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?
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