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Pastimes : Don't Ask Rambi -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Rick Julian who wrote (19871)	3/19/1999 11:00:00 PM
From: Rambi	Read Replies (2) \| Respond to of 71178

I think that's true. Bold scares people. It scares me. When I went to the MMA in NY last year I intentionally went and stared at the Van Goghs becuase of Gaugie. I sat there on a bench and tried to like them but I couldn't; they were - too much there for me. I like Monet. And dreamy things- but I also know ZILCH about art. I guess if Gaugie comes to visit I'll have to hide my black velvet Elvis and my paint by number oils.

To: Rick Julian who wrote (19871)	3/19/1999 11:37:00 PM
From: Gauguin	Read Replies (2) \| Respond to of 71178

The group of paintings in LA is the Amsterdam group. I've only seen two of his paintings. I have 15 books on him. It's not the same. I want the museum open all night, so NO ONE is turned away. Knowing these "worthless paintings" were cared for by Theo's wife after his death, crowded in her apartments. That they are Theo's paintings. There are precious objects in the world. Valuable things. These things, these particular things, are on that list. A lot of art benefits from hype. There is no hype relevant, possible, with Van Gogh. Look for any false or ordinary thing about him, and his character. I know I would never have made it out of the Borinage. Or given my home and money to a prostitute no one else would care for. Of course all these preconceptions are useless. But this might be the most neat thing I've done so far. Often he makes me cry, though. I don't want to be doing that 72 times. I want my head and senses and recorders to be as big as they have ever been. I did stand in front of those paintings, at his distance. I'm afraid I won't be able to take this all in. I want a year. Or a day per painting. I want to feel and dream and be his friend in front of them until I can do no more. Walk the dirt roads out in the morning and stand beside the easel. See what kind of heat comes up and what kind of day he sees. Watch occasional people pass him on the road. Go out every morning with him, in his blue jacket, and maybe carry something, but he won't let me. Where is he going. What place will he pick. What place will be picked to become a Van Gogh. What cypress, poppy, which vineyard. Which sun. Which flowering tree painted for Mauve. Which for Theo's son. The grain, crackling in the heating sun and breeze, whose color he doted on. The people of Life, Moulin et al, he absorbed. When and why will he be out at night. Which starry night was it. What road, what spot, did that experience take place in. What experience really was it? Would he explain his thoughts to us or paint more quickly in silence. I sometimes think knowing these things about where and when and why and scents and sounds and wind might open some canvas sized window that will let me into the secrets of his mind. That I can come in that way, where nobody can, or anyone can, and then the painting will be mine. The secret painting, that is so obvious in front of us, inside the door. And maybe if I walk that road with him I can help him stay aware that I love him. That somebody loves him. Another. And I wish he would not make the journey to the edge of life so many of us are afraid of because that life inner garment does not love him back. Does not deserve him. Should not be allowed to take someone so sincere and earnest. I want him to come back away from there. I don't want him to leave, my friend, or I want to go with him. Don't leave, Vincent, and leave me the paintings.