Words into images

Royal Academy show reveals a thoughtful and reflective Vincent Van Gogh.

Margaret Drabble wrote a couple of weeks ago in the NS about Van Gogh's letters, ahead of "The Real Van Gogh: the Artist and his Letters", a major exhibition just opened at the Royal Academy in London. Here, our art blogger Anna Maria Di Brina looks more closely at the relationship between that correspondence and the paintings on display at the RA.

 

More than 35 original letters, mostly addressed to Vincent Van Gogh's brother Theo, are on display in this exhibition, alongside 65 paintings and 35 drawings. Together, they offer a unique view of the artist's creativity and inner world.

"He was not the mad, tormented genius we used to think," says Ann Dumas, curator of the exhibition. "He was instead a thoughtful, reflective, highly educated man, who thought very carefully about the aim of his work. The letters give a much more rounded view of him than the clichéd image we have."

A review of the show in the Independent takes it for granted that the juxtaposition of words and images is risky, as if the viewer were being told how to experience the paintings. Van Gogh's letters, devotedly preserved by Theo's widow, are certainly full of detailed descriptions of his pictures and his thinking about them. However, instead of lessening the ability of the paintings to speak for themselves, words and colours seem to act in harmony, offering an extraordinary insight into Van Gogh's work. The letters get us to focus our attention on details that were important to the artist, with the result that we get what Ann Dumas describes as a "direct line from his mind into understanding the paintings".

Take The Pollard Willow, for example. Van Gogh's description of "a sky in which the clouds are racing, grey with an occasional gleaming white edge, and a depth of blue where the clouds tear apart for a moment", far from telling us what to see, instead offers poetic clues that enhance our pleasure in the watercolour. When, in another letter, Van Gogh points out to Theo the "very red face" in the Portrait of a Peasant Girl in a Straw Hat, something similar occurs. These remarks help us to concentrate on the sun's reflection caressing the overheated cheeks of the seated young woman.

 

Vision of Arles

"A meadow full of very yellow buttercups, a ditch with iris plants with green leaves, with purple flowers . . . A little town surrounded by countryside entirely covered in yellow and purple flowers. That would really be a Japanese dream," writes Vincent to Theo, describing his recently painted View of Arles with Irises in the Foreground.

The artist's enchantment with nature is contagious. Watching the oil painting hanging beside these lines, it is impossible not to imagine Vincent standing in an open field, the sun burning his face, enjoying the colourful view. It's almost as if we are seeing things through the painter's own eyes.

It is interesting to notice how words and sketches are juxtaposed and intermingled in the letters. The mixture highlights the fever and excitement of self-expression and creation (something one sees elsewhere, in Frida Kahlo's visual diaries, for example). The same hand writes and draws. Lines from the drawings occasionally leak out into the text. Likewise, the text, particularly when the artist is short of paper, continues on the backs of drawings. At times, the words end up becoming images themselves -- the word "joune" (yellow), for instance, handwritten on a sketch of a field of buttercups in the letter accompanying View of Arles.

Even though Van Gogh's work would resonate without any textual accompaniment, his words nonetheless open new perspectives on its meaning. But all the same, there's no chance of the letters ever getting in the way of the paintings. As he wrote in one of his last letters to Theo, "These canvases will tell you what I can't say in words."

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In the name of the father: Patricia Lockwood on sex, centaurs and Catholicism

The author of the viral poem “Rape Joke” talks about growing up with her gun-toting Catholic “priestdaddy”.

“Oh my fricking God. It’s a centaur.” The American poet Patricia Lockwood and I are in the lobby of a Whitehall hotel and she is finding the quantity of equine art distracting. I have already been skipped along a corridor to examine the bizarrely detailed rendering of a horse’s anus in a Napoleonic painting (“They made a point of doing him straight up the butt”) that turns out to be a copy of Théodore Géricault’s Charging Chasseur. Now a statue on the mantelpiece has caught her eye, prompting a reverie on what she saw at the British Museum a couple of days ago: “A wonderful statue of a man kneeing a centaur in the balls. It’s the most important thing to me there. It’s so beautiful.”

