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Van Gogh Museum Journal 1999 (1999)

Van Gogh Museum Journal 1999

(1999)– [tijdschrift] Van Gogh Museum Journal–rechtenstatus Auteursrechtelijk beschermd

Vorige Volgende


illustratie
fig. 1
Vincent van Gogh, Alexander Reid in an easy chair, 1887 (F 270 JH 1207), Oklahoma City, Collection of Mrs Aaron Weitzenhoffer


Displaying Van Gogh, 1886-1999
Andreas Blühm+

‘Let the museum curators and administrators do as they like; they are slaves to fashion, and one trend is not worse than the other. I have retained the most wonderful and lasting memories of the works of art from all my visits to museums and galleries, but I do not remember how they were classified, grouped or framed, or the colour of the walls on which they were hung.’

- André Fontainas 1937

 

Once it has left the easel, a painting is never the same again. Environments, lighting and perception all change over time, and with them the work of art. How a picture has been displayed in the past can thus tell us much about the history of its reception. It is therefore all the more surprising that art historians have regularly failed to address this important aspect in their studies.1 This is not due to a paucity of sources, but rather to a lack of interest. Scholars often examine the social and theoretical context in which a particular work has been created, but generally ignore its immediate surroundings.

Before the 19th century, a painter could be relatively certain about his work's final destination, particularly if it was a commission. Its eventual place of display was a factor that had to be taken into account. Once the free market began to develop into art's most important forum, however, the artist's chances of influencing his picture's fate diminished. This was already the case in the Netherlands in the 17th century. During the course of the 19th century, the market became increasingly dominant, with the result that traditional locations for works of art - churches, palaces, academies and the Salon - soon lost their relevance altogether.

Presentation was a matter of great importance to artists, as we know from their numerous complaints regarding the hanging of annual exhibitions, where the available walls were literally covered with pictures. The impressionists rejected not only the Salon juries' selection criteria, but also their principles of display. Fully aware of the commodity value of art, they took matters into their own hands, systematically developing new ways of showing their paintings. Martha Ward's pioneering Art Bulletin article, published in 1991, gives an excellent overview of the changes in exhibition practice that began to take place in the 1870s.2 Ward draws a parallel between the liberalism of

the Third Republic and artistic individualism, whereby painters sought to raise their work above the mass of consumer goods by hanging them in such a way that their uniqueness came to the fore. The impressionists' unusual coloured frames and tinted exhibition walls lent an additional aura to works whose highly ‘personal’ execution already bore witness to a certain self-assuredness. Most importantly, the impressionists recognised the necessity of proper display, which by now had become a central artistic concern.3

Beginning around the middle of the century, exhibitions, galleries and domestic interiors had been joined by a new venue - one which was to become increasingly important: the museum. Public collections, which slowly but surely began to develop an interest in contemporary art, pursued completely different goals than their private counterparts, and their influence should not be underestimated. The traditional patron was soon joined by a class of professional connoisseurs, critics and historians, who looked at art from a very different perspective and sought to classify it systematically. Then there was the anonymous public - amateurs, the merely curious, potential buyers. This multiplication of sites and audiences offered the artist first and foremost a greater freedom of choice. It created new opportunities, but was also potentially dangerous. Artists were suddenly faced with pressing questions: for whom were they painting? Where would their pictures eventually be shown? Every decision in favour of a certain form of presentation was also, necessarily, a decision against another. The risk for the ‘artist-entrepreneur’ was thus greater than ever before.

Van Gogh as viewer

In his struggle for recognition, Vincent van Gogh never looked at art exclusively from the perspective of the maker, but from that of the recipient and consumer as well. Not only was he the nephew of three art dealers and the brother of a fourth, he had also been employed at Goupil's in The Hague, Paris and London (1869-76). In contrast to most other artists, he was thus able to familiarise himself professionally with the wishes of his potential clients. As is well known, Van Gogh made no secret of the fact that their taste and his had nothing in common - which surely did little to advance his career. Even after he had left the business, however, gallery windows remained one of his most important sources of information on contemporary painting. In addition, he was a dedicated museum-goer, visiting the collections of Old Masters in Amsterdam, Antwerp, Brussels, The Hague, London and Paris. During his first years in the French capital (1874-76) the newly-opened Musée du Luxembourg - the temple of modern art - was also a major attraction.

Ronald Pickvance has examined the relevant passages in Van Gogh's letters and come to the conclusion that, although he frequently refers to museum visits, no real pattern of behaviour can be established.4 Interesting, too, is Pickvance's observation that Van Gogh went to museums more often before he decided to become a painter than after. He found a welcome diversion in art, particularly during his theology studies in Amsterdam (from May 1877) - which certainly contributed to his failing to complete his courses. Johanna van Gogh-Bonger reports that at the time there was even some discussion within the family of Vincent making a career in the museum world.5

As to the frequency of Van Gogh's museum visits, the dearth of letters from the Paris period makes it difficult to make a sound judgement. When he unexpectedly arrived in the French capital at the beginning of March 1886 it was certainly no coincidence that he asked Theo to pick him up at the Salon Carré of the Louvre. In the months that followed Vincent made numerous studies of the museum's treasures, and his drawings after Egyptian sculpture demonstrate the breadth of his interests. After its reopening in April of the same year, the Musée du Luxembourg

once again became a favourite haunt. In the provinces - whether Drenthe or the south of France - and without money to travel, however, there were few opportunities to see original works of art. Only once, in December 1888 and in the company of Gauguin, did Van Gogh venture from Arles to Montpellier to visit what is now the Musée Fabre. Months later, he was still making use of what he had seen.6

A true picture of Vincent's artistic preferences can hardly be gleaned simply from the passages in his correspondence devoted to museums. His comments on installations are even more cursory, although he was by no means uninterested in them. On 28 January 1873, in one of his first surviving letters, he wrote to Theo regarding Amsterdam's plans for a new, larger Rijksmuseum: ‘It will be a good thing: the Trippenhuis is too small and the pictures are hung so that one can't look at them properly’ [4/4.]. To Theo, however, the end results were less than satisfactory. His friend Andries Bonger reports on their joint visit to the Louvre and the favourable impression it had made on them when compared to the Rijksmuseum: ‘As we entered the room with the bronze casts [...] we let out a cry: how calm and dignified everything appeared in comparison to those tastelessly decorated rooms in Amsterdam's museum! What a shame that such a huge project is a failure. It will stand for centuries, [...] an annoyance for all posterity.’7 But even the Louvre was not left uncriticised. In a letter to Vincent of 9 February 1890, Theo describes the rehanging of the Dutch Old Masters, concluding: ‘Anyway, they've finally made some changes - it was about time’ [853/T28].

