Van Gogh, Gaugin and the famous Ear

In this post, I imagine how Vincent Van Gogh and Paul Gaugin's relationship would have been, and what could have led to their controversial fight that pushed Vincent to chop off his ear in 1888.

“I don’t know who I am. I have no sense of self“, Vincent said wistfully.

“What do you mean? You are an artist, a brother, a son,” Theo replied.

“No, you don’t understand. At my very core, I don’t know who I am. What you are describing are my roles. But truly, if you strip away these roles, who am I? Who are you, Theo?”

“I don’t understand all this. I am an art dealer; your brother and a husband. That is my core. Now Vincent, have you been drinking again?”

Vincent appeared distracted. He had lost his train of thought. He was looking outside the window at the River Seine. He watched the river glisten under the summer sun, like a field of diamonds.

“Paul says I should paint from my imagination. But why, why use the weak human mind when nature has so much beauty to offer?” Vincent whispered.

“What?”, Theo asked.

“My mind is not as sharp as Paul’s. He can conjure scenes. My mind is my enemy, Theo. I escape my mind; Paul embraces it. I need to meet Paul,” Vincent replied. His hands were shaking.

He recalled the last time he had met Paul Gauguin. It was at an artist friend’s home. Paul was the most celebrated artist there; a genius, an icon, a role model. While everyone was appreciating the artist’s latest portrait of a prostitute, Gauguin had casually critiqued it.

“This is a veneer of the girl, a glazed portrait that conceals the truth. Where is her story? Her flaws, her sins? Vincent, what do you think about this painting?”, Gauguin asked coldly.

Vincent had murmured a reply about how he liked the use of colour and the expression in the eyes of the girl.

“Use colour strategically, to tell the truth, not just because yellow makes you happy,” Paul replied curtly as he picked up two bottles of wine and left the room.

That is how Paul Gauguin was. Arrogant, entitled, and cynical but an absolute genius. He didn’t care about what others ’thought of him. Vincent needed Paul in his life more than ever. Paul brought out a madness in Vincent that he couldn’t describe.

“Has he responded to your invitation?” Theo asked.

“No, not yet. I told him about The Yellow House. He agreed with my idea of converting it into an artist’s paradise, a haven of creativity. Paris is too busy; the countryside is where an artist can truly be creative. When Paul comes, we are going to live in the Yellow House and paint all day,” Vincent replied.

Theo looked worried. As an art dealer, he was fond of Paul’s work. However, he was wary of his brother’s idolisation of Paul Gauguin. He knew Paul for a long time. He knew that behind the genius was a deeply depressed, cynical and sinister man. He knew that Paul didn’t have the moral fibre to be gentle.

“Why do you need Paul there? Why don’t you approach some other artists? You know Paul just uses you for connections in Paris”, Theo replied carefully so as to not offend Vincent.

“If I get Paul to the Yellow House, the remaining artists will follow. I just need to get Paul there. I was wondering, Theo, if you can help him out financially. Just for a while, for us to get the Yellow House running?”

Theo rolled his eyes. He knew this pattern too well. This was not the first time that Vincent had asked Theo for a favour to support Paul. However, the last time Theo had refused, Vincent had broken down. He had lit four canvases on fire and thrown them out on the road. Ever since Vincent had moved to Arles, he seemed more stable. Theo didn’t want to risk losing his brother again. This was his greatest fear.

“Alright. You can tell Paul that I will fund both of you while he stays at the Yellow House. I want the first right of refusal for the work you both do there, though”, Theo replied and walked over to his liquor cabinet to pour himself a drink.

“Brother. You are the best. You are more than a brother; you are my lifeline”, Vincent replied gleefully and rushed to his study to write to Paul right away.

Theo gulped down a glass of whisky anxiously. He felt uneasy about letting Vincent stay alone with Paul Gauguin in Arles. He didn’t trust Gauguin and the effect he had on his brother. However, even he couldn’t deny that the two of them brought out the best in each other in terms of creative expression. He couldn’t come in the way of such greatness.

A few months later, Vincent moved into the Yellow House in Arles, a town located in the South of France. Paul would join him in a month. As Vincent waited eagerly for Paul’s arrival, he obsessed over the aesthetic of the Yellow House. He wanted to ensure the studio was in perfect condition for Paul. He wanted Paul to share the feeling of inspiration and excitement that he felt. He bought the best quality paints, canvases and wine for Gauguin. He chose specific curtains, table clothes and bedsheets that would make him appear discerning.

