给——
许多金黄色的嫩花苞已经生锈,
就像自噤的初恋那样。
就像逃逸夜空的孤星那样,
在气流飞旋中感到缺氧。
虽然花朵仍被盛水的陶罐挽留着,
背对光线充沛的窗户低下了头。
他抹掉油画帆布上的隐居,
从自画像中出走时,
丢失耳朵的小镇已陷入正午的寂寞。
画布上粒粒种子饱满,
预示烈日下即将遭遇的情欲。
他为这股生命力的旺盛极度不安,
因为多年苦心调教的色块,
就要背弃忧郁的使命,
告别他以及画框,
去畸形发育在麦田的小腹里,
成为一个名义的父亲。
与葵花相克相生的普鲁士蓝,
为神往天堂的花籽,
铺设了幸福的另一个出口:
“只要活的人还活着,死去的也就活着”*
骄阳与旋风,本就是阴影与冥想。
那些梨树、杏树和桃树的灿烂花枝,
凄美如罹毒后的笑容,
在他画笔的疾走和扭曲之间,
又一次揣度着我们幸存的理智。
*引自梵高书信集《亲爱的提奥》
2009.4
- posted on 05/22/2009
给July
老瓦 wrote:
给——
许多金黄色的嫩花苞已经生锈
就像自噤的初恋那样
就像逃逸夜空的孤星那样
在气流飞旋中感到缺氧
虽然花朵仍被盛水的陶罐挽留着
背对光线充沛的窗户低下了头
他再次铺开油画帆布时
丢失耳朵的小镇已陷入正午的寂寞
画布上粒粒种子饱满
预示烈日下即将遭遇的情欲
他为这股生命力的旺盛极度不安
因为多年苦心调教的色块
就要背叛忧郁的使命
告别他以及画框
去疯狂地裸奔在田野里
并且成为一名父亲
与葵花相克相生的普鲁士蓝
给向往天堂的花籽
铺设了魂归的另一个出口:
只要活的人还活着,死去的也就活着
阳光与眼膜,本就是阴影与冥想
那些梨树、杏树和桃树的灿烂花枝
凄美如罹毒后的笑容
在他画笔的变形和扭曲之间
又一次揣度着我们幸存的理智
2009.5 - Re: 给――posted on 05/22/2009
前两天看高更,Noa Noa,里面提到他对梵高的点化,并自鸣得意得
很。
高更还是个很顾家的人,可惜被家世遗弃。梵高割耳朵时,高更是在
场的。高更说话很偏激,有空我把高更写的梵高全文敲一下。
给老瓦的鼻子祝个福!
- posted on 05/23/2009
xw wrote:
前两天看高更,Noa Noa,里面提到他对梵高的点化,并自鸣得意得
很。
高更还是个很顾家的人,可惜被家世遗弃。梵高割耳朵时,高更是在
场的。高更说话很偏激,有空我把高更写的梵高全文敲一下。
给老瓦的鼻子祝个福!
是的,是写给梵高,但不想把他的名字写在标题,因为那样就先入为主了(宁肯读者自己体会出来更好) 当然这样的小技是瞒不过xw的。
所涉及的意象全部来自他的作品,或者生平,补充两幅最著名的贴到顶上去,帮助理解:))
另,谢谢慰问。鼻子的病找到了原因,但还未找到治疗方案,还是我以前说过的,美国医生首先考虑职业风险,然后才是救人。 - Re: 给――posted on 05/24/2009
好! - Re: 给――posted on 05/24/2009
老瓦的诗真是越来越好了。。晦涩还是一如既往,但我读着顺了。 - Re: 给――posted on 05/24/2009
谢各位阅读,喜欢梵高的,一般都是自讨苦吃的人。
这段时间比较集中地读了一些,再留几个字,算是了还一个心愿。 - posted on 05/26/2009
咱不食言。把高更这一篇回忆文章敲出来,也“给--
老瓦。”
高更后来也跟坡一样,搞起文章的行当,画跟本卖不出去。
Gauguin on Vincent van Gogh
I've been wanting to write about van Gogh for a long time, and one fine day I'll certainly do so, when I am in the mood. For the time being, I'm going to relate certain things about him -
rather, about us - that should rectify a mistake that has been going around certain circles.
