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ROGER ROSENBLATT: In April 1899, Vincent Van Gogh wrote to his brother
Theo about Joseph Roulin, a postman in charge of sorting mail who was
his neighbor, friend, and subject. Van Gogh said that the postman embodied
the following thought: "We do not know what will happen to us tomorrow,
but whatever it will be, think of me. And the thought does one good
when it comes from a man who is neither embittered nor sad nor perfect
nor happy, nor always irreproachably just." Van Gogh did nine different
drawings of Roulin, seven of which are now on display in New York's
Museum of Modern Art. Seven different faces of Roulin as type: As family
man, as savior. It was the postman who attended to Van Gogh after the
emotional eruption that led to the painter's cutting off part of his
ear. Seven faces of the postman, whose existence carries the beautiful,
terrifying statement "we do not know what will happen to us tomorrow."
Originally Van Gogh wanted to paint Roulin as a local figure, something
merely picturesque, but it seems evident that he saw in the face of
his friend something much larger, a figure central to the operation
of the world. Others have seen the postman in similar ways. "The
Postman Always Rings Twice," a movie that was made twice, about
the limited chances one gets in life, and the justice that if it fails
to make itself known the first time will get you the second. "Il
Postino," another movie about the subject; the awful "Postman,"
Kevin Costner's crazy tedium ..
ACTRESS: You're a savior.
COSTNER: No, I'm just the postman.
ROGER ROSENBLATT: Even in that, the significance of the figure asserts
itself. It is the postman who brings us tomorrow, news of admission
and rejection, news of love, news of loss.
SONG: Hey, Mr. Postman, look at me...
ROGER ROSENBLATT: Even in the era of e-mail, the world trudges to the
post office, the letter box, the slow slot in the front door, full of
touching expectation, or curiosity, or dread. E-mail itself is mail.
The subject of another movie, "You've Got Mail." Open it virtually,
from the virtual postman, whose portrait Van Gogh cannot paint, yet
it is nonetheless felt. Out of practical necessity, a cultural character
is created who brings us news of ourselves. We will be rich: Here's
a letter from Publishers Clearing House. We will be pretty: Here's a
catalog from L.L. Bean or Neiman Marcus. We will be solicited: Here's
a plea from a college or hospital. We will be happy. Where is that letter?
Roulin, Roulin,, Roulin, Roulin, Roulin, Roulin, Roulin. Seven portraits
in an effort to get it right. Van Gogh was driven by personal affection
and by gratitude to get Roulin right. But there must have been something
else driving him as well: How to get the postman right. The one who
sorts the mail, the one who arranges our news as the one who gives us
lives. And yet he is only the messenger, not God. The messenger may
be confused with God. I wonder if this burden, this terrible burden,
has anything to do with the frequent shootings by postal workers, the
burden of the power of the work. They go postal. They shoot the messenger,
themselves. They go as mad as Van Gogh. The sequence of the paintings
is interesting. Roulin starts out looking equally like a man in a uniform
and ends up mainly as a head. The beard changes from something that
is merely a beard to the swirls of the sky in "Starry Night."
Fact expands to dream. The postman becomes cosmic, and yet is still
a man who is neither embittered nor sad nor perfect nor happy nor always
irreproachably just. He sorts our mail. He's everything to us. "We
do not know what will happen tomorrow," he says, "but whatever
it may be, think of me." I'm Roger Rosenblatt.
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