Van Gogh Page #6

the crafty dealer.

Clever people act dumb.

No,

people prefer

to deal with the craftiest.

Come here

Look at these marvels.

- Frost.

- Very nice.

That painting grows on me.

All those shades of blue.

As perfect as a Tiepolo.

He painted it when the baby was born.

It's there so I can see it

from my bed when I wake up.

Here's to both Vincents.

In a Japanese mode,

like the painting!

Ren is so talented.

I know, it's superb.

That awful sun, the green sky

Who are those creeps?

- They help sell you!

- I doubt it.

Remove my paintings from Tanguy's.

It's a pigsty. They'll rot!

Where do I put them?

Under your bed!

Or can't the maid sweep?

- Jo sweeps.

- If Saint Jo does it

- Why are they in there?

- I don't know.

I'm a pain, right?

No, Vincent.

Tho's not well.

Dr. Gachet's not good enough for him.

How will it all end?

You're the only one

I feel close to.

One must be selfish.

Tho doesn't know how to be.

That's what I am: selfish.

I can't whistle.

Pity you made two holes

in the painting.

You touched my wife?

And you're so out of touch

You don't paint ones like her.

You like sluts!

And you?

Thank you so much. See you soon.

We'll settle it all

Thanks for coming.

You're awful.

You quarrel with everyone.

Even Gachet. You fought with him.

- You're rude to Aurier.

- Still drinking?

You know,

critics like Aurier sell art.

Buyers are more influenced by what

they read than what they see.

- You know it.

- Yes,

they read a lot of gibberish

about beauty,

and have their minds all set.

Critics praise good and bad,

so buyers lap it all up

- It's called eclecticism.

- Sh*t!

You got it made!

And you neglect

the best painter of our time!

- You're the best?

- Yes, I am.

You sleep on my work.

It's under your bed.

- Where do I put it?

- Show it!

You wrote me not to!

All my work! You got it for nothing!

How can you say that? You're awful.

- One day I'll stop supporting you.

- Don't make me laugh!

You're just a dealer

who exploits artists, a slave driver.

You buy cheap, anyway.

From me you get 20 works a month

for the price

of one second-rate impressionist.

You're vile.

You must be revolted

by your own words!

You've ruined our relationship.

Good. I'm not scared.

I'll be better off.

I've been sponging.

All those paintings are yours.

Forever!

Fine words! "Forever"!

If I died, who'd get my paintings?

Who? You might destroy them,

like Mother did at home!

No one in the family believed in me.

No one!

"Get rid of these", she said.

She didn't! Who told you that?

I happen to know it.

I was a coward to accept your money.

I became a drone.

What's worse, I feel I'm being kept.

The shame!

Better to be a dock-worker.

One can't work and paint.

Those who tried stopped painting.

Gauguin painted for years

as a stockbroker.

You smothered me.

I'd have worked harder and better.

I've done nothing great.

And life's too sad.

I'm at the end of my tether.

Haven't you noticed?

My painting is sh*t.

Seen my portrait

of Marguerite Gachet? Crap!

It's a transition.

Don't exaggerate.

You've been there 2 months.

Can't always be on top.

On top?

You've never liked what I do.

A kind word here and there,

but I know your taste.

You've never spoken this way. Never.

I'm sick.

I can't keep this up for long.

No, not for long.

I've never had pains like this.

Seen a doctor?

He didn't understand me.

You in pain now?

You are harder to bear.

We've had our problems,

but your present mood

What?

You're healthy

and close to success!

But my painting's worse!

Aurier's piece has made you.

And your fits They're over!

Listen, Tho.

There are no fits.

I never had any.

They were tricks

like a squid spurts ink to hide.

I'm telling you, it won't be a fit:

a calm decision, if I can

to put an end what's unbearable

for me and all of us.

I'm not as selfish as you say.

I do think of others.

I didn't come to settle a score,

just to say hello.

Lautrec's always late.

Never on time.

True.

Vincent? Come eat.

Really!

- Hare?

- Yes, it is.

Will you stay in Auvers?

- I'll leave.

- Where? With no money?

Who do we paint for?

Rich collectors, connoisseurs,

a**holes the worst.

We paint for them.

Dump all my stuff.

You've got over 200,

that's 20,000 francs.

I can't unload all that,

by an unknown artist.

- Who's to blame?

- Make up your mind.

I'm off.

Hear of Schubert?

- What about him?

- Yes, Schubert.

Didn't you know?

All his friends dumped him

to avoid catching his disease.

- What's the connection?

- Don't you see?

You notice too late

you have no friends

if you can still notice things.

Just as well.

You're crazy!

Stop that!

It's weakness, Vincent.

When there's no more hay,

horses fight.

I can't stand them.

Find some buyers.

I can't stand them. Get rid of them!

Look,

I didn't do that!

Did I paint that eye?

Those shaded greys,

the contour of the eyes

I did that? Impossible.

I paint receding chins

in banal complementary colors.

Dump them or sell them:

selling is dumping for money!

I can't.

You can't?

No one wants them, right?

- What?

- Nothing, Vincent.

"Nothing, Vincent".

I bet if I throw them

out the window,

they'll be there tomorrow.

No one'll touch them.

Even garbage men and bums.

Here, Mr Van Gogh, your onion soup.

You well, Vincent?

- What's up?

- I'm having my soup.

Nice you're back in Paris.

- What're you up to?

- Having my soup.

Here's big Suzanne V.

Back in Paris?

I just want to eat my soup.

You know I paint now.

Dear Suzanne

Everyone paints now, even women.

- How would he live without you?

- Maybe he'd die!

He'd die!

He'd get a job like everyone else.

I've known men as talented as he,

who wanted to live off their art.

They took jobs. Like everyone.

Real jobs.

Being an artist is a luxury.

You must be able to afford it.

I'm sick of hearing

of their sufferings.

The poor really suffer.

They have no work, no food.

Vincent is your showgirl!

You can't afford him!

- I've managed.

- It has to change.

You have a family now.

Not just yours. Ours!

You'll support that wreck

all your life?

- Shut up!

- Stop that!

- You're vulgar, Johanna.

- Yes, I am!

Stop that!

Coming!

- What's happened?

- He wasn't on the train.

He's not back. Where is he?

- You must have crossed him

- He's not back. I'm sure.

He can only be one place.

You know it. Take her there.

- A drink?

- No thanks.

- You eaten?

- I'm not hungry.

Let's go.

It'll be like the good old days.

You're heavy!

You look contented.

You're new here. I don't know you.

You're married, right?

Brought your wife?

She was too tired.

She had her baby?

- 3 months ago. He's big.

- Should've brought her.

She's teasing.

She'd love it here!

- Your name?

- Cathy.

Pretty name.

You have nice rings, pretty hands.

- How are things, Suzanne?

- All right.

How's Puvis de Chavannes' kid?

- He's now 7.

- Time flies.

Did you wipe out Henri?

He always naps after.

- Not wearing socks?

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