These remarks might surprise today's viewer of historical photographs of museum interiors, in which the installations always look more or less alike: the pictures hung frame to frame, three or more rows high. However, museum hangings were not only different from those of exhibitions and galleries, they were also more differentiated. The arrangements - according to epoch, school, subject matter, artist and format - were frequently subject to alteration, reflecting new points of view or changing taste. The close proximity of the works to one another was not felt to be disturbing - or even worth commenting upon - until alternatives had been tried.

Art galleries sought to give visitors the feeling of being welcomed into a palace or great house, or to recreate the kind of bourgeois domestic interior for which the pictures were, finally, intended. But there were also enormous differences between the various exhibitions, despite their ‘wallpaper’ hangings: at the Salon, for example, works were arranged alphabetically, while at the Exposition Universelle they were divided into sections according to nationality. Situations which at first glance look remarkably similar were experienced as quite various by contemporaries.8

Even more than museums, it was through exhibitions that Van Gogh came in to contact with contemporary art. Between March 1886 and February 1888 there were at least 20 shows - and quite possibly many more - that would have attracted his attention. It is hard to imagine that an insatiably curious artist like Van Gogh would have missed a single Salon, or any of the numerous shows held by the impressionists, indépendants, incohérents or at the progressive galleries. In May 1886, for example, he could have visited the eighth and last impressionist exhibition.9 Before moving to Paris, he had no first-hand knowledge of the these painters' works. The incredible speed with which he absorbed elements of the most recent artistic trends is evident in the development of his own style, and bears witness to the profound impact the modernists had made on him.

In comparison to its predecessors, the final impressionist show was arranged in a rather sober manner, which - as many contemporaries noted - was to the benefit of the works on. For Van Gogh, however, the installation must have been new and exciting. While still in the Netherlands he made (often quite detailed) remarks on mounts, frames

and walls, as well on combinations of his own paintings. There are numerous passages regarding the background colours that would work best with his pictures, on the use of gray mats for the early Hague drawings [215/186] and on acquiring gold frames for the peasant studies and The potato eaters (Amsterdam, Van Gogh Museum): ‘[they would] look just as good against a wall papered the deep colour of ripe wheat’ [501/404].

Van Gogh as exhibition organiser

After a year in Paris, in March 1887, Van Gogh began to organise his own exhibitions. We do not know whether the experiments of the impressionists had any effect on the installations. In Agostina Segatori's Café du Tambourin Vincent first put up a display of Japanese woodcuts and later one of his own works. The enterprises were a commercial disaster, whether due to the choice of pictures, the presentation or the location is unclear. These failures did not, however, prevent Van Gogh from trying again, this time at the Grand Bouillon, Restaurant du Châlet, on the Avenue de Clichy. The participants this time included Bernard, Anquetin, Arnold Koning and Toulouse-Lautrec, and perhaps Gauguin, Pissarro and Guillaumin. The show did not attract a large audience, but a few items were sold. In December 1887, finally, Van Gogh, Seurat and Signac showed together in the rehearsal room of the Théâatre Libre d'Antoine. Nothing is known of the installation.10 Due to the location and a lack of funds there was probably little opportunity for ‘extras,’ such as painting the walls in appropriate colours.

As far as the hanging of pictures in general was concerned, Vincent could naturally take lessons from his brother Theo, or help him with the formulation and execution of his ideas. As manager of a branch of Boussod, Valadon & Cie., Theo had been an active art professional for many years. Of the 12 exhibitions he held at the gallery, two date from before Vincent's departure for the south. In December 1887, he showed works by Gauguin, Guillaumin and Pissarro, and in January 1888 pictures by Degas and Gauguin. Unfortunately, we do not know if, or in what way, Theo's hangings differed from those normally seen at the firm's other venues. In 1890, however, he had electric light installed and allowed Raffaëlli to cover the walls with brightly coloured fabrics.11 There is yet another indication of the special interest the Van Gogh brothers took in the newest ideas about arranging pictures: it is no accident that the only painting Vincent dedicated to his brother is also the only one in his oeuvre with a specially designed frame, namely the Still life with fruit of 1887 (Amsterdam, Van Gogh Museum).12

Interiors

The efforts of the impressionists and other progressive artists to extend pictorial space did not end with the frame. The painting's surroundings were increasingly considered as well. The interior - apartment, exhibition hall or gallery - became an integral part of the work of art and vice versa. For Van Gogh, interior and artwork were one, or at the very least should be carefully attuned to one another. Vincent believed that impressionist painting, like the work of the Dutch Old Masters, only came into its own when seen in the proper setting: ‘Just as an interior is unfinished without a work of art, so a painting is incomplete if it fails to form a whole with its unique environment, which must be related to the period in which the work was created’ [781/594].13

Van Gogh's own interior was chiefly his studio. His modest means left him with little choice but to hang reproductions and his own studies on the wall, tacked up with drawing pins. However, these woodcuts and lithographs clipped from magazines had more than a merely decorative function: Van Gogh used this poor man's private collection to bolster his visual memory. In Antwerp, he also began to add Japanese prints. Finally, in Saint-Rémy, he painted

copies after reproductions of paintings by Millet, Delacroix and Rembrandt; as a motive for this exercise he noted that he simply did not wish to be surrounded by nothing but his own works [805/W14].14

Albeit to a lesser extent, Van Gogh was also concerned with decoration of the homes of those closest to him. Members of his family were his most obvious ‘customers,’ and he made copies of his works so that his sisters, too, could build up a collection. Likewise, in expectation of Gauguin's arrival in Arles, the decoration of the Yellow House became a central concern. The ‘studio of the south’ was designed to offer his friend, and those whom Vincent hoped would follow, an appropriate accommodation.

The desire to create a decorative furnishing for the interior was an important incentive to his creative work, particularly in the later period.15 In principle, Van Gogh's concern for decoration - which he shared with other avant-garde painters, such as Monet, Bernard and Seurat - was not unlike that of more established artists. Even the proponents of historical revivalism had called for the stylistic unity of interiors and had sought to realise this idea in their buildings. The younger men simply followed other models and used them in original ways. The new generation of artists, too, endeavoured to put their novel formal inventions to functional use. From Lucien Pissarro they learned first hand about the new schools in England striving to bring fine and applied art together, and which appeared to have succeeded in uniting the modern aesthetic with practical applications. For both Van Gogh and his friends, the driving force behind this interest in decoration was certainly the need to give some deeper meaning to their activities and poverty-stricken lives, a deep-seated wish to see their much-criticised art become part of society as a whole. Van Gogh, with his cycles, series and decorations, was thus hardly alone in his desire to see his art in an integrated spatial context. The place of the picture thus came to have an importance equal to that of the picture itself.