Surely it was by chance that in the course of my life several men who kept company with me and had discussions with me have gone mad.
This was the case with the van Gogh brothers; certain parties, out of malice -- others, out of naivete --have attributed their madness to me. Certainly some people can influence their friends to varying degrees, but that's a far cry from causing madness. Long after the catastrophe, Vincent wrote me from the mental asylum where he was being cared for. This is what he said:
"How fortunate you are to be in Paris! That is still where the leading authorities are, and you should certainly consult a specialist to cure you of madness. Aren't we all mad?" It was sound advice, that's why I didn't follow it, no doubt just to be contrary.
Readers of Le Mercure were able to see in a letter of vincent's, published a few years back, how insistent he was about my coming to Arles to start up what he envisioned as a studio with myself at the helm
I was working at the time at Pont-Aven, in Brittany. Whether because the studies I'd begun there created an affinity between me and the place, or because through some vague instinct I foresaw something abnormal, I held out for a long time, until the day came when, won over by vincent's heartfelt protestations of friendship, I started out.
I reached Arles late at night and waited for daybreak in an all-night cafe. The proprietor took one look at me and cried out, "It's you, his friend. I recognize you."
A self-portrait I had sent to Vincent will suffice to account for the owner's outburst. Vincent had shown him my portrait, explaining that it was a friend who would be arriving shortly.
Neither too early nor too late, I went to wake vincent up. The day was given over to settling in, lots of chatter, and strolling about to admire the beauties of Arles and the Arlesiennes(for whom, by the way, I could not work up a great deal of enthusiasm).
We were at work the very next day - he picking up where he'd left off, I starting fresh. Now, I have never had the cerebral facility that others find so effortlessly at the tip of their brush. They step off the train, pick up their palette, and in no time flat you've got a sunlight effect. When it's dry it goes to the Luxembourg, and it's a signed Carolus Duran.
I do not admire such painting, but I admire the man.
He's so confident, so calm.
I'm so undecided, so restless.
Whatever region I'm in, each and every time I've got to have an incubation period to learn the essence of the plants, the trees, all of nature - so varied and capricious, never willing to let herself be divined or revealed.
So, several weeks passed before I clearly grasped the sharp flavor of Arles and its environs. We worked steadily nonetheless, especially Vincent. Between the two of us, one a volcano, the other seething, too, but within, a struggle was brewing.
First of all, I found everything in shocking disarry. His paint box was hardly big enough to hold all of those squeezed tubes, which were never resealed, and despite all that disorder, all that mess, everything on his canvas shone; so did his words. Daudet, de Goncourt, the Bible seared the brain of this Dutchman. In Arles the quays, bridges, boats, the whole south of France became another Holland for him. He even forgot to write in Dutch and, as can be seen from his published letters to his brother, he never wrote in anything but French and did so admirably, with no end of [phrase like] tant que and quant a.
Despite all my efforts to disentangle from that scrambled mind of his a rationale underlying his critical views, I couldn't account for the contradiction between his painting and his opinions. For example, he had boundless admiration for Messonier and a profound loathing of Ingres. Degas was his despair, and Cezanne was nothing but a humbug. The thought of Monticelli brought tears to his eyes.
One of the things that raised his hackles was to be forced to admit that I had great intelligence even though my forehead was too small, a sign of imbecility. And with all that, deep tenderness, or rather, the altruism of the Gospel.
From the very first month I saw our oint finances showing the same symptoms of disorder. How was I to handle this? It was a ticklish situation, as the cash box was being filled, albeit modestly, by his brother, who worked for Goupil's and, for my part, by arranging exchanges of paintings. Something had to be said, and there was no escaping a showdown with that hair-trigger sensitivity of his. I broached the subject, but only with considerable precaution and wheedling that were hardly in keeping with my personality. I must confess, I succeeded far more easily than I expected.
