The story of a masterpiece; Van Gogh: White Field with crows

From O-R-T-F, we present the story of a masterpiece. Another in a series of programs, recalling the historical background of world-famous artistic masterpieces. Today, Van Gogh paints blackbirds in a field. Van Gogh was one of the noblest recipients of the heritage of man. One of the countless men of genius blessed by the gods,

the heavens, Mother Nature, call it what you will, and crushed, destroyed by these same blessings, which most always proved to be too heavy of burden before the sad reality of life. Van Gogh never really knew him or understood Vincent, it is time. Only his brother, Theo, in whom Vincent confided the torment and anguish that was his lot on earth, had some notion of his ordeal. The life of Van Gogh is mostly an enigma for the world, and for us as well it remains a mystery of bottomless abyss, which as a child he already attempted to explore, an enigma which haunted him as he strolled alone through the countryside. The gloomy countryside of the northern flatlands, where his father was a Protestant minister, with the same disenchanted question ever present on his lips. Why? Why all this? All this, meaning the trees, the insects, the grass, the sky, but meaning also him, young Vincent.

Sometime later, one of his uncles, who was an art dealer, had sent him to London. There, life suddenly seemed worth living. Vincent fell in love for the first time, but the object of his love, young Ursula, was unfortunately a frivolous young lady. Vincent blindly endowed her with every virtue under the sun, and one day he confessed his feelings to her. Ursula, I have never seen anyone so pure, so beautiful as you are. Life's wonderful. Life's full of riches. Doesn't sound much like you, my poor Vincent. Poor Vincent? All right, I'll be poor. After all, we don't need much to be happy together. A small house of our own. Children. I love children. They annoy me. I'm harder to please than you are. I want everything. We mustn't ask for too much. Too penny's worth of happiness. Just too sense, Ursula. Too sense worth of happiness.

That's really something. You should stop dreaming, my friend. I forgot to tell you something. I'm already engaged. What? To a much older man than you, it's true. But he has a lot of money, and that makes up for the rest. Ursula. Two cents worth of happiness. Two cents. You're really something with your two cents. You should marry a country girl. You don't know much about the city, my boy. Did you really think I would marry you? I wouldn't go by your crazy if you believed that. Completely crazy. Young Ursula's laughter had found an echo in the abyss. Haunted by the specter of his sins, imaginary sins, poor Vincent embarked on his long journey to the gates of the night. He couldn't stand London anymore, and he begged his family to send him to Paris. He left. Theo, faithful Theo, received him in his home and made clumsy attempts to understand this brother of his he desperately wanted to help,

whom he felt so close to, and who was so unapproachable. Be reasonable, Vincent. This girl is no good. It's just as well she didn't want you. You have better things to do in life. Alright Theo, tell me what can I do? But it's not for me to decide. You're young. You're in good health. You just can't sit back and wait for things to happen. Surely there's some trade you can work at, something you want to do. No. Nothing. I don't feel like doing anything. Why don't you paint then? You won't make much of a living at it, but if you like that sort of thing, it'll help keep you busy, and it won't stop you from looking for work. Painting. I'm going to buy you some canvas and colors. You know, the drawings you did when you were eight years old were very good. Didn't you draw when you were in London? Yes, a little. Well, then keep at it. No. Why not? You're nice Theo, but you don't understand. I must have toned for my sins. But a toned for what sins?

What is it you've done? Tell me. You know very well. You can tell me everything. It can't be all that serious. Is it something you didn't London? No. Does it have anything to do with a girl? What do you mean? Well, I mean... Oh no, I understand. No, no, don't worry. It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know. You're old enough? I told you no. I don't understand. God has forsaken me. And yet I believe in Him with all my heart. Won't He ever forgive me? But forgive you for what? I don't know. But I must have His forgiveness. Otherwise I'll go crazy. I feel it. Don't talk nonsense. Just look how happy our Father is. Nothing troubles Him. He's at peace with Himself. Our Father is a minister. You don't mean to tell me you want to be a minister of the Church. As a matter of fact, I think I do. You're not serious.