A few weeks before Gauguin’s arrival, Vincent decided to paint something for him. He was feeling warmth and joy like never before. This was a stark contrast to the usual blue and black hues he used to feel. He wanted to capture this feeling of optimism and joy. A year ago, he had felt a similar euphoria and painted a bunch of sunflowers. That was one of the first of his pieces that Paul had appreciated. Vincent decided to replicate the painting and hang the renewed versions in the guest room for Paul.

Vincent spent over sixteen hours a day painting the bright, yellow sunflowers that he had bought from the weekend market. The sunflowers would wilt within a few days, which gave Vincent a forced deadline to complete his work. He felt exhilarated as he raced against time to capture the beauty of the flowers on his canvas. With every brushstroke, Vincent felt a release of his angst. By using predominantly only two colours, he managed to create depth and nuance in a way that appeared natural, soothing and evocative. By the time Paul arrived at the Yellow House, Vincent had produced two versions of the sunflowers and hung them nervously in the guest room.

When Paul walked in, he scanned the room sceptically.

“Who picked out these curtains? The pattern is more ghastly than a maid’s walls in a French hamlet,” Paul said. His eyes wandered to the wall which was adorned by the sunflower paintings.

He paused and observed the paintings. He moved closer to observe the brushstrokes. He sighed and said nothing. Vincent stood in the corner eagerly.

“So what do you do for entertainment here?” Paul asked.

“There is a brothel and bar just around the corner. I can take you if you want”, Vincent replied.

Paul nodded and nudged Vincent to leave the room. Vincent was elated. His friend was here at last. Their utopia would begin now.

The first few weeks were filled with debates and discussions on the meaning of life and purpose of art. One night, the two artists were lost in their canvases, Gauguin sketching on the table and Vincent painting by the window. “What do you feel before you sleep, Vincent?” Gauguin asked.

Vincent paused his brush stroke midway.

“I feel trapped. I feel anguish and despair,” Vincent replied.

“And why do you think that is?” Gauguin quizzed.

“I feel I will never amount to anything. I will leave Theo in debt. I will die alone.”

“That is what you need to bring out in your art. You need to bring out this desperate desire to be great. To be loved. I find that you just paint things as they are. You don’t bring out your own perspective on it.”

Vincent grew quiet. He chewed at every word that Paul had uttered and swallowed them one by one. He started feeling agitated.

“How can you call me desperate? You are the one who is desperate to be part of every high society circle in Paris”, he asked angrily.

“Vincent, you misunderstand me. I am trying to say that I am in awe of how you feel about things. There is a madness in you, a raw, animal-like fear. You need to use that. I am envious of the madness you contain.”

Vincent felt calm again. He felt seen. Paul was envious of him. Paul was just trying to bring out the best in him. Paul understood him better than anyone else. He understood how he needed to paint to tame the madness.

“That’s why I am building this studio. A safe space for artists to look inside and express their madness, Paul. This could be the legacy we leave behind. A sanctuary for artists. All artists are disturbed; that is why they need to paint, to survive”, Vincent replied.

“All humans are disturbed. Artists just know what to do with that disturbance,” Paul said definitively and continued sketching.

Vincent felt soothed. He felt his madness was not a problem but a boon. Paul made him feel like he belonged, that he was not abnormal.

The next morning, Vincent woke up with a skip in his step. He was grateful for the bright sun, quiet roads and fresh air. Paris made him feel suffocated; in the countryside, he felt free.

He looked around and saw inspiration everywhere. He decided to paint his yellow house. He was attracted to the yellow houses with orange roofs in Arles. The colours made him feel warm and positive, and as he painted, he wanted to translate the feelings evoked by the colours as accurately as possible.

Gauguin noticed Vincent smiling.

“What have we here? An unusual site. A happy Vincent?” Gauguin laughed.

“It is good to be a human, Paul. I know now. I have been born to feel the width of human emotions, to feel everything that a human can feel”, Vincent replied excitedly.

“Oh, you existentialists are naïve. There is nothing great about human existence; it is all just pain. We strive for greatness even though we are all going to die. It makes no sense”, Gauguin replied haughtily.

