Van Gogh as Prometheus

8/9/2019 Van Gogh as Prometheus

1/4

Van Gogh as PrometheusAuthor(s): Georges Bataille and Annette MichelsonSource: October, Vol. 36, Georges Bataille: Writings on Laughter, Sacrifice, Nietzsche, Un-Knowing (Spring, 1986), pp. 58-60Published by: The MIT PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/778550

Accessed: 29/06/2010 20:24

Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of JSTOR's Terms and Conditions of Use, available at

http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp. JSTOR's Terms and Conditions of Use provides, in part, that unless

you have obtained prior permission, you may not download an entire issue of a journal or multiple copies of articles, and you

may use content in the JSTOR archive only for your personal, non-commercial use.

Please contact the publisher regarding any further use of this work. Publisher contact information may be obtained at

http://www.jstor.org/action/showPublisher?publisherCode=mitpress.

Each copy of any part of a JSTOR transmission must contain the same copyright notice that appears on the screen or printed

page of such transmission.

JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range of

content in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new forms

of scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected].

The MIT Pressis collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to October.

http://www.jstor.org
http://www.jstor.org/stable/778550?origin=JSTOR-pdfhttp://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsphttp://www.jstor.org/action/showPublisher?publisherCode=mitpresshttp://www.jstor.org/action/showPublisher?publisherCode=mitpresshttp://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsphttp://www.jstor.org/stable/778550?origin=JSTOR-pdf


2/4

Van

Gogh

as

Prometheus

How

is

it that

towering

figures, reassuring

in

their

power

of

persuasion,

emerge

among

us? How is it that within the chaos of infinite

possibility

certain

forms take

shape,

radiating

a

sudden

brilliance,

a

force

of

conviction that

ex-

cludes doubt?

This

would

seem

to

happen

independently

of

the crowd.

It

is

quite

generally

agreed

that

once

one

stops

to

linger

in

contemplation

of a

paint-

ing,

its

significance

in

no

way

depends upon

anyone

else's

assent.

This view

stands,

of

course,

as

a

denial

of

everything

that

obviously

tran-

spires

in front of

canvases

placed

on

exhibition;

the visitor

goes

not

in

search

of

his own

pleasure,

but rather the

judgments expected

of him

by

others.

There

is,

however,

little

point

in

stressing

the

poverty

of most viewers and

readers.

Beyond

the

absurd

limits

of

present

custom and even

through

the rash

confusion

that surrounds

the

paintings

and

the name

of

Van

Gogh,

a

world

can

open-

a world

in which one no

longer spitefully

waves

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, musty

winter coat.

Such

a

person,

coatless,

drifting

with

the crowd-more

in

innocence than

in

contempt-cannot

look

without terror

upon

the

tragic

canvases

as so

many

painful signs,

as the

perceptible

trace

of

Vincent Van

Gogh's

existence. That

person may, however,

then feel

the

greatness

that he

represents,

not

in

himself

alone: he

stumbles still at

every

moment under the

weight

of

shared

misery-

not

in himself

alone,

but insofar as he

is,

in

his

nakedness,

the bearer of

untold

hopes

for

all

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

future

greatness,

the terror felt

by

such a

man

would

become

laughable-laughable,

even,

the

ear,

the

brothel,

and Vincent's

suicide;

did

he not

make human

tragedy

the

sole

object

of his

entire

life,

whether in

cries,

laughter,

love,

or even

struggle?

He must

perforce

marvel

to

the

point

of

laughter

at

that

powerful

magic

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 from his own

head

bearing

it

off

to that

House

(the


3/4

troubling,

crude,

and

childish

image

of the world

we

represent

to

others).

Van

Gogh, who decided by 1882 that it was better to be Prometheus than Jupiter,

tore from within himself

rather than an

ear,

nothing

less

than a

SUN.

Above

all,

human

existence

requires

stability,

the

permanence

of

things.

The

result is an ambivalence with

respect

to

all

great

and violent

expenditure

of

strength;

such

expenditure,

whether

in

nature or in

man,

represents

the

strongest

possible

threat.