Yes, I swear I am. I envy the peace that He's found. I'd like to preach like Him. To preach to the miserable, the humble, the poor. But you can't become a minister just like that. Simply because you feel like being one. You must study. I can't do it. I'm intelligent enough for that. No. And Vincent began his religious studies. The kindly respectable minister didn't need much convincing. His son's interest in art had been a source of concern for him. Surely the devil had a hand in this business of painting? Now he felt reassured. Vincent would be too absorbed in his pious duties to think of anything else. It would keep him out of trouble, away from such foolishness as painting. But had the Father and the letter Theo had just received from Vincent, he would have felt more uneasy. What I really want, dear Theo, is to be a minister like our Father. You know that. And yet it's strange sometimes, unwillingly, while I'm studying, I stop and do a small sketch.

Do you think it's wrong? Vincent had left to preach the gospel in the mining country. He also made sketches of the miners' houses, the landscapes of the sad northern lands. But people made fun of him of his extravagance and absolute faith. Of his wild-looking appearance, it was almost as if they saw a devilish intent in what for him was a desperate search for God. The simple miners couldn't understand that. Vincent often went for long lonely walks beneath the somber skies of the north. To understand, to perceive a glimpse of the absolute was his obsession. One day he wrote to Theo. Art is man added to nature. Nature. Nature reality. But with meaning. With the design. With the temperament brought out by the artist. And to which he gives expression. Which he defines.

Which he delivers. Which he illuminates. Yes, he already knew that art would be his substitute for an approach to God. He bore the full brunt of man's evil ways. He wanted to express them and to express his own feelings of evil through his painting, through a magical act of devotion to art. And because of this, he's suffering new no bounds. It permeated the deepest parts of him. Vincent had no friends except for Van Rappert, who admired him and feared him at the same time, because of his fanatical zeal. He listened, dumbfounded, as Van Gogh voiced his profession of faith. Try to understand Van Rappert. Everything is governed by laws. Laws of proportion. Laws of light and of shade. Laws of perspective. Which must all be understood in order to be able to draw. And five different times. And that meant a lot of work, believe me. Well, couldn't you choose more cheerful subjects, Vincent?

You're always doing a skeleton of skulls, dark clouds. I love these frightful clouds. When I've mastered my art. I'll paint only clouds. Or poor miserable people. Or trees fell by light. And you can be sure that people will think you're crazy. So what? I'd rather they think be crazy than be like them. I'm a rebel. I'm at war. At war against who? Against everything. But that's not a very Christian attitude for a future minister. I'll never be a minister. I'm through with all that wrath. I want to paint. Paint. Whether it pleases you or not. Well, you can do whatever you like. I don't care. What a temperament. Forgive me. I'm always struggling. Struggling for life. Being of the shrew. Yes. Nature is a shrew. How gloomy you are, my poor friend. How can I be anything else but that? Do like me. Find yourself a girl. Thank you very much once was enough.

You know what I'm going to do. I'm going to introduce you to my cousin. She's a lovely girl. Please don't bother. At least you can have dinner with us, can't you? At least meet her. I said no. Just once. Come on. Don't be like that. All right. But I hope you don't expect anything to come of it. But for once Vincent had reckoned without the miracle of love. The eternal miracle which suddenly kindles a flame brightly burning. Vincent suddenly felt like a new man, joyful. As gay as I like in spring. He saw himself leading the life of every man with a home, a wife, and children. He confessed his love to the girl. But... Vincent, I lost my husband only a year ago. And I still haven't forgotten. The future for me. The future is my past. It's not possible, Vincent. No, never. Theo.

Her no, never. It was like an ominous warning of eternal damnation. I insisted, but she left. I wrote her, but she sent my letters back. And in the village, they laugh at me. But I won't give up. I'll talk her into it. I want her. I'm supposed to see her father tonight. I'll tell you about it. Yes, tonight I'll know for sure. Ah, Vincent, Vincent. It's no use. My daughter doesn't want you. She doesn't want to have anything to do with you. She wants her and no one else. She said no, and that's that. Don't insist. You want me to prove my love for her? Let her come and I'll convince her. All right. Theo, see the slap? I will hold my hand in the flame until she comes. And accept to listen to me. He's out of his mind. Crazy.

