Finding Vincent

by Les Furnanz

  Finding Vincent

  Les Furnanz

  Title: Finding Vincent

  Author: Les Furnanz

  Copyright © 2019 Les Furnanz

  ISBN: 9789493056091 (ebook)

  ISBN: 9789493056084 (paperback)

  Publisher: Amsterdam Publishers, the Netherlands

  Frontcover: Vincent van Gogh, Self-portrait as a Painter, 1887-1888, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam (Vincent van Gogh Foundation)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any other means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any other information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher.

  Contents

  1. Thursday, June 6, 1895

  2. Friday, June 7, 1895

  3. Saturday, June 8, 1895

  4. Sunday, June 9, 1895

  5. Monday, June 10, 1995 – Wednesday, June 12, 1995

  Map

  6. Thursday, June 13 – Friday, June 14

  7. Saturday, June 15

  8. Saturday, June 15

  9. Sunday, June 16

  10. Sunday, June 16

  11. Monday, June 17

  12. Tuesday, June 18

  13. Wednesday, June 19

  14. Thursday, June 20

  15. Friday, June 21

  16. Saturday, June 22

  17. Sunday, June 23

  18. Tuesday, June 25

  19. Thursday, June 27

  20. Friday, June 28

  21. Friday, June 28 and Saturday, June 29

  22. Sunday, June 30

  Kind Request

  Epilogue

  One

  Thursday, June 6, 1895

  I was seventeen when Vincent van Gogh painted me in my yellow coat with black hat and white necktie. He had captured my emotions of uncertainty and hope. I still saw myself that way. Now at age twenty-four I wondered if I'd ever see my painting again.

  This would be my first visit home in France since I joined the army in 1889. It had been several months after Vincent left Arles. He had given Father a portrait of each family member, all dearly valued. While at my base in Tunis a year later I learned of Vincent's death in northern France. I wished then to again view his paintings. As I reread Father's recent letter, I paused where he noted selling those works. I pondered how and why.

  Father, the postman of Arles, had wanted me to be a blacksmith. He felt it would be better than his trade as a postal sorter. So he scraped for funds, and when I turned fourteen he sent me to Lambesc village for a six-year apprenticeship. He had known the master blacksmith in his youth. It didn't take me long to know the trade wasn't for me. However, I realized I'd never be able to discuss this with Father. I stayed in Lambesc for four years. Yet, when I was able and ready, I joined the army in Tunisia. The move was right, but I still regretted using Father's limited funds and disappointing him.

  I'd initiated this voyage home in March. Wanting to set things straight, I'd written Father a letter of apology. I proposed a visit to see the family. I received his response within a month. He was positive to my visit, but expressed little emotion. Not being a good writer, he had dictated to my brother Camille with a family update. It was more news than I'd expected, and it encouraged me to go forward. However, he did not offer forgiveness. His final words noted the sale of our Roulin family portraits. His closing salutation, “Thank you for your letter, Armand. It will be good to see you,” seemed distant. I then realized I'd need to bear his grim attitude.

  Mother, my brother Camille, and my sister Marcelle would understand me better. That would help me remain patient with Father’s resentment. Mother would exuberantly show love and appreciation, but she’d avoid any expressions that irritated Father. She’d be sure to listen, but not have much interest in the army or Tunisia. I was excited to see my brother and sister. Camille was now nineteen, my age when I left France. We would joke and he'd tell of his explorations and plans. He'd be interested in my life. Marcelle was now eight. I'd be entirely new to her; she'd been only two when I left.

  My thoughts returned to the present. My boat had sailed a few days earlier and would land soon in Marseilles. I walked the upper deck and gazed at the Mediterranean. France's coastline, barely visible on the northern horizon, called me. The calm vista invited reflection. Should I reenlist or opt out of the army? My obligation was for only six more months. This would be a tough call, as I enjoyed the army life. But my career prospects seemed limited, and recently I felt lonely and isolated. It would be nice to meet a pretty woman and perhaps marry. I imagined her and wondered how we could meet. My mind wrestled with endless possibilities.

  The waters grew almost still; small ripples lapped at the hull. After what seemed endless musing, drowsiness eventually brought me to my bunk for the night.

  Armand Roulin, 1888, Museum Folkwang Essen

  Two

  Friday, June 7, 1895

  Camille laughed and grinned. “It’s been six years since you’ve talked to any of us, and now you want to tell us about the world? Tunisia, yet! You couldn’t even remember our new President Faure’s first name.”

  “Felix! Felix Faure!” I replied. “I have to admit it took me a few seconds, but I got it. Now tell me what he’s done since taking office. You just got your Bac diploma. I didn’t have that chance; so preach to us about what he’s done!”

  “Nothing!” Marcelle interrupted laughingly, her eyes gleaming with wisdom.

  “That’s right,” continued Camille. “He was elected as the only Republican nobody disliked. It’s the same now; nobody likes him; nobody dislikes him. He won’t commit to anything.”

  “I’ll drink to that,’ I added, as we raised our wine glasses.