“My friend, stop being so bitter. Look around you; there is light. Everything need not be terrible and dark”, Vincent argued.

Paul scoffed and lit a cigarette. Vincent had not felt so happy in a long time. I might be rid of my lifelong sadness at last, he wondered cheerfully. He hoped that this would be a new chapter in his life, one where he could feel at peace.

A few days later, Vincent woke up at 11 AM after a long night of painting. He was aghast to find the kitchen in an absolute mess. The pans were oily, and there was garbage everywhere. Vincent grew enraged.

Gauguin was engrossed in a sketch when Vincent barged in and banged the table.

“Why didn’t you wash the dishes after using them?” Vincent roared.

“Calm down. I am working. I will do it later”, Gauguin responded coolly without looking up from his canvas.

Vincent grew angrier. His head was pounding. The veins on his forehead were pulsating, and his eyes started welling up. He felt overwhelmed by rage. For the past month, he had been cleaning and cooking for the two of them.

“You need to do it now. I cannot live in such filth”, Vincent screamed.

“Vincent. I am not your wife. I am working. Do it yourself if it bothers you”, Gauguin replied sternly.

“Your work is not more important than mine. You have been treating me like your caretaker,” Vincent said and placed his hand on Gauguin’s canvas.

“You wanted me here. You pleaded with me to come. I had no interest in being here to watch you colour your yellow flowers all day.”

“You think you are so much better than everyone. You talk about human emotions even though you have none. You avoid any emotion. You ran away from Paris, from your family. You just avoid difficult feelings. At least I face my realities.”

By that point Vincent was shaking violently. Tears streamed down his face. His knees felt weak, and his throat started closing up. He felt his chest tighten, and it became difficult to breathe.

“You are having one of your episodes again. I cannot tolerate this madness”, Gauguin said. He got up from his chair and quietly left the house.

Vincent collapsed on the floor and wept for a few hours. By dusk, Gauguin had not returned. Vincent started feeling a panic rising. He felt he could not survive alone. He didn’t feel capable of taking care of himself. His mind was not dependable, and he couldn’t trust himself. He needed Gauguin or Theo to know himself again. Without them, he didn’t know who he was. He felt scared. He felt lonely.

He got up and grabbed a bottle of wine. He gulped down an entire bottle till the pain in his chest subsided. He walked out of the house and somehow staggered to the nearby brothel. He knocked on the door and swayed at the entrance. As the door opened, he collapsed inside and blacked out.

He woke up the next morning in the bed of a girl he had never seen. He grew red with shame. He gathered his clothes and fled home.

When he reached his house, he found Paul sitting at the table sketching away. Paul didn’t acknowledge Vincent. Vincent had assumed that Paul had left him. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw Paul. He went to the kitchen and washed all the dishes.

Over the next month, Vincent produced over 300 paintings. He was inspired by Paul’s discipline. Paul’s presence reminded Vincent of his duties as a well-functioning adult, which kept his mind sane. With a sane mind, he was able to devote himself to art. He had never felt more alive.

A few of their friends visited the Yellow House in November. They were awestruck by Vincent’s work. While Paul received his usual amount of admiration, Vincent’s paintings stole the limelight for the first time. Even Theo said that he would put his money on Vincent’s work, not because Vincent was his brother but because his paintings were ‘radical and fresh’. However, Gauguin vocalised that Vincent’s work could have been better, more skilful.

On 23rd December 1888, Gauguin and Vincent were drinking late at night. Gauguin showed Vincent a painting he had made of Vincent painting the sunflowers. Vincent was shocked when he saw the painting.

Gauguin had portrayed him as a sick and conflicted man. There was an expression of worry and sadness on his face. His posture was hunched, signifying lack of confidence. He looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown. Vincent could barely recognise the man in the painting. It was like Gauguin had delved deep into Vincent’s mind and drawn out all his insecurities.

Vincent was deeply disturbed by this portrayal. His friend thought of him as a nervous wreck. In the last two months, Vincent had felt they had developed a meaningful connection. However, Gauguin’s painting made it seem like Gauguin only viewed Vincent as a madman. Gauguin’s art always reflected his own feelings towards the subject, and this time he had chosen pity. The painting of Vincent depicted a sadistic pity that Gauguin felt towards him.

Vincent felt exposed and used. He started crying. Gauguin kept a disinterested expression.