Theo's apartment

When Theo was looking for a flat for himself and his young wife Johanna, his main concerns were somewhat more banal, but he, too, sought to arrange his immediate surroundings in an aesthetically pleasing way. Since his motives and criteria were surely not any different from those of his contemporaries - or, for that matter, from those of newlyweds today - it might seem pointless to subject his inventory to a critical examination were it not for the large number of his brother's paintings it included. The dozens of Van Goghs - works from all phases of his career - must have given the otherwise typically bourgeois interior a very special quality. The pictures belonged to Theo, given in exchange for his regular financial support. Unfortunately, despite all the letters, the sources are so meagre that we cannot even be certain what he actually thought of them. We do know, however, that they were not merely stacked against the wall or under the bed, although only a handful of documents give us an indication of which paintings hung where and why.

The only visual record of Theo's living quarters comes from the period when Vincent was staying with him in the Rue Lepic. It shows the brothers' friend, the art dealer Alexander Reid, seated in an armchair (fig. 1).16 The portrait is closely cropped, but three pictures can still be made out in the background: two by the American painter Frank Myers Boggs, now in the Van Gogh Museum, with, between them, a barely identifiable study of a peasant's head by Van Gogh.17 This symmetrical arrangement seems to indicate a kind of system, although it is unclear what the relationship between the works is supposed to be. Perhaps the combination was meant to exemplify the common bond between artists, both these two in particular and all those of similar opinions.

In 1889, when Theo went about furnishing his future family's apartment in the Cité Pigalle, Johanna was still in Holland. This separation, as unfortunate as it was,

did, however, necessitate written correspondence, giving us a glimpse of the nest-building process. On 14 March 1889, he wrote Johanna detailing his activities. Particularly interesting is the passage in which he describes how he plans to hang his brother's pictures: ‘I'm going to hang all the paintings with dark or gold frames in the dining room. In the living room will be the ones with the slender, very simple white frames, which hardly take up any space at all, and then only a few in the bedroom. In the hallway there will be some drawings. It's not possible to find a good place for everything just yet, but we can change it bit by bit later, until everything is seen at its best.’18 What is astonishing here is the importance given to the frames; the pictures themselves, their size, colours and subject matter, appear to have played only a subordinate role.

The first exhibition

For both brothers, the way pictures were hung in exhibitions was more important than how they were displayed in the private sphere. Theo and Vincent had detailed discussions regarding the letter's contributions to various exhibitions. Vincent was well aware of how paintings could change depending on their ‘neighbours’: in a letter of June 1888 he describes how one of his new pictures had simply overwhelmed all the others [627/497]. By the same token, however, certain pictures, when placed together, could enhance each other. According to Van Gogh, this was true not only of paintings conceived as series or pendants, and not only of his own work. For example, he wanted to see his Portrait of Patience Escalier (Pasadena, Norton Simon Museum) next to Toulouse-Lautrec's likeness of Suzanne Valadon (Poudre de riz, Amsterdam, Van Gogh Museum, Vincent van Gogh Foundation), which belonged to Theo: ‘I don't think my peasant would do your Lautrec any harm, and I would even go so far as to say that the simultaneous contrast would make the latter seem even more distinguished; mine, too, would improve through this unusual combination, because his tanned skin would stand out even more when seen next to her white complexion, the powder and her toilette chic’ [663/520].

For the 1888 exhibition of the Société des Artistes Indépendantes, the brothers chose works with related themes: the pendants Vue de Montmartre (f 316 jh 1246) and Jardins potagers à Montmartre: la Butte Montmartre (f 350 jh 1245), as well as Romans parisiens (f 359 jh 1332). In November 1889, Van Gogh received an invitation from

illustratie
fig. 2
Vincent van Gogh, sketch on the back of a letter from Octave Maus showing the hanging plan, 15 November 1889 [820/-], Amsterdam, Van Gogh Museum (Vincent van Gogh Foundation)


Octave Maus to participate in the sixth Les Vingt exhibition, which was to take place in Brussels from 18 January to 23 February 1890. The only restriction was the length of the wall, a limitation with which Van Gogh was naturally unhappy. Officially, he was given four metres, although in a letter from 16 November 1889 [821/T20] Theo speaks of five to seven metres. On the back of his invitation Van Gogh drew a hanging plan, the only one we know by his hand (fig. 2). In a letter to Theo he detailed the works to be sent [822/614]: two versions of the Sunflowers (as pendants); a picture of ivy with a vertical format, a blossoming orchard, a red vineyard, and a wheatfield with a rising sun - all relatively new, accomplished, and highly colourful works.19 He confirmed his choice to Maus and apologised for probably having gone beyond the wall space allotted. These paintings, Van Gogh wrote, would give ‘un effet de couleur un peu varié’ [823/614b].20 He arranged the work symmetrically: orchard-sunflowers-ivy-sunflowers-wheatfield, with the red vineyard hanging below, like a predella on a winged altar. Motifs relating to work in the fields thus surround and support the still lifes with, in the centre, the view of the park and bench, inviting the viewer to rest.

It is not known what became of Vincent's plan, whether it was carried out or not. There are no surviving photographs, and the contemporary criticism offers no clues. It can be assumed, however, that the artist's wishes were respected, at least to a certain extent. The exhibition catalogue lists the pictures in the order Van Gogh communicated them to Maus, and with the same titles:



illustratie
fig. 3
Works by Van Gogh at the Association pour l'Art exhibition, Antwerp 1892


‘Tournesols, Le lierre, Verger en fleurs (Arles), Champ de blé, soleil levant (Saint-Rémy), La Vigne rouge (Mont-Major).’ Nonetheless, it is now impossible to analyse the colour effects, not only because we have no idea which versions of the Sunflowers were shown, but also because two of the other four paintings are known only from black and white photographs. In general, though, it seems safe to say that for Van Gogh simply contrasting colours within one composition was not enough; part of his artistic strategy was that the paintings in combination should also relate to one another.

