, when i first read the book last summer, i resented the fictional dramatization and the presumption the author took, but he is a good writer. the colour of arles, the zouaves, the odour the turmoil are all beautifully described for all their audacious evocation. you can see the place and the atmosphere.

augment it with dear theo, irving stones near-complete anthology of van gogh's letters to his brother, you can get a picture of the descent into ochres, golds, olives, turquoises and lapses; the man behind the active, electric and iconic works.

van gogh lived very close to his entire thirty-seven years supported financially and emotionally by others. he never held a job, he was a selfish conversationalist. he was stinky and manic and bristling with protruding brows. it is not surprising that he did not have a lot of friends and that he couldn't hold a meaningful relationship and that he did himself in.

but you have to wonder what would have happened if he wasn't largely ignored during his lifetime, that the burden of crippling solitude could have been lifted. i would like to think that, perhaps, we could have been acquaintances. we could bond over colour theory, compulsive behavior, and copious consumption of tabac and cheap wine. although i've never been friends with anyone quite as intolerable and solitary and talkative as myself. perhaps it wouldn't have worked out, it might have been total cancellation