The confluence of violence, sex, orifices, animals and mythology runs throughout Lockwood’s work in wild and witty poems such as “The Whole World Gets Together and Gangbangs a Deer” (inspired by the realisation that “Bambi is a puberty movie”) and “Revealing Nature Photographs” (pastoral verse meets porn spam) – and it also colours her new book, Priestdaddy, a deeply idiosyncratic family memoir in which copulation is a go-to metaphor. Her dad’s frenzied, tuneless playing raises the prospect that he might be “having sex with the guitar”; during Lockwood’s teenage depression, she writes, the only thing she was having sex with “was the intolerable sadness of the human condition, which sucked so much in bed”.

Lockwood (pictured at her First Holy Communion) has dark, cropped hair and elfin features, pearly white nails and sleeping cats on her knees (an effect achieved with decorated tights – “Let this be for the stocking boys,” she says). Her voice is deadpan, frequently dipping into laughter without losing her poise. She is one day off her 35th birthday and has been married since she was 21. Her father, Greg, is a priest and, along with her four siblings in a succession of rectories across the Midwest, she was raised a Catholic – thus ensuring, she says, the permanent sexual warping of her mind.

“We Catholics become perverts because of the way sex is discussed in strictly negative terms. I saw pictures of aborted foetuses before I knew what basic anatomy was.”

As a devout teenager, she attended a youth group called God’s Gang and was given a virginity pledge in the form of a business card. The group leaders had a “very hip and young” approach: “We’re going to tell you every single thing you can do, in explicit terms, and just be like, ‘But don’t do it.’”

The ribald humour of her writing – Lockwood is renowned on Twitter for her surreal “sexts” – often contains a darkness. The poem that made her name, “Rape Joke”, takes her experience of being raped at 19 by a boyfriend and metes it out in discrete, increasingly devastating soundbites and images. It was posted online in 2013 and went viral, leading to a publishing deal for her collection Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals.

After the rape, Lockwood was “absolutely insane” for about five years, but it’s not as if she was entirely happy before: at 16, she had attempted suicide by taking a hundred Tylenol tablets. Her memoir recounts, too, being embedded in a church mired in scandal, a claustrophobic situation that hit home when a priest close to her was arrested for having sex with a 14-year-old boy. Such events led to Lockwood abandoning her faith and escaping with Jason, her future husband, whom she met on an online poetry messageboard.

When Patricia was 30, she and Jason ran out of money and moved back to the rectory, allowing her to observe her parents afresh. The resulting portraits in Priestdaddy are larger than life: her mother, Karen, is a hyperactive generator of mad puns and proverbs; her ex-navy father is a self-mythologising, right-wing whirlwind of talk radio, guns and Tom Clancy novels. Married Catholic priests are rare but Greg, previously a Lutheran minister, got the pope’s permission to convert. Usually to be found in his underwear, he wants for no new expensive gadget or guitar, though the family is expected to make sacrifices. In 2001, two weeks before Patricia – who learned to read at three and was writing poetry at seven – was supposed to leave for college, he told her that they couldn’t afford it. He later “changed the story in his mind so that I had said I don’t need to go”.

“Growing up in my household,” she says, “all of these far-right, retrograde ideas of gender roles and the man as patriarch existed from the very beginning. But I didn’t think of my house as a bellwether of what was going to happen.” It came as no surprise to her that Greg and many like him voted for Trump. When she reported on a Trump rally in February 2016, she “moved like a ghost through the crowd. They saw me as one of their own.”

Anger at her father’s selfishness “would be useless”, and Lockwood respects his sense of vocation, which she feels she has inherited. She has believed in her own genius ever since she was writing “mermaids-having-sex-with-Jesus poems” at the age of 19. Jason is her support staff, licking her envelopes and buying her clothes. His offering the previous day was a T-shirt emblazoned with Justin Bieber’s face: it revealed how much she resembles the singer – “a full 90 per cent overlap” – and is definitely not ironic.

“Do you think we only got irony after Christ was crucified?” she wonders, and then spots two black-clad priests in dog collars who have sat down across the room from us. “Ooh,” she exclaims, awed and delighted, and then, in a whisper, ever confident in her powers of creation: “I manifested them.”

“Priestdaddy: A Memoir” is published by Allen Lane. “Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals” is published by Penguin

Tom Gatti is Culture Editor of the New Statesman. He previously edited the Saturday Review section of the Times, and can be found on Twitter as @tom_gatti.

 

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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