Page 67 - CTI65eng-Emaga

September 1888, Café de la Gare,

30 Place Lamartine, Arles.

I t was the third night of Vincent Van

Gogh’s “artistic revenge” on Monsieur
Ginoux, owner of this obscure rural
cafe in Arles, and his landlord who had He did not like this painting, though he was
taken so much money out of his pocket. But, not on the judging panel of the Salon.
every person in this small yet warm room knew “This cafe is too…it should have been more…”
very well that, though sounding funny, it was He impatiently scratched his brownish curls, strug-
merely one of the pieces this penniless Dutch gling to find an appropriate adjective from his
artist was commissioned to paint to settle his limited vocabulary to describe his ideal cafe scene.
debts to the cafe. Within a minute, the happy memories of his first
Not a curious look was cast to Vincent while trip to Paris flashed back to his mind, and he
he was busying himself with fanatically rubbing thought of those finely decorated coffee houses
thick paints onto the canvas, since residents in glittering in broad daylight on the left bank of La
this peaceful village in the south of France al- Seine where the lively talks, carefree laughters over
ready got used to this reticent foreigner’s eccen- steaming coffee cups were admirably steeped in
tricity beneath his gentle and honest appearanc- the everlasting sweetness of life.
es. Accompanied by a mild rustle, the young Yes, sweetness, it should have been more
waiter named Jean in a light coat was dragging “sweet”!
his reluctant feet towards him, with a brass cof- Jean’s rash suggestion of “adding more
fee pot skillfully dangling over his left arm. sweetness” to The Night Café was, predictably,
Seeing the hot coffee streaming out of the narrow declined by Vincent. No wonder, how could an
spout into his cup, for a few seconds, Vincent ascetic man who never moderated the bitterness
was captivated by the poetic gracefulness of the of coffee with a teaspoon of sugar consent to this
fluidity of the dark beverage which kept him piece of advice, even though it was made out of
awake for numerous nights dedicated to his sa- the sheer sincerity of a young boy? Mumbling
cred artistic creation. his disappointment, Jean turned around, failing
It was half past two in the morning, the to see the apologetic smile buried in Vincent’s
desolate cafe was only visited by “night prowlers” ragged reddish beard.
who were either too poor to pay for a lodging, A pleasant aromatic smoke was rising from
or too drunk to be taken in. In refilling his emp- the silky surface of the freshly refilled cup, the
ty cup, Jean threw a careless look at the unfin- artist noticed that, put down the brush in satis-
ished oil painting on the easel depicting the in- faction, and started to massage his sore joints—
terior of the cafe where he had been working for he truly needed a break after almost a whole
three years: Under lemon yellow gas light, he night’s impassioned and exhausted wrestle with
found himself standing idly by a grayish green the undisguised radiant colors across the canvas,
billiard table at the centre of the picture, with and he was convinced that there was no better
five customers sitting in stupor or sleep on his choice than drinking a cup of hot black coffee
both sides in a room painted with a disturbing made by the kindhearted Madame Ginoux.
contrast of red and green. Vincent loved coffee.

67