Yes, crazy. I hadn't blown that lamp out. But you still won't get my daughter. And so it went. Once again, the dream of love was shattered. Vincent returned to the realms of darkness and of solitude to the long icy night of his destiny. To his painting. The only thing in life he could still hope to live for. In this time, there was no turning back. This time, Vincent gave himself heart and soul to his true vocation, hoping for some answers. Not for salvation. One night in a cafe, he made the acquaintance of a pale, graceless girl who seemed to be waiting. Waiting for what? Did she know herself? Her name was Christine. She seemed to have lost the will to live. Hard ship, heartbreak. I don't always eat my fill and I'm expecting a child. When he found out,

and on top of everything else, my mother made the mistake of giving birth to an ugly duckling. Life is tough, you know, for a girl with my looks must not ask too much for me. Vincent took her home. He cared for her. In a letter to Theo, he later confided. I'll be 29 tomorrow. To know how to suffer is the only practical thing. It's the great science, the solution to the problem of life. Fortunately, there's the blue sky and the grass and the trees to soothe my restless spirit. I've done a portrait of Christine, the great lady. That's a title. And another portrait which I call sorrow. It's a nude sitting with her arms crossed, crying as her head drops on her flat chest. I think it's very good. You remember what Michelin said? How can there be on earth a woman so neglected?

Theo, since they refused to understand, I just have to marry Christine. I prefer danger to the fear of danger. If that be going down into the abyss, then I'm going down to the abyss. Then I'm going down. Yet the hope of love of light was soon shattered. In spite of Vincent's efforts, Christine broke off their relationship. Once again, he summed up his possibilities. I'm 30 years old now. I think every painter goes through a period where he fumbles in the dark, drooping, searching for a technique, a style and approach to his art. That's all behind me. Now I'm sure of myself as an artist. Well then, if I consider how much time I have left to work, I can safely say

that my body will easily stand another six to ten years of hard labor. I have no intention of sparing myself. I don't really care whether I live much longer than that. But what I do know is I have something very precise to say, which I must complete in just a few years. I've met a man of vital importance to me, a young painter like me. His name is Paul Goga. He's helped me to discover color. And what a discovery it was. Van Gogh buried his gloomy colors to dream only of light and blazing sunshine. He left for the warm south of France for provost. He felt like a new man. He wrote enthusiastic letters. And Goga soon came down to stay with him. My dear Goga, there's so much here that I want to paint there. I've asked Thea to send me 108 tubes of color, yellow, green, vermilion, carmine, orange, blue, no more gray, no more black.

It's about time you give me the creeps with your gloomy colors. Where on earth did you find the money to buy all this paint? It's Thea who's taking care of everything. He's wonderful. I'll pay him back when my paintings begin to sell. What are you working on now? An orchard. I want to do one of those cheerful provoncil orchards. I've already sent two paintings to Thea so that he can show them to our friends. Yes, it will. How do they react? Well, they criticize them, of course. They complain about my sense of values. But they'll change their tune later. You'll see. I've eliminated relief, light dark contrast shadows. It's not possible to have both classical values and the colors I want in one in the same painting. You can't be at the North Pole and at the equator at the same time. Yes. I have to admit that you've really mastered color. I'm like a beginner next to you. Oh, don't be silly. Our styles are different, that's all.

Yeah, I hope you're right. Where on earth did you dig up this yellow? Oh, it's the yellow of the sun. That's what. How beautiful a color yellow is. And how beautiful the sun of provance. Oh, I prefer Brittany myself. It's too hot here. Well, if you didn't weigh so much time and simply painted, you wouldn't even think of the heat. What are you talking about? I am working. And not as hard as you. That's true, but you never stop. Oh, look, I did this one yesterday. Yes. What's this? Please, will you turn it the other way around? Oh. Well, excuse me. What are they, flowers? Sunflowers. Do you like them? Yes. Well, they're yellow already. The yellow is the brightness of love. Oh, my dear Vincent, you really amaze me. Everything you paint becomes transfigured. I am not a refined astete like you. I have only one passion, the sun.

The yellow sun, which I see even at night, turning round and round inside my head, round and round like a huge ball of fire, like the sunflowers turning ever round in my head, my poor head, the sun. Slowly, but surely, Vincent was losing control. One day, he threw his glass of absent in Golga's face. The next day, he ran after him in the street, razor in hand. He returned to his room, cut off part of one ear, and took it in an envelope to Rachel a waitress. Good evening, Rachel. Here's a little present for you. What is it? How strange you seem tonight. But darling... Oh, my goodness! Vincent was taken to the hospital. He calmed down eventually, and of course he painted. He did his famed self-portrait, men with a cut ear.

