Finding Vincent Read online

  I paused and realized I had not fully understood.

  “Father, thank you again for seeing me... and for talking. I'll go see Johanna and help in her quest. I'll return within three weeks.”

  Five

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

  After pleasant goodbyes with Mother, Camille, and Marcelle the next morning, I walked with Father to the Post Office. Father was headed to his job and I to the telegraph booth. My telegram to Johanna van Gogh would accept her request for assistance in Father's stead and forecast my arrival on Wednesday morning. Before entering the Post, Father and I said our goodbyes. He graciously extended a hand. I responded, “It been good to return home, Father,” and his smile astounded me.

  I sent the telegraph and arrived at the Marseilles central station in time for the departure to Paris. As the train left the big city, I gazed at the river banks with lush trees so different from Tunisia. This would be my first travel to northern France.

  The journey wore on and on, more arduous than expected. My route to Bussum in the Netherlands required the all day train northwest to Paris, and then multiple linking trains northeast through Brussels, Antwerp, and Amsterdam. I thought of the upcoming project. My communication skills and affinity for art made me a better match than Father for Johanna’s request. But this would be all new to me. I looked forward to new places and meeting people who had known Vincent.

  I waited in the Antwerp station on the second night to catch the early train to Amsterdam. A commuter train then took me southeast to Bussum. I thought of Paul Gauguin who had lived with Vincent seven years earlier. I never understood that situation. It seemed it also puzzled Father. I guessed both Gauguin and Signac would be on Johanna’s project list.

  When I finally arrived in Bussum, the quaint village streets gleamed with morning light. It was a sharp contrast with bustling Amsterdam. I strolled to Johanna’s Villa Helma - Boarding House for Gentlemen and Ladies and nervously pressed the doorbell. On my second ring a young woman opened the door. I regarded her questioning expression, her piled locks, and the worn apron.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “My name is Armand Roulin and I am here to see Johanna.”

  “Wacht even,” she said, leaving the door slightly ajar as she retreated. She did not appear to understand me. I waited.

  The door reopened and a petite woman with short dark hair looked at me, then said, “I am Johanna. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, nice to meet you, Johanna.” I offered my hand. “I am Armand Roulin. You wrote a letter to my father asking for his help. I hope you have received the telegram I sent two days ago. I am the son of Joseph Roulin, and I am here in his stead to help you in your research for Vincent van Gogh's art.”

  “Ah, yes,” she responded, looking at me more closely. “Won’t you come in? Thank you for your telegram. You are as early as I had hoped. It's a good time before my busy afternoon when my son returns from kindergarten, and I must also prepare dinner for my boarders. My kindermeid, Christine, will carry on without me until then. Let’s sit and discuss matters and see if we can make this work.”

  She pointed me into the small parlor. As I advanced through the entry hall I recognized Vincent’s painting of the Arles Hospital. Johanna responded, “I see you have an eye for Vincent. In the entry here we have the Fountain of St Remy and Arles Hospital Courtyard. Here in the parlor, over the mantle, is The Potato Eaters, a farm family from Vincent’s early days in Holland. Next to that is Vase with Flowers. This is Boulevard de Clichy from Paris. I have other artists here also, such as his friend Emile Bernard’s self-portrait and Japanese prints that Vincent liked.”

  I nodded appreciatively and decided to hold my questions. After we settled, Johanna inquired of my duties in the Army, of my family and Father, and of his relationship with Vincent. She asked how Vincent had worked with the Roulins in creating his portraits. She requested an overview of Vincent’s life and work. What little I knew was what Father had told me and my limited experience. I apologized for Father’s sale of all the family paintings to the Paris art dealer, Ambroise Vollard.

  “You are no expert on Vincent’s work, but you at least knew him fairly well. With your gift for conversation I believe you’d do well interacting with people Vincent knew. I’d like you to track down information on paintings and artists from his final two years in Arles, St. Remy, and Auvers-sur-Oise. I'd also like you to contact Ambroise Vollard and Paul Gauguin in Paris. How long could you devote to helping me?”

