Finding Vincent

by Les Furnanz

  Signac nodded when he heard the names, then replied: “Tonight is out of the question. I’m finishing up here before heading home to dinner. But if you are up for an afternoon sail, I could talk with you tomorrow.”

  “I’m no sailor, but, yes, when can I meet you?”

  “Good, see you just after lunch at my boat.” He pointed at his dockside sailing dinghy and confirmed my nod.

  I dined alone at an outside table and reflected on my situation with Adeline. I realized I was gaining confidence in my life and simultaneously becoming hesitant about settling down. A final decision would be difficult.

  The next afternoon Paul had me sit near the bow of his dinghy. He placed oars in the locks and untied from the wharf. Then he rowed slowly through the harbor. As we rounded the protecting spit, the afternoon wind fluffed our hair.

  “I’m about to bring up the sail. Please sit on the side from where the wind comes. I don’t expect you to be a sailor, just a good passenger. We can talk in a minute.” He headed the bow into the wind and turned the crank to bring up the sail. He then turned back downwind and sailed towards Ste. Maxime.

  “The wind is on our port side. We're sailing on a broad reach, but I won’t bore you with sea jargon. Just enjoy! What would you like to know about Vincent?”

  “Everything you can tell me about his life and art that could be helpful to Johanna. Her goal is to publish Vincent’s letters and display his art to the world.”

  “It won’t take me long, as my relationship with Vincent was limited. I first met him in Asnières near Paris, where I lived eight years ago. He stayed for several weeks during the summer with my painter friend, Émile Bernard. We would place our easels along the Seine River near the bridge, Pont de Clichy. We painted very differently. He experimented with techniques similar to Bernard and Gauguin. I used a style similar to George Seurat's, pointillism. Vincent and I loved color: its powers and contrasts. But we didn’t talk about private matters, so I never felt I knew him very well.” Paul hesitated.

  “Do you know the whereabouts of those paintings?”

  “No, Vincent told me that his brother stored most of his paintings and hoped to sell them one day. That summer period was short, and afterwards I would occasionally see Vincent in Paris. I actually kept in better touch with his brother.”

  “What were your dealings with Theo?”

  “I went to exhibitions he arranged for Claude Monet, Edgar Degas, and Camille Pissarro. In fact, he once displayed some works by my friend George Seurat. Unfortunately he never displayed my works – but we were on good terms.”

  “What else do you know of Vincent?”

  “I heard that Vincent moved to Arles. In the spring of 1889 Theo contacted me. He knew that I was traveling to Cassis to paint for the spring and summer. He asked me to pay a visit to Vincent at the hospital in Arles. Theo was preparing for his own wedding and had no time to attend to his brother just then. He shared the details of the falling out between Vincent and Paul Gauguin a few months earlier. I agreed to the visit and committed to write him with my news.”

  “Vincent’s appearance at the hospital shook me. He wore a fur hat and his ear was bandaged. He was so depressed. I obtained approval from the hospital to take Vincent out for the day, and we walked into Arles' center. He livened up; started talking of painting, literature, even socialism. He wanted to have lunch at his favorite café near his yellow house on Place Lamartine.”

  “That was where my father and Vincent would hang out!” I broke in.

  “Why, yes!” Paul responded. “We wound our way through a maze of streets and found his café.”

  The enclosed harbor at Ste. Maxime was now near, and Paul started to turn the boat into the wind. He motioned me to cross to the other side and duck my head. Then he swung the sail and completed the half circle back towards Saint-Tropez. “We’ll return upwind now. You'll feel its strength.”

  Paul resumed, “Vincent spirits further improved as we ate lunch, and then he took me to visit his yellow house. He showed me his work from the previous summer. He had started with sunflowers, and then in the fall he painted portraits of the townsfolk, with special emphasis on your family. He also did various regional scenes. He called this part of the collection Toiles de 30 – Decoration, because he painted on large canvases – three feet by two feet. ”

  “Can you remember those paintings? Describe them?” I persisted to take notes despite the strong wind.