  My father appeared looser as he offered, “It’s always the same. France’s so-called Third Empire is a joke – too conservative – we need liberals who can take care of us commoners. Look at me. I’m in charge of all mailbags for Marseilles's 8th arrondissement post office. My wages barely cover our rent, meals, and this small bit of wine.”

  “We’ve heard this story before,” Camille interjected. He looked quickly at Father and stared longer at me. Father glared at the two of us.

  “Why do we get this stare?” I asked. “Father, you've persevered at the Poste and you've kept this family clothed and fed. I agree you should be paid more. Remember when we lived in Arles and you earned even less? You moved the family for the better.”

  “Thank you, Armand,” replied Father. “Camille, you’re getting too arrogant. Now that you have your Bac, I can kick you out. Watch your mouth. I'm always thinking of us. Look how I sold our family paintings this year. It gave us money for a rainy day. I loved those paintings by Vincent, but family comes first.”

  “Father, I can’t understand this,” I responded. “Vincent painted many, many portraits of us: Mother, Camille, Marcelle, several of you, two of me. He had you choose one of each of us as his gift to the the family. We were thrilled. I had no idea that you were selling them. Those paintings meant so much. This hurts.”

  Father shifted in his chair. “Look, Armand, a young art dealer from Paris, Mr. Vollard, visited me last month and made me an offer for those five portraits. It was 450 francs, two months salary! I don’t want to hear any more on this. They’ve always been my paintings – painted for me by my friend Vincent.”

  Father paused. I thought of how his transfer to Marseilles had prevented him from helping Vincent after he fought the painter Paul Gauguin. Vincent had cut off his own ear and ended up in St. Remy Asylum. Perhaps Father was feeling guilty.

  I looked back at Father and he glared at me squarely. “If you’re not careful, I’ll grill you about why you left the apprenticeship. You only had two ye
ars to go!”

  I couldn’t hold his gaze. I looked at Mother. “We're not getting anywhere, are we? When should we prepare dinner, Mother? I’d be glad to set the table.”

  “Thanks,” she said with relief. “Let’s eat early. I’ll show you the dishes and flatware.” Father shook his head, trying to hold back his tension.

  The dinner started with a strained tone, but we avoided confrontation. Camille and I finally started trading jibes, emphasizing our heroism. Father and Mother allowed the banter longer than expected.

  When the family retired, I tried to settle for sleep on the sofa. I talked to myself. How can I endure more time here? My military leave is too short. Are these the kind of thoughts that overcame Vincent when he went crazy? Then my mind saw again Vincent's bright colors and how his portrait had captured my spirit.

  Three

  Saturday, June 8, 1895

  At the end of my second day I still pondered how to leave home. Father’s mood had affected us all. I could talk with Camille, but the difference in our years and experience limited our joint sympathies. He also showed resentment for my leaving France.

  After dinner I decided to break the news of my leaving. We sat in the parlor sharing a bottle of wine that I'd offered the family. Before I could start, Father arose saying, “I want to share a letter with you Armand. I just received this today.” He walked over to his desk and retrieved an envelope. “You had mentioned Vincent yesterday. This letter comes from the widow of Theo van Gogh, Vincent’s brother. Her name is Johanna. I understood it a little, but I can't read very well. So please read it aloud.” I took the letter hesitatingly, asking myself what now? I noticed the very neat penmanship; the writer was not native French. I read aloud slowly and carefully.

  May 25, 1895

  Dear Joseph Roulin,

  I learned of you only recently and understand that you were Vincent van Gogh’s best friend in Arles. I’d like to interest you in helping me accomplish the goal of finding his art.

  In introduction, I am Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, widow of Vincent’s brother Theo. He and I mourned Vincent’s death, and only a few months later Theo died at a hospital in our native Holland. It was as if he needed his brother to survive. I was left alone to raise our year-old son, also named Vincent. For five years I have been my sole support in the village of Bussum, Holland. I have a boarding house of lodgers who commute to work in Amsterdam. Most hours of my day are devoted to this operation.

  Fortunately, I now have limited time for the mission of Vincent’s art. I had long noted Theo’s love and encouragement of his brother. It included financial support and collecting his paintings. When Theo died he left me over 200 works. He also left me a large stack of Vincent's letters spanning eighteen years. They were moving and insightful, and they brought me further appreciation of his art. Theo had asked that I continue working toward his goal of bringing recognition to Vincent. I had to overcome my family’s resistance. They advised me to sell, even give away the paintings. I defied this and recently staged several local exhibitions. I want to create a dedicated museum. In rare circumstances I sell a few paintings to cover expenses and build Vincent’s recognition. I also work slowly towards publication of his letters.

  Joseph, through Vincent’s letters I learned of you and your wonderful family. I understand that Vincent gave you some portraits. So here is my first request. Please consider whether you could sell me one or more of them. I imagine that you greatly prize them, but I could offer a fair price.

  I am aware that a Paris art dealer, Ambroise Vollard, is also searching for Vincent’s paintings. I hope that he has not appeared before this letter reaches you. His reputation is “buy low, sell high.” My goal is to preserve Vincent’s works for a future museum.

