Van Gogh as Prometheus

Author(s): Georges Bataille and Annette Michelson

Source: October, Vol. 36, Georges Bataille: Writings on Laughter, Sacrifice, Nietzsche,
Un-Knowing (Spring, 1986), pp. 58-60
Published by: MIT Press
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/778550
Accessed: 01-11-2015 15:12 UTC

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 Van Gogh as Prometheus

How is it that toweringfigures,reassuring in theirpower of persuasion,

emerge among us? How is it thatwithinthe chaos of infinitepossibilitycertain
formstake shape, radiating a sudden brilliance, a forceof convictionthat ex-
cludes doubt? This would seem to happen independentlyof the crowd. It is
quite generallyagreed thatonce one stops to lingerin contemplationof a paint-
ing, its significancein no way depends upon anyone else's assent.
This view stands, of course, as a denial of everythingthat obviously tran-
spires in frontof canvases placed on exhibition; the visitorgoes not in search
of his own pleasure, but rather the judgments expected of him by others.
There is, however, little point in stressingthe poverty of most viewers and
readers. Beyond the absurd limitsof presentcustom and even throughthe rash
confusionthatsurroundsthe paintingsand the name ofVan Gogh, a world can
open - a world in whichone no longer spitefullywaves the crowd aside, but our
own world, the world in which, at the arrival of spring, a human being dis-
cards, with a joyous gesture, his heavy, mustywintercoat.
Such a person, coatless, driftingwiththe crowd- more in innocence than
in contempt- cannot look withoutterrorupon the tragiccanvases as so many
painful signs, as the perceptibletrace of Vincent Van Gogh's existence. That
person may, however, then feelthe greatnessthathe represents,not in himself
alone: he stumbles stillat every moment under the weightof shared misery-
not in himselfalone, but insofaras he is, in his nakedness, the bearer of untold
hopes forall those who desire life and who desire, as well, to rid the earth, if
necessary, of the power of that which bears no resemblance to him. Imbued
with this wholly futuregreatness,the terrorfeltby such a man would become
laughable - laughable, even, the ear, the brothel,and "Vincent's"suicide; did
he not make human tragedythe sole object of his entirelife,whetherin cries,
laughter, love, or even struggle?
He must perforcemarvel to the point of laughter at that powerfulmagic
for which savages would, no doubt, require an entire drunken crowd, sus-
tained clamor, and the beating of many drums. For it was no mere bloody ear
that Van Gogh detached fromhis own head bearing it offto that "House" (the

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troubling,crude, and childishimage of the world we representto others). Van
Gogh, who decided by 1882 that it was betterto be Prometheus thanJupiter,
tore fromwithinhimselfratherthan an ear, nothingless than a SUN.
Above all, human existence requires stability,the permanence of things.
The resultis an ambivalence withrespectto all greatand violentexpenditureof
strength; such expenditure, whether in nature or in man, represents the
strongestpossible threat.The feelingsof admiration and of ecstasy induced by
themthus mean thatwe are concerned to admire them fromafar. The sun cor-
responds most convenientlyto that prudent concern. It is all radiance,gigantic
loss of heat and oflight,fame, explosion;but remotefrommen, who can enjoy in
safetyand quiet the fruitsof this great cataclysm. To the earth belongs the
soliditywhich sustains houses of stone and the steps of men (at least on its sur-
face, forburied withinthe depths of the earth is the incandescence of lava).
Given the forgoing,it must be said that afterthe nightof December '88,
when, in the house to which it came, his ear met a fatewhich remains unknown
(one can only dimlyimagine the laughterand discomfortwhich preceded some
unknown decision), Van Gogh began to give to the sun a meaning which it had
not yet had. He did not introduce it into his canvases as part of a decor, but
ratherlike the sorcererwhose dance slowlyrouses the crowd, transportingit in
its movement.At thatmomentall of his paintingfinallybecame radiation, explo-
sion,flame,and himself,lost in ecstasy beforea source of radiantlife, exploding,
inflamed. When this solar dance began, all at once nature itselfwas shaken,
plants burst into flame, and the earth rippled like a swiftsea, or burst; of the
stability at the foundation of things nothing remained. Death appeared in a
sortof transparency,like the sun throughthe blood of a livinghand, in the in-
tersticesof the bones outlined in the darkness. The flowers,brightor faded, the
face of depressinglyhaggard radiance, the Van Gogh "sunflower"-disquiet?
domination?- put an end to all the power of immutablelaw, of foundations,of
all that conferson (many) faces their repugnant aspect of defensiveclosure.
This singular election of the sun must not, however, induce absurd error;
Van Gogh's canvases do not- any more than Prometheus's flight- form a
tributeto the remotesovereignof the sky,and the sun is dominant insofaras it
is captured. Far fromrecognizingthe distantpower of the heavenly cataclysm
(as thoughonly an extensionof its monotonous surface,safe fromchange, had
been required), the earth, like a daughter suddenly dazzled and pervertedby
her father'sdebauchery, in turn luxuriates in cataclysm, in explosive loss and
brilliance.
It is thisthataccounts forthe great,festivequality ofVan Gogh's painting.
This painter, more than any other, had that sense of flowerswhich also repre-
sent, on earth, intoxication,joyous perversion--flowerswhich burst, beam,
and dart their flamingheads into the very rays of that sun which will wither
them. There is in thisdeep birthsuch disturbancethatit induces laughter;how
can we ignore that chain of knots which so surelylinks ear, asylum, sun, the

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60 OCTOBER

feast,and death? With the strokeof a razor Van Gogh cut offhis ear; he then
broughtit to a brothelhe knew. Madness incited him, as a violent dance sus-
tains a shared ecstasy. He painted his finestcanvases. He remained fora while
confinedwithinan asylum, and a year and a half aftercuttingoffhis ear, he
killed himself.
When all has happened thus, what meaning remains forart or criticism?
Can we even maintain that in these conditions,art alone will explain the sound
of crowds within the exhibitionhalls? Vincent Van Gogh belongs not to art
history,but to the bloody mythof our existence as humans. He is of that rare
company who, in a world spellbound by stability,by sleep, suddenly reached
the terrible"boiling point"withoutwhich all that claims to endure becomes in-
sipid, intolerable, declines. For this "boiling point" has meaning not only for
him who attains it, but forall, even though all may notyetperceive that which
binds man's savage destinyto radiance,to explosion, toflame,and only therebyto
power.

1937

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