As Paul Harvey would say..."And now, the rest of the story"...or at least some of it

Aaron handed me an article this last week which he brought up during the discussion of my paper.  Hearing my description of the painter Gauguin, he thought it may be the same man he read about a few weeks previous.  Low and behold, the artist who cut off van Gogh’s ear is believed to be, the man himself, Gauguin.  The January 2010 issue of the New Yorker published “Van Gogh’s Ear,” by Adam Gopnik alongside van Gogh’s “Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear and Pipe” (1889).  The article discusses the previously theorized version of what happened with van Gogh and his ear, and the 2009 version brought to the table by two German academics, Kaufmann and Wildegans.  While the story of the ear is no doubt a catchy one, the ear isn’t really the important part in the eyes of the author.  But since the ear is the reason for so much attention placed here, we’ll look at it anyway. 

The most common story told of van Gogh had been that he had self-mutilated himself one Christmas Eve and then gifted his ear to his favorite prostitute.  This narrative gave people reason to believe that the act was sacrificial and in the name of art; something that replaced religion.  Just as in my wanderings through the “artist” myth, it usually all comes back to a morality discussion.  If a person was rejecting the code set out for them by society, they were placed in the “loony” bin and taken out with the trash.  Don’t look for evidence, just label the guy and get away.  So van Gogh held this image for nearly a century, until it was pointed out that van Gogh wasn’t the type of guy to do this; besides, most of those who cut themselves do not cut their ears, and this cut had been made much cleaner than one made by a person’s own hand.

This now brings into the picture the man of the hour: Paul Gauguin.  This is a tale that was not a part of Maugham’s The Moon and Sixpence; for some reason it was void from this biographical look at Gauguin.  This seems odd to me as it seems it would have supported and added to his story of the painter as the relationship of the two painters fit right in with the image Maugham paints of Gauguin.  Van Gogh can’t wait to live with Gauguin, who is soon moving to Paris.  He giddily plans on his coming like a child excited for a sleep over.  Van Gogh has waited for a community living situation with other artists and Gauguin will be the man that will make it all happen.   From what we have learned of Gauguin at this point, we know that not much is going to come of this.  Gauguin is not the ideal houseguest; he puts his host down, walks out on him while he is talking; behaves in van Gogh’s eyes, as a “wild beast” would (and it’s a good thing van Gogh didn’t have a wife).  Yet, van Gogh is still mystified and revered him.  This sounds somewhat like our Dirk Stroeve character.

While it was van Gogh’s ear getting cut off, Gauguin is in the spotlight now, just as he was in The Moon.  The new version of the ear mutilating story puts Gauguin at the front as the culprit.  It is now believed that Gauguin, a skilled fencer, was wielding a sword around van Gogh’s head that ill-fated Christmas Eve and sliced off his companion’s ear by accident.  Van Gogh was too embarrassed and Gauguin felt guilt and the two decided to remain quiet about the matter.  Further support for this theory is found in the letters the two wrote to each other in which references to ears are subtly made.  It was then that Gauguin made his getaway to Tahiti.  This isn’t the first time he is getting away, Gauguin is always wanting to get away.  And now he has us captured— and we think we have him captured; he is the perfect image of the artist.

How do you describe Gauguin and his ways?  Bernard Williams calls the case of Gauguin, a case of ‘moral luck.’  In a sense, “doing the wrong thing—abandoning your wife and children and betraying your friends—appears to be morally justifiable, since the art made was, as it happened, great” (Gopnik 52).  It is also what occurs for many other “greats.”  If a person ruins their life and is a failure, they are forgotten.  While if they ruin their life and for some reason people perceive their work to genius, then they are made eternal.  It is all really up to luck though; a person happens to pick up a certain strange painting and keeps it instead of throwing it away, because there is something about it.  And Gauguin is believed by Gopnik to be the moral luck “original” whom van Gogh, Picasso, and many others who followed the modern art movement set off by Gauguin, looked to follow. 

How does this “moral luck” phenomenon occur?  How do we, as a “discerning society,” allow for it?  We have the ability to say shame on some people, but not shame on others?  Why do we want the Gauguins of the world, the men or women that do the things that put other individuals out of house and home, to take the spot light?  Maybe, as Gopnik concludes, we allow for moral luck because we need artists who take risks to make up for our caution.  As he says, we may place a bet at a casino and call it a risk, but an artist “bets his life.”  And it is these people that become the stories we want to hear again and again.

It reminds me of my cousin (a couple of times removed) Gennie DeWeese.  She was an artist along with her husband Bob, in the Bozeman area.  She was made famous for the scene in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in which she brings a bunch of beers out to the boys.  Gennie, in a sense, was “one of the boys.”  She lived life free from as many pre-set notions as to what a woman or art should be as possible.  The picture that was chosen for her obituary was of her smoking a cigarette with a big grin spreading across her wrinkled cheeks.  As much recognition as she may have received as an artist, in the end, her own words were that she had left “five great kids and a few good paintings.”  Gennie knew what was important to her, despite what was important about her to others.   Maybe that says a lot about other artists too.  We hear their stories, see their work, but never really get to ask them what is important to them—what really matters?