  “Many are embedded in my memory – an incredible mix of light, color, exaggeration. There were many sunflower paintings – bunches of three to over a dozen with colors from red to orange to pale yellow. The portraits were varied and exaggerated. Each personality came through strongly. I recognized the poet Eugene Bock because of his large nose and the background of dark sky and bright stars. I remember especially your father with his serious expression, grand beard, and blue postman's suit and hat. I liked Vincent’s painting of his yellow house. There was also a gloomy scene in an all-night café with a contrast of red, green, and yellow, and people who seemed to waste away. And the most amazing was the painting of Vincent’s bedroom – full of conflict – hope, desperation, loneliness.”

  I wrote fast with a few key words to keep up. “Do you know where the paintings are?”

  “I assume they were passed to his brother. I heard that when Vincent went to an asylum in St. Remy he asked Madame Ginoux, the café owner, to store his paintings for Theo. Vincent gave me one of his paintings that day. It was a small canvas and he called it Bloaters on a Piece of Yellow Paper. I still have it. Bloaters are funny little fish and Vincent laughed when he told me that the Arles police were also called ‘bloaters’.”

  “Would you be willing to sell that painting to Johanna?”

  “No, it is my only link to Vincent. A Paris art dealer, Vollard, also asked if I 'd sell it.”

  I shook my head and noted that Vollard was forever on the hunt. “Do you have any other information from that visit?”

  “While we were at the yellow house Vincent became reflective, then sad and tired. He even attempted to drink some turpentine! Of course I had to stop him. He was a long way from being his true self. I walked him back to the hospital before dark. He thanked me for the escape from his prison. The next morning I returned briefly to say goodbye. That was the last I saw him. I later heard of his suicide, and soon thereafter of the death of Theo.”

  “Do you have anything else for Johanna?” I responded, as I saw that we were already entering Saint-Tropez harbor. “Yes, I received a thank-you letter from Vincent just after my visit. I’d be glad to send it to her. I myself sent a letter to Theo about Vincent, so she probably has that.” “Thank you for all this information. I'll let Johanna know that you will be sending Vincent's letter. She'll greatly appreciate it. And your timing is perfect, as we are just now coming to the dock. Thank you also for the afternoon sail!

  Vincent's Arles Bedroom, 1888, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

  Twenty

  Friday, June 28

  Morning rays highlighted Arles’ Roman arena. My pace slowed as I realized how I missed this town. The next bullfight would be Saturday. Memories swirled of matadors and charging bulls. When the matador showed his prowess, the bull was released to the crowd’s cheers. As I ambled down rue Voltaire I spotted the doorstep where my first girl friend had waited. We’d hug before walking to our riverside hideout where we'd experimented with our 14-year-old bodies. Those days hadn't lasted long, for Father soon sent me to apprenticeship.

  As I turned toward Café de la Gare my mind returned to my mission. I hoped Madame Ginoux was available. For years she and her husband had welcomed Father from the Poste in the late afternoon. I didn’t suppose she would remember me. I knew she'd remember Vincent, the foreign painter who stayed in her inn and later established residence with flashy Paul Gauguin. They had both done her portrait.

  On my approach I looked across the square to Vincent’s yellow house where I had sat for my portrait. I
had come home for a November weekend from my apprenticeship. I remembered Paul Gauguin there as he painted an Arles scene on that same cold day. Had I sensed some animosity between those two? Paul had not responded to several of Vincent’s questions. It was the same month they had painted Madame Ginoux.

  It was just before the café's opening when I knocked. The door budged a crack and Madame Ginoux peeked out. “Oui?”

  “Bonjour, Madame Ginoux. I’m Armand, the son of one of your café regulars from a few years ago, Joseph Roulin. He asked that I make a special visit as he cannot abandon his postal position in Marseilles. He and I are working for Johanna van Gogh, the widow of Vincent van Gogh’s brother. Do you remember lodging Vincent about seven years ago?”

  She slowly opened the door, then looked me in the eye: “Of course I remember Vincent, the painter with the Dutch accent on top of his Parisian French; hard man to understand. And I remember the sad events with Paul Gauguin. I even remember you as a young man. Come in; I can talk a little.”

