Vincent van Gogh

My dear Theo,

This morning I saw the countryside from my window a long time before sunrise, with nothing but the morning star, which looked very big. Daubigny and Rousseau have already painted such studies, where you see the fields with the pale glow in the sky before the sun comes up. It’s beautiful and peaceful.

I have a new study of a starry sky. In the blue night sky the stars are blinking green, yellow, and pink, over a village. On the one side there is a tree, an enormous black cypress, like a black flame, and pink and green houses with orange roofs, and everywhere the most tender blue sky with a great yellow crescent moon. You know how I’m preoccupied with the question of painting night scenes or effects.

I would like to paint men and women with something of the eternal which the halo used to symbolize, and which we seek to convey by the actual radiance and vibrancy of our colorations. Last night I had a terrible fit of despair when I heard a voice calling me during my sleep. But this morning, when I painted this starry night, I felt such peace.

The ward attendant here tells me that I work too much, that it’s not good for me. But what can I do? When the work takes hold of me, I forget everything else. The painting is like a fever that consumes me, but it’s the only time I feel truly alive.

I think often of our conversations about wanting to paint the stars. Remember when we walked along the Boulevard de Clichy and looked up at the night sky? I told you then that I wanted to paint the night more colored than the day. Now I have done it, but I don’t know if others will understand.

The people here think I’m mad because I see things differently. The doctor says I should not paint from imagination, only from life. But how can I explain to him that what I imagine is more real to me than what others call reality? When I painted this scene, I saw not just stars but the whole magnificent dance of the universe.

You know how the asylum garden looks at night? The cypresses reach up like dark flames trying to touch the stars. The village below sleeps peacefully, unaware of the cosmic drama playing out above. It reminds me of our childhood, lying in the fields near Zundert, watching the sky and wondering about eternity.

I hope this painting will show people that the night is more richly colored than the day. The stars pulse with life—blue, yellow, green, pink. The moon glows like a great lamp. The wind moves through the cypress like music made visible. If only I could paint the sound of the wind in the trees!

The other patients here don’t understand why I paint. They think art is a luxury, a waste of time. But for me, it’s breathing. When I can’t paint, I can’t breathe. When the black moods come, only the canvas saves me. Each stroke of the brush is a small victory against despair.

I’ve been reading about Japanese art, and I think they understand something we’ve forgotten in the West. They paint not what they see, but what they feel. The emotion becomes the color, the feeling becomes the form. That’s what I tried to do with this starry night—to paint not just what the eye sees, but what the heart feels.

Do you think people will ever understand such pictures? Sometimes I feel like I’m painting for a future that hasn’t been born yet. But then I remember that all great art was once incomprehensible. Delacroix was once called mad. Millet was rejected. Perhaps one day, someone will stand before this starry sky and feel what I felt when I painted it.

The irony is not lost on me that I paint my most peaceful scenes while locked away in this asylum. But perhaps that’s what art is—finding beauty in the darkest places, making something eternal from something broken.

I must stop writing now. The morning light is changing, and I want to capture it before it disappears. Art is like catching lightning in a bottle—you must be ready when inspiration strikes.

Give my love to Jo and little Vincent. I hope someday he will look at the night sky and see not darkness, but dancing stars.

Your loving brother, Vincent