Still Life with Onions, Beetroot and a Japanese Print
Winter in Pont-Aven—brutal weather, no fresh fruit. To stay inside was a hardship for the master, who lived to pace the beach, his hair in a frenzy. He was like a savage that one, so different from the student, Meyer, poor Meyer: so slight, so rickety, sickly, almost deformed; so grateful for a day working next to the fire. Gauguin sent him to the cellar to find something they could paint.
I know this because I was down in the dark counting jars of preserves. I gave Meyer a sack of tangled vegetables, a long kiss, and sent him back upstairs. Soon I heard furniture scraping the floorboards, a low, impatient voice, crockery falling on the table, heavy steps down the hall.
As you can see, the beets and onions were not enough.