believe it is Dr. Gachet?” We shook hands, and he gestured up at his portrait. “A thing of beauty. Monsieur van Gogh, your brother is a giant. They will see.”
“It is the doctor who would like to see now,” Theo said. “Vincent is staying in Auvers, where the doctor lives.”
“This is the first time I have seen his work,” I added. “The portrait is magnificent. I would be very proud to be painted by him.”
“I am proud,” Tanguy responded. “Monsieur van Gogh feels as no one else does. He puts his heart on the canvas every time he lifts a brush. And if you sit for him, you will find that he puts your heart on the canvas as well.”
A harsh female voice called from the doorway at the back of the shop. “Julien! If you want to eat your supper, you must come now!” He rolled his eyes at us in the age-old gesture of the husband harassed by a shrewish wife, and held back the dark green curtains behind the counter.
“The stairs are there.” He pointed. He lifted two small lanterns from hooks on the wall. “You can light them?” he asked Theo, who nodded. “I’d best join my wife,” he added in a low voice and slipped through the doorway into the room beyond, where the aroma of long-stewed onions vanquished the chemical tang of the shop.
We stood awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs while Theo found a match safe in his pocket. “If you could open the doors,” he murmured to me, once we had light. “Now that I think of it, I should not have brought you here. What can we possibly see in this dim light?”
“Oh, but this is an adventure,” I said, my eagerness apparent in my voice. “We could be characters in a Dumas novel, hunting for hidden treasure.”
Theo smiled gratefully and led the way up the stairs, his lantern swinging gently, making the pool of light before him rock in response. Two flights up, he opened a door into an attic, even more pungent than the shop downstairs. As Theo looked for a place to hang the lantern, I tried to identify the different odors—turpentine was very strong, but so was the unmistakable scent of dead rodent.
“Here,” Theo’s voice said, as he reached a shelf where he deposited his lantern, which provided only a moderate glow. Even doubled by the light from my lantern, the area of visibility was narrow, dim, and wavering.
“This really is like a Dumas novel,” I remarked. “Or Aladdin’s cave. I feel there should be massive jars.”
“We never heard those tales growing up in Holland. Not in a preacher’s house.” Theo was busying himself with a pile of stretched canvases. “I doubt Vincent knows them to this day, though he is very well read. Oh, here we are. Most of these he painted in Paris a few years ago. Some were sent from the South. This, for instance.”
He pulled forward a picture of a coach resting against a brilliant yellow wall. Even in the shadowy room, the canvas crackled with heat. Green and red and black sizzled against each other, respectively the body, trim, and wheels of the carriage. I could almost hear the thrumming cicadas and the crunch of the dusty roadway beneath my feet.
“I begin to see what Tanguy meant about ‘feeling,’ ” I said.
Theo nodded. “This he painted here while he was living with me in Paris. An entirely different mood.”
“Ah, how lovely!” I exclaimed. It was a still life, a copper vase of fritillaries—their bell-shaped, golden blossoms and needles of leaves glimmered on the surface of the canvas. “What a color sense he has. Could the background have been anything besides that blue?”
“In a better light you’ll be able to see all the colors that make up the blue; it’s mixed with lavender, green, pink.… One doesn’t want to say it’s like a Monet—Vincent’s work is not like anyone else’s—but there was a moment when he was fascinated by Impressionist techniques.” As he continued to sort through the disorderly rows of canvases, I saw colors flicker past: ultramarine,
“It is the doctor who would like to see now,” Theo said. “Vincent is staying in Auvers, where the doctor lives.”
“This is the first time I have seen his work,” I added. “The portrait is magnificent. I would be very proud to be painted by him.”
“I am proud,” Tanguy responded. “Monsieur van Gogh feels as no one else does. He puts his heart on the canvas every time he lifts a brush. And if you sit for him, you will find that he puts your heart on the canvas as well.”
A harsh female voice called from the doorway at the back of the shop. “Julien! If you want to eat your supper, you must come now!” He rolled his eyes at us in the age-old gesture of the husband harassed by a shrewish wife, and held back the dark green curtains behind the counter.
“The stairs are there.” He pointed. He lifted two small lanterns from hooks on the wall. “You can light them?” he asked Theo, who nodded. “I’d best join my wife,” he added in a low voice and slipped through the doorway into the room beyond, where the aroma of long-stewed onions vanquished the chemical tang of the shop.
We stood awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs while Theo found a match safe in his pocket. “If you could open the doors,” he murmured to me, once we had light. “Now that I think of it, I should not have brought you here. What can we possibly see in this dim light?”
“Oh, but this is an adventure,” I said, my eagerness apparent in my voice. “We could be characters in a Dumas novel, hunting for hidden treasure.”
Theo smiled gratefully and led the way up the stairs, his lantern swinging gently, making the pool of light before him rock in response. Two flights up, he opened a door into an attic, even more pungent than the shop downstairs. As Theo looked for a place to hang the lantern, I tried to identify the different odors—turpentine was very strong, but so was the unmistakable scent of dead rodent.
“Here,” Theo’s voice said, as he reached a shelf where he deposited his lantern, which provided only a moderate glow. Even doubled by the light from my lantern, the area of visibility was narrow, dim, and wavering.
“This really is like a Dumas novel,” I remarked. “Or Aladdin’s cave. I feel there should be massive jars.”
“We never heard those tales growing up in Holland. Not in a preacher’s house.” Theo was busying himself with a pile of stretched canvases. “I doubt Vincent knows them to this day, though he is very well read. Oh, here we are. Most of these he painted in Paris a few years ago. Some were sent from the South. This, for instance.”
He pulled forward a picture of a coach resting against a brilliant yellow wall. Even in the shadowy room, the canvas crackled with heat. Green and red and black sizzled against each other, respectively the body, trim, and wheels of the carriage. I could almost hear the thrumming cicadas and the crunch of the dusty roadway beneath my feet.
“I begin to see what Tanguy meant about ‘feeling,’ ” I said.
Theo nodded. “This he painted here while he was living with me in Paris. An entirely different mood.”
“Ah, how lovely!” I exclaimed. It was a still life, a copper vase of fritillaries—their bell-shaped, golden blossoms and needles of leaves glimmered on the surface of the canvas. “What a color sense he has. Could the background have been anything besides that blue?”
“In a better light you’ll be able to see all the colors that make up the blue; it’s mixed with lavender, green, pink.… One doesn’t want to say it’s like a Monet—Vincent’s work is not like anyone else’s—but there was a moment when he was fascinated by Impressionist techniques.” As he continued to sort through the disorderly rows of canvases, I saw colors flicker past: ultramarine,
Similar Books