The

feelings

of

admiration

and of

ecstasy

induced

by

them thus mean that we are

concerned to admire them

from afar.

The

sun cor-

responds

most

conveniently

to that

prudent

concern. It

is

all

radiance,

gigantic

loss of heat and

of

light,flame,

explosion;

but

remote from

men,

who

can

enjoy

in

safety

and

quiet

the

fruits of this

great

cataclysm.

To

the earth

belongs

the

solidity which sustains houses of stone and the steps of men (at least on its sur-

face,

for

buried

within

the

depths

of the

earth is the

incandescence

of

lava).

Given

the

forgoing,

it must be said

that after

the

night

of

December

'88,

when,

in

the house to which

it

came,

his ear

met a

fate which

remains

unknown

(one

can

only

dimly imagine

the

laughter

and discomfort

which

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

rather

like the sorcerer

whose dance

slowly

rouses the

crowd,

transporting

it in

its

movement. At that moment all

of

his

painting

finally

became

radiation,

explo-

sion,

flame,

and

himself,

lost

in

ecstasy

before

a

source of

radiant

ife,

exploding,

inflamed.When this solar dance began, all at once nature itself was shaken,

plants

burst into

flame,

and the earth

rippled

like a

swift

sea,

or

burst;

of

the

stability

at

the foundation

of

things

nothing

remained.

Death

appeared

in

a

sort

of

transparency,

like the

sun

through

the

blood of

a

living

hand,

in

the

in-

terstices of

the

bones outlined

in

the

darkness.

The

flowers,

bright

or

faded,

the

face of

depressingly

haggard

radiance,

the

Van

Gogh

sunflower -

disquiet?

domination?

-

put

an

end to all

the

power

of

immutable

law,

of

foundations,

of

all

that

confers on

(many)

faces their

repugnant

aspect

of

defensive

closure.

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

tribute to the remote

sovereign

of the

sky,

and the sun is dominant insofar as it

is

captured.

Far from

recognizing

the

distant

power

of

the

heavenly

cataclysm

(as

though only

an

extension

of its

monotonous

surface,

safe

from

change,

had

been

required),

the

earth,

like a

daughter

suddenly

dazzled and

perverted

by

her

father's

debauchery,

in

turn

luxuriates in

cataclysm,

in

explosive

loss

and

brilliance.

It

is

this that

accounts for

the

great,

festive

quality

of

Van

Gogh's

painting.

This

painter,

more than

any

other,

had

that

sense of

flowers

which

also

repre-

sent,

on

earth,

intoxication,

joyous

perversion-flowers

which

burst,

beam,

and dart

their

flaming

heads

into the

very

rays

of

that sun

which

will

wither

them. There is in this

deep

birth such disturbance that it induces

laughter;

how

can

we

ignore

that

chain of

knots which

so

surely

links

ear,

asylum,

sun,

the


4/4

OCTOBER

feast,

and

death?

With the

stroke of a

razor Van

Gogh

cut

off his

ear;

he then

brought it to a brothel he knew. Madness incited him, as a violent dance sus-

tains

a shared

ecstasy.

He

painted

his

finest canvases.

He

remained for

a

while

confined

within an

asylum,

and a

year

and a half after

cutting

off his

ear,

he

killed himself.

When all

has

happened

thus,

what

meaning

remains for art or

criticism?

Can we even

maintain that

in

these

conditions,

art

alone

will

explain

the sound

of

crowds

within the

exhibition halls? Vincent Van

Gogh

belongs

not to art

history,

but to

the

bloody myth

of

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

without which all

that claims to

endure becomes

in-

sipid,

intolerable, declines. For this

boiling point

has

meaning

not

only

for

him

who

attains

it,

but

for

all,

even

though

all

may

notyet perceive

that

which

binds

man's

savage

destiny

to

radiance,

o

explosion,

toflame,

and

only thereby

to

power.

1937

60

Documents

Van Gogh as Prometheus