1890 to the First World War

Vincent died only six months after the opening of the Les Vingt exhibition in Brussels. In the aftermath, Theo initially sought to organise a memorial exhibition at Durand-Ruel's, but his idea was rejected. There was no other choice but to hold the show in his own apartment. Theo, now himself already weakened by serious illness, asked Emile Bernard to help with the installation. The two men distributed around 100 pictures throughout the rooms, where they remained for several months, more or less ignored by the public. On 31 December 1890 the correspondent for the Algemeen Handelsblad, Johan de Meester, reported that a small number of Dutch citizens had come together to admire Van Gogh's oeuvre ‘in the darkened rooms of an uninhabited apartment in Montmartre.’ Despite the fact that they were displayed in ‘an uncomfortable, cold space,’ the works on show made such an impression on the author that he hoped the artist's native country would soon take notice of one of its greatest sons.21

As an ‘artist's artist,’ Van Gogh had had some influence on his contemporaries even during his lifetime. How well he was known in progressive circles is demonstrated by the fact that his death was followed by a rash of posthumous invitations to take part in exhibitions. Following Theo's demise, Johanna proved tireless in fulfilling these numerous requests.22 No exhibition of the European avant-garde could do without its share of Van Goghs.

The earliest surviving photograph of a Van Gogh installation dates from 1892 and shows the exhibition of the Association pour l'Art in Antwerp (fig. 3).23 The list of works in the catalogue does not correspond exactly to those illustrated: ‘feu Vincent Van Gogh 1. Fleurs, 2. Abricotier, 3. Tournesol, 4. Nuit étoilée (Rhône près d'Arles), 5. Lierre, 6. Café de nuit, 7. Vue, Meditérranée, 8. Moissioneurs (Saint-Rémy), 9. Id. Id., Dessins: 10. Fontaine, 11. Jardin, 12. Bateaux.’24 Considering that exhibition makers at the time were generally unconcerned with issues of rhythm or dramatic presentation, this rather crowded arrangement was certainly not unusual. There seems to be no systematic organisation according to date, subject or colour.

In Van Gogh's native country, artists like Jan Toorop and R.N. Roland Holst, as well as the painter-critic Jan Veth, took up his cause. Roland Holst, for example, was responsible for an exhibition at the Kunstzaal Panorama in Amsterdam in 1892 which included 112 works. The manager of the gallery, Christiaan van Kesteren, sent Jo a floorplan to help her prepare the hanging. Holst was particularly concerned about the installation: he rejected the use of highly-decorated gold frames out of hand,25 and even borrowed the fabric that had been used in Antwerp to create an appropriate backdrop. Since not enough was available, he took up Henry van de Velde's offer to purchase more.26

At the Kunstzaal Panorama the pictures were arranged primarily according to their dominant colours, the blue-toned ones on the left, the yellower ones on the right, with the orchard paintings in between.27 This exhibition was revolutionary in other ways, too: Holst divided the paintings according the places where Van Gogh had lived and worked. He found it far more important to give the year and location than to invent titles for the paintings.28 The care taken with the installation proved to be worth the effort. The exhibition was a success with both the critics and the public. The Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant (or NRC) praised the choice of works and the arrangement, criticising only the lighting.29

For the Parisian art scene, the retrospective held at the Galerie Bernheim-Jeune (15-31 March 1901) was the first important Van Gogh event. 71 works were on display, among them - as later became known - several false attributions. Here, however, if one is to believe the correspondent of the NRC, the paintings had to hold their own in a ‘sloppy installation.’30 Although this statement gives little real information it does demonstrate the critics' growing awareness of this important aspect of exhibitions.

The most influential of the early one-man shows was certainly the retrospective held at the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam in 1905. No fewer than 474 pictures were on view. Both the critics and the public appear to have been overwhelmed by this huge number. As with most of the other exhibitions at this stage, no photographs of the installation are known, although the review in Onze Kunst reveals that the organisers had carried out their work with exceptional care: ‘The exhibition itself was superbly arranged. The sensitive hanging, which everywhere took account of the decorative effect on the whole wall, was in excellent taste. The same can be said of the choice of frames, although the effect was somewhat spoiled by a few of the older ones, to which the depraved and severe air of the modern German galleries seemed to cling. The problem of installing the difficult long wall in the main gallery was brilliantly solved by a strong arrangement, with a glorious central image formed by the radiant blue-orange self-portrait with two amber-yellow sunflower still lifes at either side. This wall, containing Vincent's late work, the pictures in his manière claire, gave off a brilliant shine, which was reflected, now more silvery and quiet, on the flanking and facing walls. When one considers the bathroom-like colour of the walls and the deathly black of the panelling then what has been achieved here is truly remarkable.’31

As at the Panorama gallery show of 1892 the most important geographical stations in the artist's life established the hanging's connecting thread: Nuenen, Paris, Arles, Saint-Rémy, Auvers - an organisational principle still found in the Van Gogh Museum today. The separation of Arles and Saint-Rémy - which could have been joined col-

lectively under the rubric ‘Provence’ - particularly emphasised the spiritus loci. With the publication of the letters, which had already begun in 1893 with Emile Bernard's series of articles in the Mercure de France, Van Gogh's life and work were increasingly seen as one. In 1905, the artist was transformed into an historical figure, and this metamorphosis was given expression in the Stedelijk's installation. Not only did many younger artists now recognise him as a father figure, the exhibition also marked his break-through with the general public and was thus extremely significant for the future.

In its show of over 100 works, the so-called ‘Internationale Kunstausstellung des Sonderbundes Westdeutscher Kunslfreunde und Künstler zu Cöln 1912’ stressed Van Gogh's role as a pioneer of the modernist movement (fig. 4).32 Here, at perhaps the most important exhibition of contemporary art to take place on the eve of the First World War - where cosmopolitanism was mixed with dangerous elements of nationalism - Van Gogh was forced to play the role of mediator between the French and German ‘spirit.’ This conflict was typical of the period and of Expressionism in particular, a movement that had just passed its zenith and that looked to Van Gogh for historical legitimation.

