Vincent van Gogh

Arles, 28 May 1888.

My dear Theo,

I thank you very much for your letter and for the 100-franc note it contained. You say that sending canvases to The Hague costs too much, and you are right; but I was sure that the work would look well there, and I particularly wanted to contribute to the exhibition.

But what touches me most is what you say about your health. I would far rather give up painting than see you killing yourself to make money. You absolutely must think of your health first, and if the gallery is making you ill, for God’s sake leave it. What is the good of money if one has to work under conditions that leave no time for living?

I am feeling decidedly better myself, my digestion has improved enormously, and that is the main thing. However, I still have fits of excitement or else utter sluggishness, but these are involuntary and I cannot help them. When I have painted a good deal during the day I feel quite relaxed in the evening, but if I go a few days without painting I get restless.

I have just bought paints and canvases with the money you sent. I am working on a red sunset over the sea, with the town of Arles in the distance. The sky is orange fire with Prussian blue shadows, and the whole thing has an extraordinary effect. But you know how it is—when I am absorbed in painting I hardly think of anything else.

People matter more than things, and the more trouble I take over pictures, the more pictures in themselves leave me cold. That is why I write to you now instead of describing all my latest work. I want to hear that you are taking care of yourself properly.

Are you eating regularly? Are you sleeping enough? Please don’t work such long hours at the gallery if it is wearing you down. I know you feel responsible for supporting me, but I would rather eat dry bread and live in poverty than know that you are making yourself ill for my sake.

I was reading about hygiene the other day—how important fresh air is, and regular meals, and not overworking. These things can prolong life and make it more serene. We both need to remember this. When I first came to the South I was often unwell, but now with better food and more regular habits I feel my strength returning.

The light here continues to fascinate me. This morning I watched the sunrise over the wheat fields, and the way the golden light gradually spread across the landscape was like nothing I had ever seen in the North. I think this Southern light is teaching me to see color in a completely new way.

But enough about my work—tell me about yours. Are there interesting exhibitions at the gallery? Have you discovered any new artists? I know you have such a good eye for paintings, and I value your judgment more than anyone’s.

Also, do you still walk in the Bois de Boulogne in the evenings? Remember how we used to walk together and talk about art and life? Those conversations shaped so much of my thinking about what art should be.

I am sending you a small drawing with this letter—just a quick sketch of the view from my studio window. The garden here is beautiful now with spring flowers, and the old man who owns it lets me paint there whenever I want.

Please, dear brother, promise me you will not sacrifice your health for money. We have each other, and that is worth more than all the gold in Paris. Write to me soon and tell me you are taking better care of yourself.

With all my love and anxiety for your wellbeing, Vincent

P.S.—I met a postman here named Roulin who has become a good friend. He poses for me sometimes and has such an interesting, honest face. He reminds me that there are good people everywhere, even far from home.