  This was the most that Madame Ginoux had ever spoken to me. I followed her to the salon where she pointed me to a chair. “Well?” she asked as she sat across a low table. She did not offer any refreshment, nor did she inquire about Father.

  “Vincent’s brother, Theo, died only a few months after Vincent’s death in 1890. His widow, Johanna, is working on establishing a public collection of Vincent's paintings. Any information you can provide will be helpful. She knows that Vincent had done several portraits of you, and she is willing to purchase them.”

  “I have no more of Vincent’s paintings. All I had were two of my portraits. I never really liked them. He was so proud of them; he thought they epitomized Arles women. I disliked Paul Gauguin’s portrait of me even more. I was seated in a false scene from my café with what he called women of the night in the background. Paul kept that painting for himself. Anyway, I lost track of my latest portrait by Vincent. The first one he gave me I have just sold to a dealer from Paris, a man named Ambroise Vollard. I have not sent the painting off yet. Wait a minute; I’ll show it to you.”

  Here again Vollard had beaten Johanna. Madame Ginoux left and returned with the portrait. While she did not appreciate it, her pensive spirit had been well captured.

  “Did you store Vincent's paintings when he went to the asylum at St. Remy?”

  “Yes, I kept them for almost a year until he asked me to send them to his brother in Paris. Vincent finally decided he would leave St. Remy, but not return to Arles. He went to a village north of Paris where he died.”

  “Yes, that was Auvers-sur-Oise.,” I said. “Please tell me what you most remember about him.”

  “For sure it was the whole relationship between him and Paul. Vincent always seemed serious. But when Paul came to Arles I could feel Vincent’s increased stress and tension. Paul acted like he was the master. I liked him at first, but then I saw how he mistreated Vincent. The two men painted in very different styles. I preferred Vincent’s approach. He really captured the feeling of a scene or portrait. Paul’s paintings were dreamy. When they painted my portrait at the yellow house, I was seated for just an hour. Paul only sketched me, but Vincent completed an entire painting. Paul took the best position for the painting, right in front of me. Vincent just had a side view. I thought Vincent painted better, but for some reason Vincent looked up to Paul.”

  Madame Ginoux shook her head and continued: “As time went on I noticed the friction building. They came to our café almost every evening and I sensed conflict. There were disagreements about painting or artists. And then it all came to a head.” She paused, looked intently, and said: “I remember well the night that Vincent cut off his ear. Vincent and Paul drank a lot. I heard Paul telling Vincent that his painting was too ‘straight;’ it did not ‘interpret life’ or ‘talk to people.’ Vincent was very disturbed and upset. They left separately and later I heard that Vincent was in the hospital and that Paul Gauguin had left town.

  She continued: “Rough days followed. Vincent was never able to regain his confidence. I tried to help him, as did your father. After Vincent went to the hospital Theo wrote and asked that I watch after him, and I did visit him a few times. Many months later Vincent wrote me to request shipment of his art to Theo. He was ready to leave St. Remy. I always regretted that we never visited him there.”

  “Just one more question, please. I heard through Johanna that Vincent painted several portraits of you at St. Remy based upon Paul Gauguin’s sketch. I understand that he sent one to you. Do you know where that painting...”

  “I lost that painting:” she cut me off. “I don’t know what happened to it. It reminded me of Paul’s sketch and of their fight. When he sent it, he wrote that he had painted four versions. I thought Vincent was still admiring Paul’s work; that he was lost in the past. I didn't see the other three. I know nothing of them. Best wishes in your continuing search for Vincent’s art. I must get busy and prepare the café for lunch. My job never stops.” She rose as she said, “My husband and I never leave Arles.”

  Surprised by the abruptness, I quickly gathered my notes, rose, then expressed my thanks. She escorted me to the door and we exchanged “Au revoir.”

  When I reached the square, I perused the yellow house and reflected on Vincent and his mysterious nature. I again remembered him painting me there. My interest in Vincent's art had grown considerably, and I wanted my portrait more than ever.