The installation broke new ground, and was meant to give form to a new way of thinking. Five rooms were devoted to Van Gogh, four of them located on the building's middle axis, with a central, octagonal gallery around which the rest of modern art circled as around a fixed pole. The fifth room was placed in the middle of the German and Scandinavian sections - rather than near Gauguin and Cézanne - as if to demonstrate the Dutchman's affinities with the Germanic world.33



illustratie
fig. 4
Works by Van Gogh at the Internationale Kunstausstellung des Sonderbundes Westdeutscher Kunstfreunde und Künstler, Cologne 1912


All the rooms were painted white, so that the pictures - as the Kölnische Zeitung wrote on 24 May - were given ‘a uniform background.’ In this way, contemporary democratic ideals were applied to art. The paintings were mostly hung in a single row, with the occasional work placed above. The bottom edges were aligned, a not entirely new principle probably dating from the Salon era when a dado had determined the wall's lowest perimeter. Even without panelling, this style remained current until the late 1920s (and sometimes even into the 50s) when pictures began to be hung at average eye-level. As in Amsterdam in 1905, the paintings were hung rhythmically and in a symmetrical arrangement.34

One year later, the legendary Armory Show introduced the New York public to the European avant-garde.



illustratie
fig. 5
Works by Van Gogh and Cézanne at the Art Institute of Chicago, 1913, from Milton W. Brown, The story of the Armory Show, New York 1988


With only 18 works, Van Gogh was much less strongly represented here than in Cologne, although it should he noted that a large number of these loans already came from American private collections. The exhibition was organised and installed with a speed that can hardly be imagined today: 1,300 works were hung in the space of only two days. Artists were given more or less isolated stands. In New York, Van Gogh shared space with Cézanne; at the exhibition's second venue - the Art Institute of Chicago - Gauguin was added, thus returning the artist to the French context. We have photographs only of this latter exhibit, which show the pictures hung close together in two rows (fig. 5).35

The Art Institute installation appears to have had no internal or decorative scheme; the same was true of the 1914 exhibition in Antwerp ‘Kunst van heden’ (fig. 6). Here, too, Van Gogh played a major role, with dozens of paintings on display. From the surviving photograph of the hanging there appears to be no system and no relationship between the individual pictures. Interesting, however, is the group of self-portraits at the right, which are arranged as a kind of altar. Here, too, we find the same emotionalism as in Amsterdam and Cologne, with the cult around Van Gogh's person being reinforced by the installation.

From avant-garde artist to Old Master

The exhibition-makers of the 1920s and 30s continued in the tradition of their predecessors. In the wake of the Suprematists and Marcel Duchamp innovation would have been difficult, if not impossible and, with the exception of their revolutionary experiments, ‘linear’ presentation (to borrow Germano Celant's term) remained standard. According to Celant, this type of hanging stresses the aura of the original and replaced the ‘quantitative method’ of the second half of the 19th century.36 One possible exception may have been the Van Gogh installations

There were few large-scale Van Gogh retrospectives during the interwar period. The first such notable event was the exhibition ‘Van Gogh en zijn tijdgenoten,’ which took place at the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam in 1930 (fig. 7). According to the keynote speaker, the head of the municipal council on culture, Polak, the show was meant as compensation for the artist, who had remained unrecognised during his lifetime.37 What little evidence we have suggests that the works were aligned along their bottom edges and hung against light-coloured walls. The distance between the works was not much greater than the breadth of two frames. As the German critic Walter Cohen reported, the Van Gogh's pictures were positively ‘boxed in by the work of his artistic ancestors and contemporaries,’ the viewer being offered almost too much of a good thing. In his review, he spoke of ‘the noble Dutch penchant for completeness,’ which in this case resulted in the same feeling of satiety caused by ‘almost every Dutch meal.’ On the other hand, ‘since the aim was to reveal both the source and effect of Vincent's art,’ this type of extensive presentation was probably the most appropriate. Cohen also looked back over the history of Van Gogh exhibitions, reminiscing on the now ‘historical’ Sonderbund show of 1912. In contrast to earlier events, the viewer in Amsterdam saw not only the famous works of Vincent's last four years, but also the ‘terribly heavy and labourious [paintings] of his Dutch-Belgian period.’ These pictures, however, did nothing but arouse the critic's pity.38

Paris, 1937

During the 1937 Exposition Universelle in Paris a portion of the new Palais de Tokyo was devoted to an largescale Van Gogh retrospective (figs. 8 and 9). The hanging, wall colour and framing were controversial, but it was the extra room containing documents, newspaper clippings, photographs of the places Van Gogh had worked (taken by John Rewald39), and panels with texts pertaining to the painter's life and philosophy which provoked the fiercest



illustratie
fig. 6
Works by Van Gogh at the ‘Kunst van heden’ exhibition, Antwerp 1914


response. These reactions, both positive and negative, reflected not only current museological debates, but also the status Van Gogh had now achieved among both specialists and the general public.40

The facts are simple enough: the exhibition was installed in the right wing of the new museum for modern art, while the left wing was occupied by an overview of art in France since the Middle Ages. Clearly, the Dutchman Van Gogh could not be included in this show; nonetheless, he was considered a quintessential representative of French art and so was given his own rooms. In addition, the exhibition was part of a trilogy designed to acquaint the visitor with the latest ideas in museology: the Van Gogh show exemplified the art museum, the ‘French theatre in the Middle Ages’ the historical museum, and the ‘Peasant dwelling in France’ the ethnological museum. The aim of



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fig. 7
Van Gogh exhibition at the Stedelijk Museum, Amsterdam 1930, from Algemeen Handelsblad (7 September 1930)


this enterprise was to answer a number of questions pertaining to the meaning and purpose of museums in general and to their ideal target group - the cultivated elite, the uneducated masses, or both.

Over the years, René Huyghe, curator of paintings at the Louvre and spiritus rector of the Van Gogh exhibition,41 had been responsible for various museological innovations, some of which he had been forced to eloquently defend. For the 1937 show he painted the walls light green and gave all the pictures of the French period uniform white frames. The different groups of works were organised by theme: ‘L'homme’; paintings; still lifes and nudes; technical development; and drawings.

‘An example of a modern museum installation (De Tijd); ‘Uproar surrounding white frames [...] (De Telegraaf); “An extraordinary installation” (Het Vaderland); “New exhibition style [...]” (Het Nationale Dagblad) - judging by these headlines in the Dutch press, the exhibition organisers had certainly succeeded in one thing: in all the reviews and corespondents’ reports the subject of the installation far outweighed any discussion of the works themselves. On 13 August, Beaux-Arts magazine, published by George Wildenstein, even started a survey among its readers, requesting their opinions on the show. They were asked what they thought of the colour of the walls and the frames; whether it was permissible to display items that usually appeared only in magazine articles; whether source documents should be exhibited separately; if they thought the arrangements were a success; and if they believed a work of art should be admired alone or, on the contrary, provided with explanations and comparisons.

