“No, no,” he cried, “there will be no pay. Absolutely no money. We will never see money from one year to the next. Theo will sell the pictures and we will receive our food, shelter, and materials.”
“What about the men whose work never sells?” demanded Seurat. “How long are we going to support them?”
“As long as they want to stay with us and work.”
“Wonderful,” grunted Gauguin. “We’ll have all the amateur painters in Europe on our doorstep.”
“Here’s Monsieur Van Gogh!” shouted Pére Tanguy, catching a sight of Theo as he stood leaning against the door. “Three cheers for our manager.”
“Hurrah for Theo! Hurrah for Theo! Hurrah for Theo!”
Everyone was enormously excited. Rousseau wanted to know if he could still give violin lessons at the colony. Anquetin said he owed three months rent, and that they’d better find the country house very soon. Cezanne insisted that a man be allowed to spend his own money, if he had any. Vincent cried, “No, that would kill our communism. We must all share and share alike.” Lautrec wanted to know if they could have women at the house. Gauguin insisted that everyone be forced to contribute at least two canvases a month.
“Then I won’t come in!” shouted Seurat. “I finish only one big canvas a year.”
“What about materials?” demanded Pére Tanguy. “Do I give everyone the same amount of colour and canvas each week?”
“No, no, of course not,” cried Vincent. “We all get as much material as we need, no more and no less. Just like food.”
“Yes, but what happens to the surplus money? After we begin selling our pictures? Who gets the profits?”
“Nobody gets the profits,” said Vincent. “As soon as we have a little money over, we’ll open a house in Brittany. Then we’ll open another in Provence. Soon we’ll have houses all over the country, and we’ll be travelling from one place to another.”
“What about the railroad fare? Do we get that out of the profits?”
“Yes, and how much can we travel? Who’s to decide that?”
“Suppose there are too many painters for one house during the best season? Who gets left out in the cold, will you tell me?”
“Theo, Theo, you’re the manager of this business. Tell us all about it. Can anyone join? Is there a limit to the membership? Will we have to paint according to any system? Will we have models out there at the house?”
At dawn the meeting broke up. The people downstairs had exhausted themselves rapping on the ceiling with broomsticks. Theo went to bed about four, but Vincent, Pére Tanguy, and some of the more enthusiastic ones surrounded his bed and urged him to give Goupils notice on the first of the month.
The excitement grew in intensity with the passing of the weeks. The art world of Paris was divided into two camps. The established painters spoke of those crazy men, the Van Gogh brothers. All the others spoke endlessly about the new experiment.
Vincent talked and worked like mad all night and day. There were so many thousands of details to be settled; how they were to get the money, where the shop was to be located, how prices were to be charged, what men could belong, who would manage the house in the country and how. Theo, almost against his will, was drawn into the febrile excitement. The apartment on the Rue Lepic was crowded every night of the week. Newspaper men came to get stories. Art critics came to discuss the new movement. Painters from all over France returned to Paris to get into the organization.
If Theo was king, Vincent was the royal organizer. He drew up countless plans, constitutions, budgets, pleas for money, codes of rules and regulations, manifestos for the papers, pamphlets to acquaint Europe with the purpose of the Communist Art Colony.
He was so busy he forgot to paint.
Almost three thousand francs rolled into the coffers of the organization. The painters contributed every last franc they could spare. A street fair was held on the Boulevard Clichy, and each man hawked his own canvases. Letters came in from all over Europe, sometimes containing soiled and crumpled franc notes. Art loving Paris came to the apartment, caught the enthusiasm of the new movement, and threw a bill into the open box before they left. Vincent was secretary and treasurer.
Theo insisted that they must have five thousand francs before they could begin. He had located a shop on the Rue Tronchet which he thought well situated, and Vincent had discovered a superb old mansion in the forest of St. Germain-en-Laye that could be had for almost nothing. The canvases of the painters who wanted to join kept pouring into the Rue Lepic apartment, until there was no space left to move about. Hundreds and hundreds of people went in and out of the little apartment. They argued, fought, cursed, ate, drank, and gesticulated wildly. Theo was given notice to move.
At the end of the month the Louis Philippe furniture was in shreds.