  Here’s my second request, Joseph. I would like you to help me create a more complete list of Vincent’s works. With my boarding house and young son I am not able to research this information. You may be able to provide insight about his friends, acquaintances, and paintings in France. There are many gaps in my knowledge.

  I have the names of major artists that Vincent knew who could be very helpful. If you have two or three weeks to travel, I could provide reasonable payment and cover your expenses.

  I pray for a favorable response to my requests. Kindly consider Vincent and Theo in your decision.

  With all sincerity,

  Johanna van Gogh-Bonger

  I paused, then said, “Well, Johanna’s first request is certainly too late, Father. Ambroise Vollard probably gave you a low offer.”

  “Enough of that, Armand!,” Father retorted. “That's history.” He paused, then continued with lowered voice, “I want you to consider if you could fill in for me in Johanna's quest. Here's your chance to act in appreciation of Vincent, his art, and me. Can you help? Please!”

  I paused several seconds, then looked calmly into Father's eyes. I sensed briefly we could talk now on equal terms. “Father, I must have an evening to consider this. I hope you understand. I'll let you know tomorrow morning.”

  He stared ahead, then nodded saying, “All right. Since you'll be thinking on this, Armand, I'll go visit my pub friends in Old Port.”

  As Father excused himself I noted that despite his limited funds Father could always find a way to share spirits with friends.

  My discomfort on the sofa made it more difficult to resolve my dilemma. Father had asked me to chase information for a stranger in Holland. Finally my mind settled. I want to leave the family; I need a plan for the next three weeks; I love Vincent's art. Perhaps I could visit Ambroise Vollard and find my portrait.

  I thought of how to better communicate with Father. For a brief moment this evening I had sensed the opportunity. Father has gripes. I have gripes. Johanna's letter may be our opening to listen to each other. Mental exhaustion finally overcame me and I drifted to sleep.

  Four

  Sunday, June 9, 1895

  The family rose late the next morning. After setting out croissants, apricot confiture, and café au lait, Mother called us to breakfast. Slow response showed glum spirits and I guessed last evening's interchange as the cause.

  The quiet spell continued. When I reached for a second croissant and offered, “Thank you, Mother. It's so nice to have breakfast with you all,” the family mood rose. Camille and Marcelle exchanged some banter, then turned for my participation. When Father grinned the three of us glanced at each other suspiciously. Father and Mother added a few appreciative comments as we continued playfully.

  When Mother and Marcelle rose to clear the table, Father turned to me and said, “Armand, I must know your decision. Let's go to the parlor.”

  “Yes, Father, I have an answer. I hope we can discuss some other things as well.”

  His serious demeanor forewarned me. I needed to be patient. I pulled a chair from the kitchen to sit near his padded armchair.

  “Well, Armand.”

  “Yes, I will follow up with Johanna's request. I admit this took me by surprise, but I thought about it last night. I want to do what you feel is right. I'll leave early tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Father paused, “Since it's your last day here, you're free to spend time with the family. I hope you can return and tell of your work for Johanna before going back to Tunisia.”

  “I'll try for that.” I shifted and when I had Father's eyes again, continued in a lower tone, “I want to apologize for how I left my apprenticeship with no warning. I was very young. I felt it was the only way to do what I knew I must. It was hurtful. Can you forgive me?”

  Father moved irritably. “I'm not sure I'll ever fully forgive you, Armand. You have no idea. I saved two years to pay fees for that prized blacksmith trade. Year after year I scraped! In only one more year you would have a received a journeyman's wage! But you fled!”

  I clenched my knees, then sat straight and waited until Father caught his breath. “Father, I understand you may never forgive me. You can see by my return home and my talking now
that I'm truly sorry. But you know that every man must control his own life. I knew I could not be a blacksmith; but you never asked. You never checked if it was working out for me. I couldn't talk with you.”

  “It was your job to work as I bid you, Armand. You could later make decisions, but not as a boy. You failed me.”

  I sensed Father's response had lowered his anger. “I'm sorry, Father. All I can say now is that it's been six long years and I'm a grown man. I'll do your bidding now as kindness, by going to Johanna and helping her.”

  Father eyes eased, “It's been six long years, and yes, thank you for going to Johanna. Even if I were able to leave my position, I'm not sure I'd have the energy. But I sense you can help her well.”

  “Thank you, Father. I also have a question. We talked the other day about the family portraits. It's possible that I may see them again while working for Johanna. If I find mine, I want to get it for myself. Do you have a desire for any of the others?”

  “Enough, Armand. We covered this before: Vincent was a good friend; he painted well; but he's gone; you are grown; I make my own decisions. It was an offer of 450 francs that I couldn't refuse. I of course miss the portraits of Mother and myself. Vincent finished Mother's painting, “La Berceuse,” the cradle rocker, when I had to leave for my new job in Marseilles. Vincent was recovering from his cut ear then, but I had to leave the family and him. What you don't understand is that whenever I looked at those paintings of Mother and myself, I felt sorrow and pain for Vincent. His life never got better after that. Please don't mention those paintings again.”