As one might expect, there were already strong disagreements about the colours of the walls and frames. After much experimentation, Huyghe had chosen the green - variously described as ‘tendre,’ ‘vert d'eau,’ ‘ton bleu vert,’ and even as ‘l'azur vert des matinées d'Arles’ - because it harmonised with the majority of the paintings. Readers' opinions ranged from ‘désastreuse’ to ‘agréable’ to ‘excellente.’ Some found coloured walls to be a bad idea in general, as they had a tendency to overpower the works of art. The tenor was similar when it came to the white frames. For many viewers, this desire for unity appeared artificial - despite the fact that Huyghe had sought to illustrate the problem of framing by hanging three differently-framed reproductions in the didactic section, and had based his choice on Van Gogh's own wishes. This was thus undoubtedly the first ‘historically correct’ Van Gogh exhibition, but it failed to convince everyone. Some readers felt that the artist's desires should play no role in the display, as today's exhibition spaces were different from those of the past; another thought artists were fundamentally incapable of framing their works correctly; and a third even went so far as to declare that every frame was an ‘accessoire incompatible à toute oeuvre d'art peinte.’

The debate was still more heated when it came to the documents and wall texts. Huyghe pointed out (in vain) that this room had been conceived purely as an experiment, and that in four of the five rooms the paintings could be enjoyed undisturbed; furthermore, those with no interest in the sources and photographs were in no way obliged to look at them.

The arguments against Huyghe were naturally ideologically tainted. Many critics, among them Waldemar George, compared his pedagogical method to that of the Soviets (‘sauce marxiste’) and even the Fascists. The aged painter Jacques-Emile Blanche referred to it as ‘la méthode allemande,’ although it is not clear if he was thinking of Hitler's ‘degenerate art’ exhibitions or the new museum education system developed by Alexander Dörner, himself a victim of Nazi persecution.42

At the heart of this discussion lay the fundamental question of whether the museum could - and should - take



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fig. 8
Floorplan of the Van Gogh exhibition at the Palais de Tokyo, Paris 1937, from Van Gogh. Exposition internationale de 1937, Paris 1937




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fig. 9
View of the Van Gogh exhibition at the Palais de Tokyo, Paris 1937, from Micromégas (10 October 1937)


over the role of schools and libraries, a notion that filled most readers with horror. According to them, future generations did not expect to find the artist's words and deeds in the museum, but simply his masterpieces.43 The judgements about the installation thus depended strongly on the readers' conception of whom the museum was supposed to serve. Huyghe made no secret of his conviction that art should be accessible to the widest possible audience. For him, true understanding began not with reading about art, but with curiosity, and curiosity needed to be stimulated: ‘Can quality cope with quantity? That is the question of Democracy in general, and it now appears to be that of museums as well.’44 Some of his adversaries even went so far as to generally denounce Huyghe's ideal of education for the masses - that ‘monstre anonyme,’ as the Belgian critic Paul Fierens called them.45

Since the debate was limited to experts and the interested public we will never know what the curator's ‘target group’ actually thought of the show. While Huyghe himself was moved by the patience with which spectators studied the textual material, another commentator noted just the opposite in a letter published in Beaux-Arts on 17 September: ‘Just look at the visitor. He deciphers the hieroglyphs of the first panel with difficulty, peruses the second distractedly, and does not even bother to stop at the third.’

In the midst of the uproar Van Gogh and his oeuvre were practically forgotten. Paul Fierens complained that the artist had been made into a kind of guinea pig for Huyghe's experiments. However, the ‘experiment’ had already set a development in motion that could not be stopped. In Huyghe's opinion, museums could no longer simply concentrate on collection-building and preservation: they had an obligation to mediate and educate. And the future was to prove him right.

The postwar period

In the 1957 Paris exhibition, artworks and documentation were clearly separated. The visitor could chose between rapt contemplation and explanation, empathy and insight, and these two approaches were meant to complement one another. The cultural-historical approach, which sought to place the once-autonomous work of art in an appropriate



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fig. 10
Van Gogh exhibition at the Villa Hügel, Essen 1957


context, required a change in exhibition aesthetics that is not to be underestimated. In any case, curators now had a greater freedom of choice.

Following the Second World War the public was hungry for pictures. The Stedelijk Museum, where Van Gogh's paintings had been on display from 1930 to the outbreak of hostilities, could finally put them on view again. An exhibition of 153 works opened already in 1945; it was promoted as a ‘documentary exhibition,’ and the installation certainly did justice to this claim. In contrast to Paris in 1937, photographs and paintings were shown together; the museum was so proud of this arrangement that it reproduced a photograph of the installation in the accompanying catalogue.46

In the years that followed, the interest in Van Gogh increased both steadily and rapidly. In the wake of Neue Sachlichkeit and the international ‘classical’ revival of the 1920s, the artists of the Ecole de Paris and ‘informel’ movements were now busy reintroducing the art-loving public to strong colour and gestural painting. In 1947 the Tate Gallery showed 178 Van Goghs, and in 1949 158 works travelled to New York and Chicago. Other exhibitions took place in Sweden, Norway, Great Britain, Belgium and France, and in 1953 the Kröller-Müller Museum and the Stedelijk both organised large-scale retrospectives celebrating the centenary of the artist's birth. The film Lust for life, based on Irving Stone's novel of 1934 and released in 1956, served to cement the connection between Van Gogh's life and work - as well as the public's expectations.

The collection of the Belgian art historian and archivist Mark Edo Tralbaut (1902-1976), which had already formed the basis for the documentation at the 1945 Amsterdam exhibition, was again integrated into a showing at the Villa Hügel in Essen in 1957 (fig. 10). In his introduction to the catalogue, Tralbaut justified his strategy with recent exhibition history. Following the war, art had begun to



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fig. 11 Van Gogh exhibition, Tokyo 1958, from Wereldkroniek (November 1958)


travel to the people, an ‘encouraging result’ of cultural progress: ‘Once interest in everything the geniuses of painting and sculpture have given mankind has been awakened, it should be deepened systematically, so as to lead to a more complete understanding of the works admired. We do not believe that the emotions aroused by initial contact - that is, love at first sight! - are enough.’ Regarding Van Gogh specifically, Tralbaut continued: ‘Given today's state of general admiration, the broad masses should be regarded as mature enough to see this art not only from its emotional side, but from other points of view as well. More than any other virtuoso of the palette and pencil, Vincent [is] [...] fated to become the protagonist of educational exhibitions.’47

The desire to explain Van Gogh's mysterious, fascinating oeuvre did not, however, dominate presentations everywhere. The exact opposite approach was taken at the first Japanese retrospective, held in Tokyo in 1958. 130 works from the Kröller-Müller Museum were put on display. The illustrated magazine Wereldkroniek wrote about the transportation and installation as if reporting on an invasion, and indeed the show was to take the country by storm (fig. 11).48 For the first time, the Japanese got a closer look at the work of an artist who had sought to internalize their culture like no other before him. The curatorial ‘strategy’ eschewed all attempts at interpretation: the rooms were darkened and the pictures illuminated only by spotlights. The gloom created an almost sacred atmosphere, while the accent lighting not only isolated the pictures from one another, but also made them glow like jewels. This type of dramatic presentation later became standard in the exhibition of archaeological treasures.