  “I have to be back in Marseilles for a boat to Tunis on June 29, and I’d like to spend a day with my family just prior.”

  Johanna thought for a short time then pulled out a small map of France. “I've sketched in the major train lines, cities, and villages for your research. Since you have little more than two weeks, this will be a challenge.” She handed me a list of names with places, and said, “Here, look this over as I think for a minute.”

  The itinerary included Lille in northern France and St. Tropez in southern France, as well as the other places Johanna had mentioned. I recognized the names of only three of the people on the list. I knew she would need to see me and discuss matters at the end of the research. My available time seemed too short.

  Finally, she looked up at me. “Well, Armand, my proposal is that you first interview everyone in northern France; that's six people. I'd also like you to visit the village and home where Vincent lived his last months, Auvers-sur-Oise. You'll return then to discuss matters with me before you go south for the last two people in St. Tropez and Arles. You won't have to return here afterwards. Just send me letters on your findings. You can see your family before returning to Tunis. That should work.”

  I nodded before Johanna continued, “You can organize your visits in northern France based on available trains and your encounters. But I would like you to start with Ambroise Vollard, the art dealer in Paris. I'm not sure he'll talk with you. We are competitor's for Vincent's art. I'd like to know what works he has, understand his goals, and see if there is a basis for communication. It's possible that I'd buy a particular piece. After each of your visits please send a letter with the information you obtain. Again, you'll return here after completing northern France and we'll talk through the results.”

  Johanna paused, then said, “The more information you gather, the happier I’ll be. For each person list the paintings they now have, plus other paintings they've owned or remember. Take complete notes about each person and what they remember of Vincent. I’ll pay for your voyage and also match your Army pay for the period. If you do well, I’ll provide an adder.”

  “I couldn’t ask for more,” I responded. “I’m excited about this opportunity. My appreciation of Vincent has grown. It started when I heard Father had sold my portrait to Mr. Vollard. My interest increased when Father showed me your letter. Now it is more so as I see Vincent's wonderful paintings in your home.”

  “My husband, Theo, believed greatly in his brother. It’s the basis for my current mission and why I work to preserve Vincent's paintings. Additional information will help me better organize the undated letters Vincent wrote to Theo and create a complete list of works. The letters have fortunately provided many names of Vincent’s artist friends and cohorts. Let's go through the list.”

  “OK,” I said. “The only names I recognize are Gauguin, Signac, and Vollard. I hope that everyone is available.”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “I hope so.”

  We spent the major portion of an hour reviewing each person and location. I felt Johanna's ardor for the project. Besides her desire to find Vincent's works, she wanted to find a means to deal with Ambroise Vollard and Dr. Gachet, both of whom had several of Vincent's paintings. She also wanted me to look for hints whether Paul Gauguin had severed Vincent's ear. She was not convinced Vincent had done that to himself. Gauguin had left Arles immediately after that episode. Johanna also asked that I learn of Vincent's last days and suicide. Dr. Gachet was involved there. The
o died six months later.

  As we finished our review of the project, I thanked Johanna for her thoroughness. “I’ll be well prepared for each meeting, and I’ll send update letters. I'll send a telegram before I travel back here. I'll arrive no later than June 23rd.”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” she said and handed me an envelope. “Here are 300 francs to cover expenses. Keep a tally; we'll balance on your return.”

  “Thank you. I hope to provide useful results.”

  “I’ll pray for such.” She glanced at the wall clock. “Well, I see our time is gone. It's fortunate that you consented to standing in for your father.” She rose, waited for me to pack, then led me to the entry. A young lad was just reaching up to press the bell.

  “Hej Mor!” young Vincent greeted his mother, and then eyed me with an inquisitive look. She hugged him lovingly and introduced her son.

  Johanna extended her hand; “Thank you for your interest, Armand. I wish you good luck. See you by the 23rd!”

  “Good bye.” I walked to the station absorbed in thought. I’d be busy: only seventeen days before my boat to Tunis, eight locations to visit, many interviews, a return trip to Johanna. It would be an incredible challenge.