In one box there would be so much for hygienic nighttime strolls [prostitutes], so much for tobacco, so much for unforeseen expenses, including rent. Atop all that a piece of paper and a pencil to jot down honestly what each of us took from the till. In another box, whatever was left over, divided in four, for each week's food allowance. We stopped going to our little restaurant, and with the help of a little gas stove I did the cooking and Vincent did the food shopping, staying fairly close to the house. Once, however, Vincent tried to make some soup, but how he mixed his ingredients I cannot say - probably the way he did his colors on his canvases. At any rate, it wasn't fit for consumption. And my Vincent exclaimed, laughing, "Tarascon! la casquette au pere Daudet!" On the wall he wrote in chalk:
Je suis Saint-Esprit. [I am the Holy Spirit.]
Je suis sain d'esprit. [I am sound of mind.]
How long did we stay together? I couldn't say, having completely forgotten. Although the catastrophe quickly bore down on us and I was working at a fever pitch, that entire period seemed like a century to me.
The public never suspected that two men did tremendous work there, useful to them both. Perhaps to others, too. Certain things bear fruit.
When I arrived at Arles, Vincent was involved with the Neo-Impressionist school. And he was foundering considerably, which distressed him. Not because this school, like all schools, was bad - by no means - but because it did not suit that impatient, independent temperament of his.
With all those yellows on violets, all that work in complementary colors - disordered work on his part - he ended up with nothing but subdued, incomplete, monotonous harmonies; the sound of the clarion was missing.
I set about trying to enlighten him, which was easy, for I found in him a rich and fertile ground. Like all people who are original and marked with the stamp of individuality, Vincent had no fear of those around him and no stubbornness.
From that day forward, my van Gogh made astonishing progress. He seemed to glimpse all that was within him, and that led to the whole series of suns on suns in full sunlight.
"Have you seen the portrait of the poet?
1.Face and hair, chrome yellow;
2.Clothing, chrome yellow;
3.Tie, chrome yellow, with an emerald, green-emerald pin against a
4.Chrome yellow background."
That is what an Italian painter said to me, and he added:"Shit, shit, everything's yellow. I don't know what painting is anymore!"
There's no need to go into details of technique here. I mention this so you'll know that van Gogh, without losing a single ounce of his originality, profited from what I had to teach him. And every day he'd thank me for it. And that's what he meant when he wrote to Monsieur Aurier that he owed a great deal to Paul Gauguin.
When I arrived in Arles, Vincent was still trying to find his way, whereas I, who was much older, was a mature man. I do owe Vincent something, however, and that is the knowledge of having been of use to him, and the confirmation of my earlier ideas about painting; then, too, when the going gets tough, remembering that there's always someone unhappier than oneself...
Toward the end of my stay Vincent became excessively curt and noisy, then tight-lipped. Some nights I caught Vincent, who had gotten up, coming toward my bed.
What caused me to wake up just at that moment?
At any rate, all I had to do was say to him very solemnly, "What's the matter, Vincent?" and without a word he'd slip back into bed and fall into a deep sleep.
I hit upon the idea of painting his portrait while he was at work on the still life he loved so, the one with sunflowers. When I finished the portrait he said, "That's me all right, but me gone mad."
Van Gogh Painting Sunflowers, 1897
That very evening we went to the Cafe. He ordered a light absinthe.
Suddenly he threw his glass and its contents at my head. I ducked, and grabbing him bodily in my arms, left the Cafe and crossed Place Victor Hugo. A few minutes later, Vincent found himself in bed and in a few seconds fell asleep. He didn't awaken again until morning.
When he did wake up, he said to me very calmly, "My dear Gauguin, I vaguely remember having offended you last night."
Reply:"I gladly forgive you with all my heart, but there could be a replay of yesterday's scene, and if I were struck I might lose control of myself and throttle you. If I may, I'd like to write to your brother and inform him that I'm coming back."
My God, what a day!
That evening, after a half-hearted attempt at dinner, I felt the need to go out alone and get some fresh air, scented with flowering laurel. I had almost finished crossing Place Victor Hugo when I heard a familiar stride - short, quick, jerky - behind me. Just as I turned around, Vincent rushed toward me, an open razor in his hand. I must have had a daunting look on my face at the time, because he stopped short and, lowing his head, scurried back toward the house.