Rachel came to see him from time to time. She was a simple good-hearted girl, but she couldn't really understand what it was all about. Yet, she bravely tried to comfort him. What do you expect, Vincent? That's the way it is around here. It's full of feverish people who go crazy, who see things they shouldn't see. Gauguin was right. The provance is a strange kind of place, full of man men. Man men, like me! Oh, Rachel, I want to leave this place. I need fresh air. I don't want to stay here. I won't stay. Once again, Theo came to the rescue. Vincent was taken to Overseer Waz, a small village near Paris. It was to be his last home. The celebrated Dr. Gasset took care of him and reported each week to Theo on his brother's condition. My dear Theo, your brother really amazes me.

What a hard worker he is. He never stops. He's done my portrait with a white cap and a blue coat. He has not had any attacks since he arrived in Overseer, and I don't think he will have any more. Oh, he is certainly much better. He told me that he intends to visit you in Paris. Please do right soon and tell me how you found him. Dear Dr. Gasset, I found Vincent much better. He came to see me yesterday as you'd said he would. But now, I'm not well either. I have money problems, and Vincent probably noticed it. It depressed him. Perhaps I told him something I shouldn't have. He left with a worried look on his face and very nervous. My dear Gasset, I want to see Theo in Paris. I came back discouraged. I'm painting huge stretches of wheat beneath the cloudy skies

which I meant to express the sadness of life, utter solitude. Can I stop working now? If I did, I wouldn't be able to produce as well as before. I feel there's little hope for the future. I feel I'm a failure. That's about all I can say for myself. My dear Theo, how depressed your brother seems to me on this 14th of July morning. The whole village is celebrating our national holiday. The city hall is a galley decorated, and Vincent has done a painting of it with flags. Chinese lanterns and all, but strangely enough, although the whole population is out in the streets, he didn't show a living soul on his canvas. I'm not so sure anymore that he's cured.

He goes into Vernon's fits of temper, and he has now borrowed a pistol from a peasant and always carries it around with him. Of course, he says it's to shoot clothes with. My dear brother, I'm writing you this letter feeling at peace with myself and the world. Almost too peaceful. I know that everything is useless. I'm a failure. I'm nobody. An invalid. A burden for others. Still, I'm working on. I painted the church at Over and gold and co-bought blue, and also the fields of wheat and rainstorm, and the plateau haunted by the crows. My wheat field is the 70th painting I've done since I arrived in Over, nearly two and a half months ago. Why? His painting is like the agony of the world, his world.

Poor Vincent. What can he be waiting for? What is he afraid of? And two days after he'd finished his blackbirds in a wheat field on the 27th of July 1890, a warm Sunday, the town of Oversioia seemed fast asleep, as two solitary peasants went off fishing. Look, look at that man stumbling along the road. He's talking to himself. Wait, Mr. Vincent. He must be sick. Come, let's help him. No, no, no, no, don't go near him. He may be dangerous. It's very awesome. No, no. I've heard another video. Impossible. And there it was. Vincent had drawn the pistol and turned it against his chest. In spite of the gaping wound, he managed to get back to Over. Dr. Geshe came running. He's not worried to feel. Vincent spent the whole night calmly smoking without saying a word,

without stirring a single muscle. At dawn, Theo arrived. For a long time, they held each other in a warm embrace. Don't cry. It's better for everyone like this. Be quiet. Geshe is going to take care of you. Everything will be all right. It's no use. Life is too sad. On July 29th at 1.30 in the morning, Vincent Van Gogh gave up the ghost. He was 37. What really killed him was his desperate, unanswerable search for the secret that lies concealed behind the screen of our reality. It was only after his death that Vincent Van Gogh received recognition for his genius. He had sold just one painting in his lifetime. He bequeathed 850 more and at least as many drawings to the world. I don't understand.

What does it all mean? There's nothing left of me. Nothing left of me. Only paintings. Color on walls. Color and forms for other eyes to see. I had no choice but to die. No choice but to step into the black void. The eternal night beyond the stars. No choice. You've been listening to the story of a masterpiece. Today Van Gogh paints crows in a wheat field. With Alexander A. Clamenco in the title role,

with Renata Benedikt, Helen Brandt, David Ellis, Colin Drake, and Julien Wazen. Your narrator was Lyle Joyce. This program was written by Patrice Galbo, adapted into English by Benjamin Zimit, and directed by Pierre Christiohana. It came to you transcribed from ORTF, the French Broadcasting System in Paris. This program was distributed by the National Educational Radio Network.