  Sunflowers, 1889, Van Gogh museum, Amsterdam

  * * *

  Marseilles: Roulin family

  Bussum, Netherlands: Johanna van Gogh

  Paris: Ambroise Vollard; Paul Gauguin

  Meulan-en-Yvelines: Ravoux family

  Pontoise: Dr. Gachet

  Auvers-sur-Oise: Vincent's van Gogh's last residence (previous Ravoux family inn)

  Eragny-sur-Epte: Camille Pissarro

  Lille: Emile Bernard (Madeleine)

  St. Tropez: Paul Signac

  Six

  Thursday, June 13 – Friday, June 14

  The buzz of Paris contrasted sharply with the tranquility of Bussum. As I negotiated the Gare du Nord station, I paused for a snack, obtained a map, and asked a few questions. An elderly gentleman oriented me to the ninth arrondissement location of Ambroise Vollard’s gallery and to Montmartre hill where Johanna and Theo had lived.

  Two kilometers west of the station I found the gallery at 39 rue Lafitte. I peered through the windows and virtually jumped as I saw my portrait on an easel. The listed price was 450 francs, the amount Father had received for all seven paintings! My eyes rested on a sign indicating the van Gogh exhibit would last through June. I studied the paintings closely and wished again to have my portrait. I recognized several paintings: a portrait of Madame Ginoux; my mother with baby Marcelline; the café terrace and Vincent's house on Arles’ Place du Forum. Vollard's gallery was full of his paintings, and suddenly I felt Vincent would become as famous as Johanna hoped. I suspected I’d have a difficult time obtaining information, but I looked forward to soon meeting the dealer.

  A new theater, La Cigale, lit up the skyline as I started my climb up the steep Montmartre hill. I found Johanna and Theo's previous apartment and the nearby apartment that Theo had shared with Vincent. A sense of the young artist and his art dealer brother inspired me. The neighborhood was alive with activity.

  Pere Tanguy’s gallery was nearby. It had been closed and boarded since his death a year earlier. Johanna had told me that he had stored paintings for Vincent and his friends. A missing second-floor window pane enabled me to hoist myself into the building. As my eyes adjusted, I slowly paced the vacant room and imagined stacked paintings. A closet door piqued my interest. Scattered inside were broken frames and a single shredded canvas. In the low light I discerned a a country scene with a distant house bordered by a road and trees. In the lower right corner was a signature, E Bernard 88. Why he’s one of the painters I’ll visit! I reflected.

  After descending again through the window, I climbed further up the hill and found a hotel room and café. At dinner I learned from the waiter about the nearby construction site with white stone walls at the very top of Montmartre.

  “Ah,” he said, “that will be a church. It has taken ten years so far, and will take many more to complete. It is called Sacre Coeur and will be visible from all Paris!”

  As I knocked and opened the door of Vollard’s gallery, my eyes darted immediately to my portrait. It renewed my confidence. “Bonjour,” I said as I looked around the gallery. I heard a shuffle from behind a partition. A large bearded man swung into the salon and eyed me intently.

  “Bonjour, how can I help you? Are you interested in this artwork?” As he asked his question he peered more closely and then burst out, “Why you are the boy in this portrait by Vincent! You are now a man, but you are he. Vincent captured your essence! Do you wish to purchase your portrait?”

  “No, I wish I could, but I do not have such funds. I am here on behalf of a woman in Amsterdam, Johanna van Gogh. She’s the widow of art dealer Theo van Gogh, brother of Vincent. She will be very impressed to learn of your current exhibition!” I waited patiently for his reaction.

  Ambroise stared at me; I had his attention. He squinted his eyes under thick brows. “I have written to Johanna and proposed purchasing a few of Vincent’s paintings. I have not yet met her, but I would like to do so. Tell me more, young man.”

  I smiled inwardly. “I will be openly frank. With her boarding house and child she cannot travel. So she has bid me to do her desired explorations. Johanna would consider purchasing some of Vincent’s paintings from you. She did not indicate willingness to sell. Regardless of whether she could purchase paintings, she would appreciate knowing about those that you own and others of which you are aware. She is developing a full list of Vincent’s lifetime work.”

