It was May 17， 1890. Vincent van Gogh had just arrived in Paris from the south of France. His brother，Theodorus（Theo） was there to welcome him to his new home in the cite Pigalle at the foot of Montmartre. For years Vincent had been sending canvases to his brother. And now here they were in Theo’s apartment， scores of them crowding every square inch of wall and floor space. It was the first time that so many of Vincent‘s paintings had been assembled in one place， and it was a magnificent sight. Viewing his handwork that day， Vincent radiated joy and confidence. Theo’s new bride， Jo， had heard many tales about her brother-in-law， and found him “strong， with broad shoulders， a healthy color， a gay expression， his entire appearance indicating firm decision.” But it did not take her long to learn what Vincent already knew in his heart， that this was a momentary flash of happiness. Seven years later he had written Theo. “Not only did I begin painting late in life. but it may be that I shall not live for many years， between six and ten， for instance.” Now he was 37 years old， and he felt his time was running out. His creative powers were at their height. He had just filled two years with a concentrated outpouring of genius such as the world of art had rarely seen. His friend Henri de Toulouse-Lartrec had urged him to go south to the ancient city of Arles. Where Lautrec was sure the bright sun and hot colors would liberate the passionate eye of the moody young Dutchman who had amazed and irritated the artists of Paris. In no time Vincent had shaken off the gloomy tones of his early painting and mastered a style of bold， slashing strokes of pure contrasting colors. He had turned out paintings “full of sulfur”， as he said， at a fantastic rate-sometimes more than one a day. He had worked side by side with the artist he admired most， Paul Gauguin， and each had stimulated the other to new and intoxicating discoveries. In addition， Vincent was beginning to make an artistic name for himself. Leading painters of the day-Edgar Degas， Lartrec， Georges Seurat， Camille Pissarro-were offering friendship and encouragement. A leading art critic， Albert Aurier， described Vincent as “this robust and true artist， with the brutal hands of a giant， with the nerves of a hysterical woman， with the soul of a mystic， so original and so alone. He is the only painter who perceives the coloration of things with such intensity， with such a metallic， gem-like quality.”
But it was also at Arles that Vincent showed signs of madness. Over the years there has been endless speculation on the exact nature of Van Gogh‘s illness， ranging from epilepsy and advanced syphilis to manic depression. Recently， however， medical researchers contended that the artist was not mad at all， but suffered from Meniere’s disease， a disorder of the inner ear that affects hearing and balance and causes recurrent vertigo， nausea， hearing loss and a ringing or buzzing in the ear. Whatever the reason for his instability， Vincent was always a man of extremes. He pushed his nervous and emotional enduranceendurance beyond human limits. In Arles he worked all day and often into the night， ate irregularly and inadequately， drank gallons of coffee and absinthe， smoked incessantly. “I admit all that，” he once wrote to Theo， “but at the same time it is true that to attain the high yellow note I attained last summer， I really had to be pretty well keyed up.” To achieve that “yellow note”， he would sit all day out in the boiling cauldron of summertime Arles， “in the full sunshine without any shadow， and I enjoy it like a cicada.”
Continuously existing at a fever pitch， he yawed between euphoria and despair， exuberant self-confidence and stifling self-doubt. （Researchers say the attacks of vertigo from Meniere‘s disease are often interspersed with symptom-free periods.） On December 23， 1888， the balance snapped on the famous occasion when he cut off part of his right ear and delivered it to a prostituteprostitute in a maison de tolerance with the words， “Keep this object carefully.”
His life from then on was a series of recoveries and relapsesrelapse， at unpredictable intervals. The painter Paul Signac， who came to see him one day in the Arles asylum， reported that he found him perfectly sane， but before he left， Vincent had to be restrained from swallowing a bottle of turpentine By the spring of 1890， when he arrived at Theo’s apartment， Vincent had， he hoped， put all that behind him. Perhaps， he thought， the intensity of the south had unsettled him， and he would be better under the familiar gray skies of the north. His friend Pissarro recommended a doctor Gachet， an amateur painter himself， who had taken care of many Parisian artists. Gachet lived in Auvers-sur-Oise about 20 miles north of the city， and he would be delighted to look after Vincent. So Vincent moved to Auvers and found cheap lodgings above a cafe belonging to the Ravoux family， just a few steps from the doctor‘s house. The village quiet pleased him. “It is of a grave beauty.” he wrote Theo， “the real countryside.” Auvers was， and is， perched on a hill， with lovely views of the verdant Oise valley on one side and of immense wheat fields stretching to the horizon on the other.
Doctor Gachet and Vincent took to each other from the start. Vincent found him“something like another brother， so much do we resemble each other physically and mentally.” Gachet was of Flemish origin； he had Vincent’s bony face and flaming red hair and beard. Vincent was also convinced he shared the same tendency to melancholy and nervous instability. Vincent did two versions of a portrait of Gachet， full， he said， of the “broken-hearted expression of our time.” The lean， sorrowful figure slumps in discouragement， holding his head up with an elongated hand， a pale face with sharp features and intense eyes surrounded by the swirhng blur strokes that build up his coat and an amorphousamorphous background， very much a soul adrift.
