Listen, my friend. I am in a state of terrible excitement. To be more precise, it feels as though I haven’t slept a wink since last night, chasing after the shadow of a certain man. That man’s name is Paul Gauguin. Doesn’t the mere sound of it make you feel as if a South Sea breeze, heavy with a sticky sort of passion, is stroking your cheek? Goodness, the race of artists—why must they be so hopelessly beyond saving, and yet, at the same time, so agonizingly dear to our hearts?
To begin with, looking at the trajectory of Gauguin’s life, I am tempted to fall into the illusion that he is a distant relative of mine—it is a “decadent” masterpiece of a life. Originally, he was quite a respectable member of society, a stockbroker, navigating the world with great aplomb. He had a wife, children, and lived within what one might call “selected happiness,” painting as a hobby on Sundays. But then, look what happens. One day, quite suddenly, he throws it all away. The stocks, the family, the guaranteed meals—everything. The reason? Just one: he wanted to paint. For that alone, he knocked upon the gates of hell of his own volition.
People of the world would say: he is irresponsible, selfish, mad. Yes, certainly, they are right. Even I, if a friend of mine started such a thing, would surely knit my brows and preach to him, saying, “My dear fellow, pray, compose yourself.” Yet, on the other hand, it is a fact that I cannot suppress a searing envy that flickers in the depths of my chest. To burn away reality in order to save one’s own soul—to those of us who lead lives “full of shame,” such an act appears as the only remaining sanctuary. It is a strange thing.
Gauguin grew weary of civilization. The sophisticated cafes of Paris, the calculated trends—to him, these were nothing more than “impurities.” He sought something more, how shall I put it, something primitive, like the roar of a naked life. So, he set off for Tahiti. Seeking that proverbial “paradise.”
However, reality is always a cruel ironist. The Tahiti he reached was already tainted by Christianity and Western civilization; it was no longer the pure, innocent paradise he had dreamed of. There, he suffered from illness, groaned under the weight of poverty, and stood on the brink of despair. Nevertheless, he kept painting. Those yellows, vivid to the point of being poisonous; those burning reds; those sinking purples. The colors dancing on his canvas were no longer the colors of reality, but perhaps the colors of a prayer swirling inside him.
Do you remember that painting of his with the famously long title? “Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?” Oh, what a terrifying, and yet earnest, interrogation. Every time I see this title, I feel as if I might burst into tears. This is not merely a theme for art. It is the cry, close to a scream, that everyone has stuck in their throat on those nights in bed when they are seized by the anxiety that their very existence might vanish.
After finishing this painting, Gauguin attempted suicide by drinking poison. He failed, of course. He wanted to die. But he had to paint. Is this contradiction not the very essence of what it means for a human “to live”? We do not know who we are, we do not know where we are going, and yet, as if hurried by something, we go on painting over our “today.” I believe the reason Gauguin’s paintings grasp our hearts across time and refuse to let go is that they depict not just “beauty,” but our “inescapable solitude” just as it is.
Tell me, did you know? Gauguin once lived with Van Gogh, you know. In Arles, in the south of France. Just imagining the life these two shared makes my stomach tighten. Passion clashing with passion, madness sparking against madness. In the end, the curtain fell with the gruesome conclusion of Van Gogh cutting off his own ear, but I think to myself: perhaps they were mirrors of one another. They found within the other that “monster” which dwells inside oneself, uncontrollable. That is precisely why they loved, and why they hated, each other.
When you gaze steadily at Gauguin’s paintings, you notice a certain cynical quality coexisting with a trembling tenderness. He discarded civilization, but he could not quite discard the anguish of a civilized man. He tried to become a barbarian, but he could not. That “half-heartedness” is exactly what makes him human, and why we cannot bring ourselves to dislike him.
It may be a life far too miserable to be called an “instructive story.” However, when I trace the words and colors he left behind at the very end, I receive a mysterious courage. To throw away the yardsticks of the world and find one’s own “color.” That is the harshest, and yet most sublime, game in this world. Perhaps neither I nor you can go to Tahiti like Gauguin did. But we should be able to search for the “unexplored island” within our own hearts.
Ah, it seems I have spoken too much. When I talk of Gauguin, the words simply overflow and will not stop. He might have been a man who failed. He abandoned his family, lost his friends, and perished in solitude in a foreign land. But those blue shadows he painted, those thick outlines, they continue to shake our souls even now. Isn’t that enough? Success is nothing more than a mere extra that follows later.
Say, won’t you go with me to see his paintings sometime? No, we needn’t go all the way to a museum. Just close your eyes and try to imagine the color of the “red blood” flowing inside you. For that is the only true color that Gauguin risked his life to protect. I, too, think I shall hold this clumsy pen a little longer and try to find the Tahiti within myself. Until next time.