Was I lax just then? Shouldn't I have disarmed him and tried to calm him down? I've often examined my conscience, and I find nothing to reproach myself for.
Let those who will cast stones.
I darted over to a good hotel in Arles where, after asking what time it was, I booked a room and went to bed.
I was very restless and didn't drop off to sleep until about 3 in the morning. I woke up fairly late, about 7:30.
I went out into the square, where a large crowd had gathered. Near our house, [there were] some policemen and a short gentleman in a bowler hat who was the police commissioner.
This is what had happened.
Van Gogh went back home and immediately cut off his ear close to the head. It must have taken him some time to stanch the hemorrhage, because the following day the floor tiles of the two rooms downstairs were littered with wet towels. There were bloodstrins in the two rooms and on the little staircase leading up to our bedroom.
When he felt up to going out, he covered his head with a Basque beret pulled all the way down and went stright to a certain house where if you didn't know any local women a chance acquaintance could be procured, and gave the "sentry" his ear, which he had thoroughly washed and enclosed in an envelope. "Take this," he said, "in remembrance of me." Then he bolted and headed home, where he went to bed and fell asleep. However, he took the trouble to close the shutters and set a lighted lamp on a table near the window.
Ten minutes later the street set aside from the Filles de joie was in commotion and all abuzz.
I did not have the slightest inkling of all this when I appeared at the threshold of our house and the gentleman in the bowler hat said to me point-blank in a very severe tone of voice, "What have you done to your friend, sir?" "Why, what do you mean?""You know perfectly well what I mean. He's dead."
I would not wich a moment like that on anyone, and it took me a good few minutes to regain my composure and keep my heart from racing.
I was suffocating with anger, indignation, grief as well, and the shame of all those stares tearing me to shreds. "Very well, sir," I stammered. "Let's go upstairs and we'll sort things out up there." vincent ws lying in bed, all curled up and completely lifeless. Gently, ever so gently, I touched his body; its warmth told me that he had to be alive. It was as if all my presence of mind, all my energy, had suddenly come back to me.
Almost in a whisper I said to the police comissioner, "Sir, would you be so kind as to wake this man up with great care, and if he asks for me tell him that I've gone to Paris. The sight of me could be fatal to him."
I must confess that from that moment on, the police commissioner was as reasonable as he could be, and he wisely sent for a doctor and a carriage.
Once he was awake, Vincent asked for his comrade, his pipe and tobacco, and even thought of asking for the cash box we kept downstairs. A suspicion, no doubt, but one that only grazed me, armed as I already was against all suffering.
Vincent was taken to the hospital. As sson as he got there, his mind started to wander again.
Anyone interested in this knows all the rest. There's no need to discuss it further, except to mention the extreme suffering of a man who was cared for in an insane asylum, yet who regained enough of his reason at monthly intervals to understand his condition and furiously paint the wonderful pictures people are now so familiar with.
The last letter I got from him as dated Auvers, near Pontoise. He told me that he had hoped to recover enough to visit me in Brittany, but that now he had to admit that a cure was impossible.
"Dear Master (the only time he ever uttered that word), after having known you and caused you distress, it is more dignified to die in a sound state of mind than a deteriorated one."
And he shot himself in the stomach with a pistol. It was not until a few hours later, lying in bed and puffing on his pipe, that he died, with complete lucidity of mind, with love for his art and without any hatred for others.
In Les Monstres, Jean Dolent writes, "When Gauguin says 'Vincent,' his voice is gentle."
Without knowing it, but having guessed it, Jean Dolent is right. We know why.
