Colours

There was a radio documentary on while I made breakfast about the letters of Vincent van Gogh. He really saw the world, said the presenter, whose name I have forgotten. But, it seems, there was a price to pay. He lived so passionately. Felt everything. It is too much, I think. It was all about colour. The yellow house, the pink blossom, the yellow sunflowers, the green absinthe, the blue light of night café. He was only an artist for ten years, the presenter said. And all self-taught. His early sketches, the egg-heads say, were terrible, pedestrian. A lesson to us all. But. What a price, eh? They talk about him being bi-polar. Perhaps. Perhaps just passionate, with no real outlet for it but his work and no one bought them, saw them, celebrated them. He wrote to make sense of it all. He wrote those 900 or so letters to Theo to make sense of it for himself when the evenings were too dark for him to paint. Apparently he resorted to fixing a candle on his head to enable him to continue work. Madcap. Glorious. He really saw the world. Do we really see him in his work anymore? Did we ever? All that money. Pah!

A murky day after all that sun yesterday. Tea on the lawn in Aberdovey. It was sublime. Got too much sun. C’est la vie. Off soon to the Ceramics Festival. I’m nervous and consequently I dreamt of it all night. It’s the supposed expectations. Can I remain anonymous? I just want to wander and observe. No article, as such, to write but I may tweet.

I listened to the last instalment of A Provincial Lady Goes Further by A. M. Delafield read by Claire Skinner. It is very amusing particularly when she talks about all her procrastinating over writing an article for a newspaper about freedom in modern marriage. Excruciatingly familiar, especially coming up with pithy first line and how she plans to spend the money way before it has been written.

Off I go.