I believe that this canvas not only surpasses all my preceding ones, but that I shall never do anything better

This previous post discusses how the French painter Paul Gauguin departed for Tahiti in 1891, in search of a life unaffected by European society. He eventually made some of his best work in Tahiti, including the monumental painting Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? (in French: D'où venons-nous? Que sommes-nous? Où allons-nous), completed at the end of 1897. In the following letter to George-Daniel de Monfreid, a fellow painter and close friend, Gauguin wrote about the painting and the difficult circumstances under which it was created. Struggling with serious health issues, mounting debts, and the recent death of his favourite child Aline, he wanted to make one final artistic statement before taking his own life. However, after completing the painting, Gauguin's attempt to kill himself failed, and he continued to live for several more years. (He eventually died in 1903, at the age of 54; the exact cause of his death is unknown but generally attributed to a combination of health issues, including malaria, heart problems and chronic alcoholism.)

Georges Chaudet and Maxime Maufra, both mentioned in the letter, were part of Gauguin's inner circle. Chaudet was Gauguin's Paris art dealer, who regularly sent him money from the sales of his work; Maufra was a fellow artist and friend, who at times also helped Gauguin financially.

February, 1898.

My dear Daniel:

I did not write you last month, as I had nothing new to say and, besides, I did not have the courage. As soon as the mail-boat came in, having received nothing from Chaudet, and my health being so much better that there was no chance of my dying a natural death, I wanted to kill myself. I went into the mountains, where my body would have been devoured by the ants. I had no revolver, but I had arsenic, which I had saved up while I was so ill with eczema. Whether the dose was too strong, or whether the vomiting counteracted the action of the poison, I don't know; but after a night of terrible suffering I returned home.

All this month I have been troubled by a pressure at my temples, then with fits of dizziness, and I am nauseated at my frugal meals. I received 700 francs from Chaudet this month and 150 from Mauffra; with this I can pay my most pressing debts and go on as before, living a life of misery and of shame until May, when the bank will seize everything that I have and sell it for a miserable sum, including my pictures.

Well, when that happens we shall see about doing something different. I must tell you that my decision was taken for December. But before I died I wished to paint a large canvas that I had in mind, and I worked day and night that whole month in an incredible fever. To be sure it is not done like a Puvis de Chavannes, sketch after nature, preparatory cartoon, etc. It is all done straight from the brush on sackcloth full of knots and wrinkles, so the appearance is terribly rough.

They will say that it is careless, unfinished. It is true that it is hard to judge one’s own work, but in spite of that I believe that this canvas not only surpasses all my preceding ones, but that I shall never do anything better, or even like it. Before death I put in it all my energy, a passion so dolorous, amid circumstances so terrible, and so clear was my vision that the haste of the execution is lost and life surges up. It doesn’t stink of models, of technique, or of pretended rules—of which I have always fought shy, though sometimes with fear.

It is a canvas four metres fifty in width, by one metre seventy in height. The two upper corners are chrome yellow, with an inscription on the left and my name on the right, like a fresco whose corners are spoiled with age, and which is appliquéed upon a golden wall. To the right at the lower end, a sleeping child and three crouching women. Two figures dressed in purple confide their thoughts to one another. An enormous crouching figure, out of all proportion, and intentionally so, raises its arms and stares in astonishment upon these two, who dare to think of their destiny. A figure in the centre is picking fruit. Two cats near a child. A white goat. An idol, its arms mysteriously raised in a sort of rhythm, seems to indicate the Beyond. Then lastly, an old woman nearing death appears to accept everything, to resign herself to her thoughts. She completes the story! At her feet a strange white bird, holding a lizard in its claws, represents the futility of words. It is all on the bank of a river in the woods. In the background the ocean, then the mountains of a neighbouring island. Despite changes of tone, the colouring of the landscape is constant, either blue or Veronese green. The naked figures stand out on it in bold orange. If anyone should tell Beaux Arts pupils for the Rome competitions: “The picture you must paint is to represent, Where do we come from—What Are We—Where are we going?” What would they do?

So I have finished a philosophical work on a theme comparable to that of the Gospel. I think it is good; if I have the strength I will copy it and send it to you.

I’m sending you a rather poor photograph of my double house. The one on the left I use exclusively as a studio. I’ve made it attractive with carved decorations. It’s about twenty metres in length by eight in width, with the small garden that I planted. When they sell me out I don’t want to have to assist at the destruction of my home.

In about two months I think I shall be able to send on the large canvas. I will try to add some others. N __ writes me that the book is no longer published by the Revue Blanche, but will probably be taken up by Charpentier, which is much better from the standpoint of publicity, and therefore of money. I hope that you are taking an interest in it and will do everything necessary.

Who knows whether this book may not give me a lift and help my painting? At least it will not do it any harm.

I am tired of writing, so I close, taking you warmly by the hand.

Yours devotedly,
Paul Gauguin

Note:

Later in 1898, Gauguin sent Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? to de Monfreid in Paris. It was subsequently exhibited at the gallery of the prominent art dealer Ambroise Vollard, along with a number of other Gauguin works. The painting changed hands several times before ending up in the permanent collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Acquired by the museum in 1936, it is regarded today as one of Gauguin's most iconic paintings.