  Twenty-One

  Friday, June 28 and Saturday, June 29

  The afternoon train from Arles to Marseilles provided time to write my last letter to Johanna. The information about Signac and Madame Ravoux would complete her view of Vincent's work in France. My postscript again expressed my hope for the portrait.

  I now looked forward to two days with my family. It had been a significant and thrilling trip. I'd found love along the way and it was time to think of the future. My thoughts ran wildly. Three weeks ago I pushed myself to return and apologize to Father. Since then I’ve retraced Vincent’s steps in France and found Adeline. Yes, I truly love her, but can I really settle in France? I must return now to Tunisia and make the final decision.

  Unable to make headway on my dilemma, I nestled into my seat for a nap and awoke as the train pulled into Marseilles. Mother was alone when I arrived home, so I gave her a short recount of my trip. She was truly happy to have me back and enthralled by my adventures. I purposely withheld the information about Adeline. We talked about how things were going in Marseilles, and she sounded content.

  Camille arrived from school and acted just as he had when I’d last seen him. He only wanted to tease and laugh. “You better get your story straight for Father,” he advised. “He thinks he made a mistake to trust you with Johanna van Gogh’s project. He knows he has the perfect eye for art. He even posed for Vincent in his Poste dress blue uniform. You only wore your apprentice work clothes! At least I wore my Sunday best, and I was only eleven,” he laughed.

  “You’re still eleven,” I responded. “You have the same funny expression that Vincent captured on canvas.”

  Camille guffawed and sprang from his chair to circle me for a headlock. Just then Father opened the front door, so Camille backed off and we nodded to each other. Father stared at me firmly, “Look who we have here,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever return. Fill me in on how you did for Johanna. I want to know all the details.”

  “I certainly will, but it will take some time. Since Mother already has dinner ready, she asked that we dine now. I'll tell you all the details after our meal.”

  This was the first time I’d talked so authoritatively to Father. He seemed taken aback, but he didn’t object and the family gathered around the table. When supper was finished, Father led me to his favorite corner and declared: “Now’s the time, Armand.”

  As I spoke of my trip Father showed no interest in the paintings, but wanted to hear about the people I'd seen. He was captivated by my first interrupted visit to Amb
roise Vollard’s gallery and my successful return. He stated Vollard was a difficult negotiator in buying Vincent’s paintings from him. I kept back my own comments on that sale.

  Father listened intently when I told of my visit with Paul Gauguin. He was fascinated to learn of Paul’s fixation for the primitive life of Tahiti. He was disappointed that I had no new information about the fight with Vincent. When I recounted my visit to the Ginoux’s bar, he remarked on the great afternoons that he and Vincent had spent there. He was surprised to learn that Paul Signac painted and sailed at St. Tropez. I finished proudly when I told of Johanna's satisfaction and the bonus. Father then looked at the wall clock and commented, “Yes, you’re right, Armand. That took an hour. It is good to hear that you well represented the Roulin family.”

  When I asked if he had any more questions, he shook his head and thanked me. I could see that he wanted to call it a day, so I also took the opportunity to retire. I wrote a letter of love to Adeline before I settled for the night. We had agreed that she'd send me letters in Tunisia, so it would be several days before I'd see them.

  On awaking the next morning, I reminded myself to stay on warm and friendly terms with my family. The morning meal had always been a quiet household time, and today was no exception: Father left for the Poste; Camille departed for his job; Marcelline headed to school; Mother went shopping. After mailing letters to Johanna and Adeline, I found time for a cup of coffee at a harbor-side cafe where I mulled over my dilemma. Still with no resolution, I returned home for a family lunch before my afternoon boat departure.

  Our meal together was unforgettable. Father raised his glass and invited us to do the same. “In toast to all us Roulins, and a special toast to Armand. We wish you well on your return to the army, and hope you visit again soon! It has been a wonderful few days, and Armand has done well to help Johanna find Vincent’s art!” Father raised his glass yet higher. We followed his example and I thanked him wholeheartedly. Several toasts later, Camille and I became increasingly playful. At meal's end we all hugged each other and said our final good-byes. It was a time of gratitude, when all felt perfect with my family.