  He frowned a second, then roared, “How dare you! How dare her! As you so frankly state her goals and needs, I frankly tell you to leave my establishment - now! We are competitors for Vincent’s art, and I see no reason to aid Johanna!”

  Ambroise adamantly waved towards the front door. I rose and exited slowly without the normal adieu, but mentally noting every painting I could see.

  I walked quickly up the street and regretted having come so ill-prepared. I imagined starting more slowly, building a picture of Johanna’s work to increase awareness of Vincent’s painting in her native Holland. She was not competing; she was aiding the overall market. There had to be a way to gather the information Johanna wanted. There were at least twenty paintings in the gallery, so I quickly jotted notes on what I had seen.

  Somehow I must become successful with Ambroise. I would send a letter to convince him to talk briefly with me in a couple of days. I’d now visit Arthur Ravoux and Dr. Gachet northwest of Paris, then return to Paris to see Ambroise and Paul Gauguin. My time was running short.

  Place du Forum with Vincent's Cafe and house, 1888, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

  Seven

  Saturday, June 15

  Before departing Paris, I left a letter for Ambroise that apologized for my approach and vouched Johanna's collaboration to increase awareness of Vincent's work in her native Holland. I wrote that she understood him to be a Paris art dealer and would share her information with him.

  The next morning's horse-carriage ride to Meulan-en-Yvelines crossed the Seine River near Argenteuil's beautiful chateau, then followed the river to Meulan. The driver quickly found Arthur Ravoux's brasserie on the town square. He had owned the auberge in Auvers-sur-Oise where Vincent had lived his last 70 days, then he had moved to Meulan two years later.

  After paying the driver, I approached a waiter serving lunch and inquired for the owner. He bid me wait and then retreated inside. A young woman soon appeared and walked towards me. She asked if I was searching for Monsieur Ravoux, so I briefly explained my visit.

  She smiled and said, “I know Father will be glad to talk with you. He loved Vincent and his work and was so sad when he died. However, he is is busy in the kitchen now. I am his daughter, Adeline. I can tell you what I remember of Vincent before Father is available.”

  I was taken aback by this young woman's easy intelligen
t poise, thin figure, and honey-blonde locks. “Thank you, Adeline,” I said, searching for words. “Do you have a spot for us to sit where I can take a few notes?”

  “Yes, follow me; we can use the parlor.” After we settled she pointed at a nearby painting. “Let's start here. Vincent asked my parents if he could do my portrait. It was five years ago, when I was fourteen. At first I didn't like it, as I seemed too old. My parents said it was too blue, too exaggerated. But we have come to appreciate it.”

  I studied the portrait closely and looked again at Adeline. Vincent had so well captured her deep blue eyes. She appeared close to her current age.

  Adeline continued, “Vincent called it Symphony in Blue. I was dressed in blue, with a blue hair ribbon. I sat only one afternoon, and he painted two other portraits from that one.”

  I had to smile, and said, “It is amazing how Vincent captured your maturity, spirit, and serious side.”

  “Well, sitting still for two hours is serious. Now let me think some more. He was with us such a short time. He painted many landscapes while he was here, but I only remember this one on the other wall, the Auvers town hall. He painted it from the sidewalk in front of our inn on Bastille Day. It was decorated with banners and lanterns. I have always liked this simple painting. The small hall is surrounded by greenery and a gray sky. Vincent did that in a single morning.”

  When I nodded, Adeline said, “I'll now tell you what I remember of the man. I never really talked with him, only a few polite words. He was very quiet unless he talked with another artist. I saw him get into excited conversations with other Dutch painters who boarded with us. I do remember that he liked my younger sister, Germaine, just a baby. He would smile at her and say “Bonjour” every morning. After breakfast he went into the village or country to paint. He returned for lunch and painted in the salon in the afternoon. He was always calm and composed. His French was very well spoken with a Dutch accent. I remember when he died, but most of what I know is what Father told me. It's best to hear that from him.”