Sunday, 30 October 1881

I spent the whole day with the gypsies and accomplished nothing. A glacial wind; my face was chapped with cold, my canvas brittle with sand and dust — in short, nothing done. But what a precious mine for artists! To stay there a whole day and catch those attitudes, those groups, those effects of light and shadow! First of all they are very well disposed toward foreigners, because the Spaniards despise them. One would need to come for two or three months and make studies every day — and there would always be more to do. I am mad about these gypsy types. They have poses, movements, attitudes of such natural and strange grace. Marvelous paintings could be made there. The eyes flee in all directions, as one says in Russian¹ — everything is a painting. It is maddening to have come so late — but despite the best will in the world one cannot work; the wind from the snow-covered mountain is piercing. One cannot hold out. But how beautiful it is, how beautiful, how beautiful! When I set myself up to work they rushed over and grouped themselves all around on the natural [blacked out: terraces of the] hillside — I leave you to imagine how fine that made things. And this curiosity is entirely friendly, whereas the people who surrounded me the other day in the street annoyed me profoundly. The Spaniards have nothing to do, which means that instead of coming to look and passing on, a heap of them stay behind you two or three hours. Note that I was working in a deserted street in the back of beyond — and there are many painters here. Granada is as artistic and picturesque as Seville is bourgeois, though the latter possesses a celebrated painting school. Almost every street in Granada is ravishing for a painter. One is dazzled and pulled in all directions. One can stop anywhere at random and paint what lies before one — and it will be a painting. I want to return here next August-September and half of October.