As I usually find when I begin writing on a topic, I am not going where I thought I would.  I have ended up really focusing on three texts rather than the initial five, because I have found that two of the texts have a difficult time fitting into the conversation that my paper is forming.  My paper started as a focus on those who live their lives as art and this concept is still there, but I am now getting into the idea of the “genius” as well.  And I don’t see any problems with this; the genius and the artist are really two in the same as I am finding.  And they both fit into the master concept.  They both see the world in a way that most don’t.  Their passion drives them toward something abstract.  They see possibility where there should be none.  They both try to live their lives as art.  And this idea, I am starting to see, means being free to form a life in the way one sees as most beautiful regardless of what society says—to be free of all that may confine a human.  In this world, right and wrong become muddled.  I am beginning to see this as a choice all people have, and those who make it are usually pushed out of society—they are seen as crazy.

I also try to find out why people are regarded as crazy or insane and then, one day, they are genius.  How can the same person, the same idea, be both upheld and abhorred by society at the same time.  I have been using Yeats’ poem to guide me through the paper, but as I am finding, depending on who the speaker is on the subject of art (Wilde, Maugham, Yeats, Steiner), art can be many different things.  Most discussions of art come to a point where there is a question of its moral nature.  Are artists filled with evil spirits or are they reaching for the divine?  I am also finding it difficult to really understand the intent of the concept of the “master’s final lesson” being to make one’s self eternal.  Are we to listen to the master?  Are we to be this master?  Because if we are, as the literary texts that I am using show, there is a lot of harm that come to those who try to make themselves into art, as well as other people in their life.  The difficulty that arises seems to be that ‘life as art’ conflicts with a life that isn’t art.  Yeats wants to be a golden bird (art) and sing to the lords and ladies of Byzantium (not art).  Those who seek the eternal separate themselves from all others as a way to really connect with others?  So I guess this gets me back to a question that Dr. Sexson pointed out to me early on: “Is this something that is to be pursued?” 

Epilogue to the Epilogue

Upon hearing that they would be separated, Fatima and Alphonse II decided their love for each other reached beyond the religious aspirations their parents set out for them. 

Fatima loved her father and did not want to be looked upon disapprovingly by him for not choosing to go with him, but when she was honest with herself, she really didn’t know what to believe.  She did know that she loved her half brother, Alphonse, more than anything black ink could put to words.  As they grew together in the little cottage Fatima and Alphonse found comfort in only each other as their mothers were constantly arguing over who was more loved by their father.  It could have been a divided household if not for the two children’s intersecting paths.  Just as their father on a journey once crossed paths with Zubeida and Emina in which they intersected and formed a new path, despite their differences, the children too were drawn to each other’s differences.  Fatima was small, but strong and was always helping her brother up to the tallest tree so that he could “see the earth as a bird.”  Alphonse was tall and cautious, but wise like an old man and would warn Fatima in the tree when the clouds looked to be menacing.  They admired each other for what they had not, which is a trait not common in children as young as the two.

So their only choice was to flee their home in search of one where they could be together.  Alphonse had overheard stories from their mothers of a place of caves and great beauty where their family had acquired their wealth.  His father had told him stories of a place that seemed to be similar in description.  He remembered every detail of the stories and was able to paint himself a mental picture of the place and its location.  At night they experienced their first footsteps of freedom running and by morning found themselves waking in a place that seemed more imaginary than real. 

They found a cave that sounded just as the caves did in their father’s stories and made their way into the depths of the labyrinth finding themselves only lost in words. 

They spent their days wandering the vast caverns as if in search of something.  When they grew tired they would walk out to the open air and collect food for a meal or splash each other in a crystal clear pool.  The fruit was plentiful.  The air was temperate.  The animals were kind.  Their mothers could not have created a better fairy tale than what they were living.

As the months passed however, they found themselves fighting over places to sit and berries in a bush, things that had never brought tension before.  Their talking grew less and they occupied much of their time alone.

It was around this time that Fatima was exploring a new section of the cave she had never been in before.  She entered into a room that had a small chair and an old pot of ink.  There was also a finely embroidered tapestry that lay over a rectangular object.  She brushed off the fabric and lifted it off to find a large bundle of papers poorly bound together.  She could barely make out the words that were slightly water stained. Saragossa was all it said.

She rushed to find her brother, and for the first time in days, grabbed his hand and led him to the room.  Together they sat on the floor and poured over the first book they saw in months.  They read it until they fell asleep.  Entranced by the story, they woke up the next day and read again until they were asleep.  After seven days of reading, they finished the book.  On the seventh day, they found that all the stories within the book had been made-up.  That is what the book said. 

At first they were stunned.  What did this mean?  They discussed with each other their thoughts on what it meant.  When they were finished, although they had no new answers, they decided that they would talk about other parts of the book that were equally as important as the part that had told them it was all made-up.  They made a ritual of sitting, sharing food and reading the stories together each day for a few hours.  They talked about what they thought the stories meant and why they were written.  The stories explained things to them that made their lives together better.

They knew all along that the stories were written by their father and that there was some truth and some fiction in it all, but that didn’t matter.  Their father wrote the book to be read.