5-8 | vincentvangogh

March 20 1886

I did it. Theo had been pestering me a lot about it and I couldn’t say no to him for that long. I gave in, and decided to become an artist. I felt like I had found the meaning of my life. After I obtained the skills to become an artist, I started painting. I called my first painting “The Potato Eaters.” Although I liked the work I had accomplished, I felt like I could do better than that. After a year, Theo and I moved to Paris. We got ourselves a great house which we named “Yellow House.” Theo’s business as an art dealer was of course going on. His business gained me a dear friend. Theo was an art dealer, dealing with Impressionists. A couple of Impressionists had opened a gallery in a small café. That’s where I met Paul Gauguin. He was also an artist like me, but a much successful one.

October 15 1888

Paul is once in a life time friend. I understood that, and he understood it too. He understood everything. These two years flew by, while I continued to draw. He also continued to draw. We would come together and draw together. He tried to convince me to draw from imagination but I refused. He tried to get me outside to draw, but I wanted to stay inside. I just want to sit and paint, is that wrong? He was understanding. We stayed inside on rainy days, and there were even times where he convinced me to go outside. We would exchange paintings and self portraits. Once, he drew me painting sunflowers. Well, that was me, of course, but mad. Other than painting, I opened an art school in February. Maybe I could leave something more than my paintings to this world. Leaving educated artists is definitely important.

December 1888

I do not know what to do anymore. Paul said he was going to leave the house. Why should he go? Aren’t we friends? I do not understand. Wasn’t he happy painting all day? I was. For a while I’ve been… hysteric. Suddenly feel like shouting at someone for no reason. I feel angry but also… depressed. Paul and I were sitting at a bar one day. He brought the whole “leaving” thing up. Something inside me snapped and I threw my drink at him. Don’t know why I did that. The next day, I followed him around to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere. He went back to the house and I confronted him, and asked him if he was going to leave or not. He had a horrified expression, maybe because I was holding a piece of razor. He stormed off. I took my anger out on myself. I cut my left ear. Why I wonder?

December 1888

I learned that someone found me collapsed on the floor and brought me to a hospital. I had to explain the doctors why my left ear has been cut off. I was talking honestly, but all they did was stare at me like I was some wild animal. They must have thought I was crazy. Everyone must think I was crazy. I wrote to Theo and Paul, and said they were making a big deal out of this situation. Paul hadn’t come back home since then, and Theo kept talking to me like I was sick. I heard that my neighbors told an asylum that I was “mentally unstable”. If everyone wanted me to be “mentally unstable”, then alright. I would be. I committed myself to an asylum in Saint Remy. Was I home? Was this the place for me? The people here are much easier to deal with. When I entered my new home, I wrote to Paul again, wishing to never see him again.