“What? You don’t like it?” Gauguin asked sarcastically.

“Why did you do this?” Vincent whimpered.

I have adored and idolised Gauguin for years. We grew close and brought out each other’s best work. I thought he understood me, but all this while, I have just been a subject for his work. Moreover, a subject that is pitiful, sad and lonely, Vincent thought. He was spiralling.

“Didn’t you say you CAN face realities? Why is this shocking to you?”, Gauguin replied dispassionately.

“You are vile,” Vincent shouted.

“You are crazy,” Gauguin replied sharply and walked towards the window and lit a cigarette.

Vincent froze. His muscles tightened and jaw clenched involuntarily.

The words “you are crazy” started haunting him. He couldn’t hear his own thoughts. He could only hear these three words getting louder and louder. He placed his hands on his ears to stop the noise. It was in vain. He could see his safe studio transform into a dark, deathly chamber. The ghosts of his past appeared around him, all chanting the words “you are crazy”.

Suddenly, Kee Vos Stricker, his cousin who he had fallen in love with, appeared before him. She was pointing at him and laughing. “You will never find love,” she said, and the ghosts started repeating this line as if they were protestors sloganeering.

He ran to the washroom to wash his face. In the mirror, he saw Theo standing with a disapproving look. “You will never be good enough,” he said as he handed him money. Vincent felt a strong tug of guilt. He grabbed his razor from the sink and stepped outside the washroom.

Maybe if I threaten to kill myself, Gauguin will see how much he hurt me and feel guilty for what he said, Vincent thought.

He saw Gauguin standing by the window.

“How could you...?” Vincent sobbed.

Gauguin turned around and saw the razor in Vincent’s hand. He suddenly felt frightened. He had never seen Vincent in such a state.

Gauguin had often opined that he didn’t care for life and that the human condition was pathetic. However, in that moment, when he feared death, he unequivocally wanted to live. His body froze, and a survival instinct took over.

He pushed Vincent aside. Vincent fell to the floor.

Vincent could hear a cacophony of slogans. “You are crazy”, “You will never find love”, “You will never be good enough”. The sounds grew louder and louder.

“Gaugin, help me!” he tried to scream, but the voices throttled his voice.

Gauguin looked at Vincent one last time, with pity and arrogance. Gauguin felt that by breaking down, Vincent had proved his assessment right. Gauguin’s painting had won.

Gauguin fled from the Yellow House, leaving Vincent there to fight his demons alone.

Vincent felt his heart break. This was his third heartbreak, the nail in the coffin. He felt abandoned and alone.

The first time he had felt crushed was when he wanted to marry his cousin. When society ridiculed him for this, he felt shame and alienation. The next time, he had fallen for a prostitute, and again, society had judged him for his ‘absurd’ obsession. Vincent had been convinced that he was an outcast. However, when he met Gauguin, his intellectual and creative side was revived. He found someone who understood him, who was curious about him rather than judgemental. He had trusted Gauguin implicitly, and therefore this betrayal hurt more than any of the past losses.

The voices grew deafening. All he wanted was for the sounds to stop, to be able to hear his own thoughts again. He looked at the razor in his hand. In a split second, he brought the razor to his ear and swiped it down in one move.

The voices stopped. The physical pain superseded any emotional pain that his mind could conjure. He looked at his ear in his hand and grew frightened. His mind had betrayed him once more, and he had no one to take care of him.

This ear would be a reminder of his heartbreak, of how he expected too much and how it was the people he loved who had the power to hurt him the most.

The loss of his ear was the start of his downfall, he lost faith in humanity and in himself.

No betrayal hurts as much as your mind’s own betrayal to yourself, he thought.

As he lost his ear, he lost his mind. And as he lost his mind, he lost his ‘self’.

And when you lose your ‘self’, the process of death begins. Vincent’s death was completed a year later. He died two days after shooting himself, as he lay next to his brother Theo.

Vincent’s last words were, “the sadness will last forever”.

His brother, his lifeline and biggest pillar of support, was crushed after Vincent’s death. Theo’s ‘self’ had always included Vincent, and so without Vincent, he lost his ‘self’ too. And within six months, Theo died from grief.

I think about Vincent’s last words, as I admire his works in the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam.

The sadness did last forever. The sadness lasts in Van Gogh’s work that outlives him till today.

P.S: This is purely a work of fiction.