The Van Gogh Museum

A short time later, in 1960, the Vincent van Gogh Foundation was established. In these years Theo's son, the engineer Vincent Willem van Gogh, began negotiations with the Dutch state for the creation of a museum to house the work of his uncle and his own father's collection. It seems to have been the engineer's wish that the museum be built by Gerrit Rietveld, the ‘Grand Old Man’ of the De Stijl movement. The reasons behind this choice are not precisely known. In addition to the fact that Rietveld was a renowned architect who, furthermore, had already put his stamp on the Kröller-Müller Museum, the ideas of Willem Sandberg, then director of the Stedelijk, must also have played an important role.49 The paintings of Van Gogh certainly had a place in his conception of the museum as a light, open venue for the presentation of modern art. In any case, the selection of Rietveld was a declaration of belief in classical modernism, and a recognition of the importance of the museum and its patron.

The hopes placed in Rietveld were to be realised, although not by the architect himself, who only lived long enough to make the first designs. Although a permanent institution cannot really be compared with temporary exhibitions, it is nonetheless interesting to examine the Van Gogh Museum in the context of this article. As the shows in Essen and Tokyo had demonstrated, both the State as patron and the Vincent van Gogh Foundation as owner could chose among various presentational strategies. Moreover, the new museum was more or less obliged to take a position in the current museum debate, not only architecturally, but in terms of content as well. Midway between the radically educational approach and the museum as sanctuary, when it opened in 1973 the Van Gogh Museum presented



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fig. 12
The Van Gogh Museum in 1973


itself in a completely new and unprecedented way. It attested not only to the artist as the father of the avant-garde, but also to the notion of the museum as a location available to everyone, where it was possible to wander freely from one experience to the next (fig. 12).

Critics went so far as to refer to the Van Gogh Museum as a ‘turning point in museum design’; its accessibility and popular appeal even led them to call it a ‘non-museum.’50 The lack of rooms, doors and the customary museum furnishing, as well as the gleaming white of the interior, were the buildings's most notable characteristics; the absence of gold frames completed the installation, putting Van Gogh's palette in the proper - that is, bright - light, and freeing the pictures from all distractions. Here, too, we may note the influence of contemporary art, particularly the ‘colour fields,’ ‘hard edges’ and ‘white cubes’ of American galleries, which by now had also reached the Stedelijk Museum next door. A sober almost monastic spirit pervaded the architecture, and Rielveld's design came to

express the notion of the museum as a place for contemplation: as in a cloister, spectators wandered through the various floors around a square, open atrium.

Fashions in museum presentation have not passed the Van Gogh Museum by in the two and a half decades since its opening. In the beginning, Vincent's paintings were strictly separated from those of his friends and colleagues. Due not only to the number of works but also to the presentation, he was the pole around which all the others circled - as at the Sonderbund exhibition in 1912. Gauguin, Toulouse-Lautrec and Bernard were reduced to the status of mere ‘contemporaries,’ whose role was to underline Van Gogh's genius and his position as the archetypal modern artist. This notion was strongly criticised even at the time, with young artists expressing their disapproval of Van Gogh's new cult status in more or less original ways.

The museum's early years were thus marked by a search for an identity and social function.51 In an effort to dispel the notion that the institution was nothing but a mausoleum, a programme of exhibitions was developed which ranged from Diane Arbus in 1975 to ‘The image of women in the graphic arts of the GDR’ (1976), to the World Press Photo shows held between 1974 and 1979. These activities had nothing to do with the collection and inevitably led to conflicts regarding the museum's policy, conflicts which were regularly, but usually only briefly, solved by the appointment of a new director. Modifications to the presentation of the permanent collection were rare in these otherwise so volatile times, and slowly but surely the Van Gogh Museum threatened to fall behind international developments.

In 1986 the Dutch Minister for Education, Culture and Science asked Ronald de Leeuw, curator of exhibitions at the (former) Rijksdienst Beeldende Kunst, to become director of the Van Gogh Museum. With both caution and persistence, De Leeuw introduced changes that were to have an important effect on the display of the permanent collection. Van Gogh's paintings were to maintain their central position, but were to be more firmly embedded in the art of his time. Predecessors, contemporaries and followers were freed of the Van Gogh straitjacket. An active exhibitions and acquisitions policy brought the work of artists and movements into the museum which had no apparent relationship to the institution's namesake. These efforts led, among other things, to a rediscovery of Van Gogh as an artist of the 19th century.

This historicising approach, which was introduced with the opening of the Musée d'Orsay in Paris in 1986, unintentionally allied ‘conservative’ and ‘progressive’ art historians. For the latter, rehabilitated academic paintings were documents of an era - their quality was unimportant - while the former could now publicly express their admiration for artists who had been banned from museum walls for decades. One reason for this development may well have been that the avant-garde itself had now become historical and no longer needed father-figures to justify its actions. Van Gogh could now leave this role behind, closing this chapter in the reception of his work.52

This paradigm shift was not without consequences for the Van Gogh Museum, a space for confronting original works of art. Had the museum been conceived a decade later, there is no doubt it would have looked completely different, although perhaps not better. One of the architecture's best characteristics is that it permits the realisation of a variety of museological concepts, and it remains to be seen whether the more playful museum buildings of the 1980s and 90s will withstand changes in taste equally well. With great foresight, Vincent Willem van Gogh factored in the possibility of change: ‘Oh well, this is how we have installed it now, but in 25 years people may have completely different ideas.’53

The museum's rediscovery of the 19th century, then, was to take place in - of all places - Rietveld's cement cube. One of the first steps, taken already at the beginning of the 1980s, was to remove the simple protective frames given Van Gogh's paintings during the war and replace



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fig. 13
The Van Gogh Museum in 1987


them with gilded examples. Since 1987 efforts have been made to tone down the dominating white of the walls, now felt to be too abstract and cold. In the beginning this was achieved by placing the paintings against a single dark strip of colour (fig. 13), which certainly helped improve the luminosity of the works.54

In the last two decades, the presentation of Van Gogh's paintings outside the Amsterdam museum has changed as well. As the artist's popularity grew, so too did conservational concerns; these came to play an increasingly central role in various permanent collections, with the result that pictures were lent less and less frequently. Large-scale retrospectives hardly seemed possible anymore. As early as 1957 in Essen many had already come to the conclusion that this was probably the last such occasion.

