The Van Gogh Woman

"My pleasure to meet you, Miss Bonger.” He offered his hand, and Johanna took it. “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.” “Jo, this is Theo van Gogh, my good friend. Theo, my sister Johanna.” “How do you do?” asked Theo. “Very well, thank you,” replied Johanna. Theo didn’t take his eyes off her and unexpectedly she felt quite comfortable with him staring. “Thank you, Andries, for making the introduction.” He was more attractive than the grim man in the photo. This man smiled with his entire face, and even his eyes laughed. She’d imagined an avant-garde showman, trolling the streets of Paris with her too-handsome brother, freely hobnobbing with all the internationals who lived in the home of modern art. She hadn’t expected this tall, lean figure in an understated suit. His jacket was short and he wore no waistcoat. It was not at all the way Dutch men dressed, but he did maintain the familiar bowler hat. They strolled through the zoo, Andries behind them, tipping his hat to all the lovelies, young and old alike. “Your photograph doesn’t do you justice,” Theo said. “What do you think of my photo? Accurate?” “No, you appear younger and happier in person,” she said, smiling and excited by his openness in asking such a bold question. “You teach school and sell insurance?” They were standing in front of a large Gothic-style wrought-iron cage filled with lethargic monkeys dangling from tree branches. “I teach and work in the family business.” I sound like a parrot, she thought. “I suppose Andries told you everything.” “Yes, Andries said you are very good at managing the office. Two jobs—impressive.” Two jobs weren’t unusual for a Dutch woman. Two boring jobs. But he was complimenting her. “Do you like the insurance business?” “It’s very routine, but sometimes we save the day! Fix what is broken, replace what is stolen, restore order. There is power and purpose in that. But really there is no way to make insurance interesting to me.” Theo smiled at her in a way that told her he liked her answer, his eyes, a deep hypnotic brown color, crinkling at the corners. She felt it in the back of her head, making her lighter. This is already a good meeting, she thought. He offered her his arm and she asked him about his art dealing. “Every day is new. The art world constantly changes, and my mission is the change. New painters, new collectors, a new way of doing business. Bigger bets, planning the future, rather than simple transactions. Now the new trick is to identify an artist, assess his long-term potential, get exclusivity from him. Pay him money up front, house the work carefully, encourage critics to review the work. And it also helps to have a network of galleries, across Europe and America. Then a solo show, a whole room—one artist only. Then again, sometimes it is simple matchmaking between those who desire beautiful works and artists who live to create. Too long an answer?” “No, it’s fascinating—so much to think about—I never imagined. What if you choose a painter who doesn’t sell?” “Why he or she doesn’t sell would be the question. Financial challenges are part of the business, though we try to avoid bankruptcy.” Theo laughed, a low, rolling rumble, unexpected. “Your love of art, this is why you live in Paris?” she asked. “Paris is the center of the art world now; some say the capital of the world. I plan to open my own gallery, specializing in modern art.” “I am planning to spend my summer break from teaching in Paris, hopefully longer. With my good friend Fleur Dutcher.” “What excellent timing, Johanna. I could introduce you to the art world personally.” Andries broke in. She’d forgotten he was still with them. “Really Jo, Paris with Fleur? I didn’t know. Anyway, I need to leave. Theo, I trust you will return Johanna home?” He gave her a peck on the cheek and whispered in her ear, “Au revoir, Jo.” Theo acknowledged him with a bow. “Yes, I will make sure Jo gets home safely. Thank you. See you in Paris.” She and Theo walked farther into the zoo. He asked which way she would like to go, what she was interested in seeing. She had seen everything there a thousand times. She walked quietly, wishing she could study his handsome face and voice more. His voice was a deep baritone, and he emphasized each word as if he were on stage, making everything he said feel loaded with meaning. She wanted to make him laugh and hear that low rumble again. Theo led her to a bench shaded beneath a lush tree. Bright white flowers bloomed against the dark green leaves. For a moment there, under the flowering tree, the smell was sweet. She asked him questions about his work. There were no modern art dealers in Amsterdam so far as she knew. Modern art wasn’t known, much less popular. She hadn’t yet seen the paintings Andries had collected as investments and stored at Bonger Insurance. She would find a way to open them, to study them. She had read periodicals that were disparaging of the new artists and what was called the “impressionist” approach. But Theo made it sound interesting and elegant. His passion was infectious. “Each painter develops his own, or maybe her own, uniqueness—a new way, a total break from the past. And with the impressionists, they are exploring light and its effects for maximum chromatic impact. But so critical to the new movement is the artist’s selection of subjects. Real life, real people, working life, a celebration of the everyday.” “I love that idea,” Jo said. “Celebration of the everyday…so powerful.”