Avant et Après, written 1902, published 1923
- Re: 给――posted on 06/25/2009
谢xw的贴文,是的,高更生前把梵高的风格狂贬一通,有点落井下石;人家死后又把两人之间的过往当成摇钱树,不义之徒哈。
- posted on 01/03/2011
July又说起梵高,碰巧在网上读到这一首,转过来分享。
瓶中的十四朵向日葵
锦瑟23
第一朵给我善良的母亲。那个叫科尼莉亚的美丽女人
第二朵给那位受人敬重的牧师。他传递心灵之火
哦,我悲慈的父亲。
第三朵给装满成群乌鸦与开花星星的天空
许多时候它像一只黑口袋。
第四朵给生长着大片金黄麦子的大地
祖先们的目光穿过厚土落向我们的脸
星星下葬罗纳河。无数不眠的眼睛闪动
第五、六、七、八朵我分别送给四个巨人
它们隐在季节背后,抬着时间和山川的影子飞奔
第九朵给热烈的太阳
我不止一次地追随它金色的光芒。
第十朵送给月亮。就是我时常念及的月亮,阿尔的月亮
也是奥维尔教堂那晚,我一直等。都未等到的月亮
哦!第十一朵请留在瓶子里
第十二朵我送给她。年轻的女人,我可怜的女人
你到过阿尔的吊桥吗?
河水清澈,天空湛蓝,我们乘着马车...
现在还剩下最后两朵向日葵
第十三朵给文森特·梵高。那就是我
第十四朵给上帝
- Re: 给――posted on 01/04/2011
據說凡高當初用的都是劣質顏料, 他的作品因此不斷改變顏色, 保管起來非常令人頭痛.
"许多金黄色的嫩花苞已经生锈
就像自噤的初恋那样"
不少詩句很出彩.
老瓦的英譯也相當好.
只是中英分立河兩岸, 山某昏花的眼只好來回擺渡.
"瓶中的十四朵向日葵"切入點很新穎. - Re: 给――posted on 01/04/2011
遠山 wrote:
"瓶中的十四朵向日葵"切入點很新穎.
诗里说了十四朵向日葵,为什么不是十二朵(蓝底那幅)或是十五朵(黄底那幅)呢?两朵隐身和一朵不算?还是廉价颜料搞的鬼? - posted on 01/04/2011
"瓶中的十四朵向日葵"所引真是十五朵, rzp 慧眼.
凡高的向日葵系列裏還真沒十四朵的:
http://zh.wikipedia.org/zh/%E5%90%91%E6%97%A5%E8%91%B5_(%E6%A2%B5%E9%AB%98)
rzp wrote:
遠山 wrote:诗里说了十四朵向日葵,为什么不是十二朵(蓝底那幅)或是十五朵(黄底那幅)呢?两朵隐身和一朵不算?还是廉价颜料搞的鬼?
"瓶中的十四朵向日葵"切入點很新穎. - Re: 给――posted on 01/04/2011
this is the vase of 12 sun flowers. I meant the one in the 1st post. - posted on 01/04/2011
The little dying one was added later.
遠山 wrote:
"瓶中的十四朵向日葵"所引真是十五朵, rzp 慧眼.
凡高的向日葵系列裏還真沒十四朵的:
http://zh.wikipedia.org/zh/%E5%90%91%E6%97%A5%E8%91%B5_(%E6%A2%B5%E9%AB%98)rzp wrote:
遠山 wrote:诗里说了十四朵向日葵,为什么不是十二朵(蓝底那幅)或是十五朵(黄底那幅)呢?两朵隐身和一朵不算?还是廉价颜料搞的鬼?
"瓶中的十四朵向日葵"切入點很新穎. - Re: 给――posted on 01/04/2011
凡高的那几幅向日葵被无数多人临摩过,估计都快比美元里有多少总统一样成为世界人民的常识了。
深圳附近有个大芳村,满村都是画舫,画这向日葵的都恨不得是一朵一个人的流水线了,产品充斥美国许多酒店房间。我是想,作者用数字作诗一定有别的特别意义,而不是简单的数错数,或没查过凡高作品年谱。 - Re: 给――posted on 01/04/2011
遠山 wrote:
據說凡高當初用的都是劣質顏料, 他的作品因此不斷改變顏色, 保管起來非常令人頭痛.
梵高之死,也完全因为他后期高强度的创作,劣质颜料含铅很高,他的症状几乎与铅中毒如出一辙。
rzp提到的十四朵,也是源于梵高自己命名的作品,不知道为啥他没有数清楚(也许是后来再添加的几朵?)
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