One solution to this problem was to concentrate exhibitions on a specific period or group of works. Thematic selections and in-depth scholarship also helped draw attention back to Van Gogh the artist, and to a certain extent to free his work from the burden of myth. Excellent examples include ‘Van Gogh in Arles’ (1984) and ‘Van Gogh in Saint-Rémy and Auvers’ (1986), both at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and ‘Van Gogh à Paris,’ held at the Grand Palais in 1988 (fig. 14). The latter, curated by Bogomila Welsh-Ovcharov, adopted quite different policies for the catalogue and exhibition. While the catalogue separated Van Gogh's work from that of his contemporaries, in the show itself they were hung side by side. The arrangements were based on style, topography and iconography. The goal was to create a dialogue between the participating artists, very much in Vincent's spirit.55

1990 marked the centenary of Van Gogh's death and thus offered the opportunity for another retrospective. The Van Gogh Museum and the Kröller-Müller Museum joined forces, with paintings on view in Amsterdam and drawings in Otterlo. In Amsterdam, the exhibition was a pretext for a reinstallation of the museum's first floor. The renowned interior architect Marijke van der Wijst was asked to advise on the designs. One of the major issues was the expected number of visitors. Factors such as exhaustion and spectators' flagging concentration were taken into consideration, with the result that the paintings were hung closer together towards the end of the exhibition than at the beginning.56 By this time crowds had become a persistent problem: the museum had been conceived for only 60,000



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fig. 14
The ‘Van Gogh in Arles’ exhibition at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York 1984


visitors per year but now had to deal with ten times as many. Van der Wijst's structural additions were minimal: the openness of the first floor was slightly reduced, and tourists were gently encouraged to take a specific route. The architectural additions became ‘permanent’ features following the show's closure.

Van der Wijst's most radical intervention had been the use of veneered wooden walls (fig. 15). These had no historical justification and were felt to be foreign bodies in Rietveld's building; they were therefore removed only a few years later. Under the direction of yet another interior designer, Peter Sas, the division of the various floors was further accentuated. Walls were installed, giving the museum rooms and cabinets. The parquet floors that replaced the worn wall-to-wall carpeting proved to be particularly beneficial, the reflections thus added bringing a welcome improvement to the lighting conditions. In addition to practical advantages, the new flooring gives the building a more noble appearance: it has become a bit more ‘classical’ without, however, changing the overall architectural concept.

The present

The construction of the new exhibition wing and the renovation of the Rietveld building have necessitated renewed reflection on the presentation of Van Gogh in the Van Gogh Museum. The experiences of the last eight years have helped formulate the criteria which condition the present and future. Looking back, the extent to which the presentation of Van Gogh's oeuvre was affected by its reception has become clear. With an increase in historical awareness, Van Gogh has developed from father of the avant-garde to an artist who is more and more understood as a man of his time. Although during his life the quality of his works was recognised by only a handful of connoisseurs, today he is assured the admiration of the entire world. The desire to use him to justify artistic positions of any kind has thus been on the wane for several decades



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fig. 15
Retrospective exhibition at the Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam 1990


now. If nothing else, this means that the painter's ‘unconditional modernity’ is no longer the determining factor in the presentation of his work. However, a precise reconstruction of an historical presentation would require decisions that could be both misleading and distorting. For one thing, we know far too little about the past - to say nothing of the banal fact that colours and lighting conditions have long since undergone more or less permanent changes. Moreover, the museum is about the last place Van Gogh would have thought of as a setting for his paintings. The display of his works in a public institution can thus never be anything but interpretation. In addition, it is now clear that an artist's intentions in no way end at the edge of the canvas, but include framing, hanging and environment - something many museums are now increasingly taking into consideration. An art history that takes the word ‘history’ seriously cannot - and must not - avoid dealing with issues of intention.

A conscious understanding of the possibilities and limits of the display medium gives today's curator both new freedom and confronts him with old restraints. For the Van Gogh Museum, certain lessons have emerged from the history of the presentation of Vincent's oeuvre: the hanging should preserve the dignity of the artworks, increase their significance, and not put them at risk in any way. The moment of a picture's creation can be evoked through historically responsible supporting material, and the sensible and comprehensible arrangement of other works. Frames and wall colours have no value in themselves, but result from this point of view. The wishes and expectations of the visitor are to be taken into consideration, particularly the need for good lighting and factual information. The emotional character a museum visit may have - certainly in the case of Van Gogh - should never be quashed by an overly clinical presentation.

In concrete terms, this means that the first floor of the museum continues to be devoted to Van Gogh; here the visitor can trace his stylistic development. The chronological hanging and division according to the topographical stations of the artist's career have also been preserved, as they offer important points of reference and the opportunity for the viewer to pause and reflect. The various phases announced by Van Gogh's change of location are briefly explained, to help make the visitor aware of artistic shifts and their possible causes. As before, works that are assumed or known to belong together remain grouped. The hanging marks the highlights as such, and the visitor's empathy and understanding are further stimulated by the exhibition of objects from among Van Gogh's possessions in the Study area.

Relatively new is that Van Gogh's paintings are no longer shown only in isolation on the first floor and in the study collection, but are also hung amidst those of the realists, impressionists and post-impressionists (fig. 16). The aim



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fig. 16
Works by Daubigny, Van Gogh, Dalou and Courbet in the Van Gogh Museum, 1999


of these arrangements is to increase the viewer's insight in to the works on display, whether by Van Gogh or his predecessors and contemporaries. They stress stylistic or thematic similarities, or underline differences. In this way, and without too much textual explanation, the public will come to a better understanding of the pictures, one which we hope goes beyond the clichés. Here lie the roots of the Van Gogh Museum's new role as a museum of the 19th century, a role which does justice to its namesake precisely by placing him in the context of the art of his time.

Like Van Gogh's reception, opinions about what is desirable and sensible will naturally be subject to further change. Consciously or not, art institutions will adapt to these new demands, whatever they may be. In the relatively short history of museums no one perfect system has yet to be discovered, and probably never will be. Van Gogh, too, agonised over the presentation of works of art. Confronted with the choice between cutting out a series of illustrations from The Graphic or leaving them intact, he wrote to his friend Anthon van Rappard in 1883: ‘You'll understand that I'm of two minds about this question. If I cut out and mount the pages they'll look better and I can organise them by artist. But then I'm neglecting the text, which is useful in case I want to look something up [...]’ [306/R24]. It is comforting to know that Van Gogh himself suffered the daily dilemma of the museum curator, who is forced to choose between presenting works of art as autonomous or placing them within their historical context.


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