Leaving Van Gogh by Carol Wallace Read Free Book Online Page B

of the doorbell announced that the devotee of traditional landscapes had departed, and Theo stood up. “I don’t believe I’ll be forfeiting any sales if I close now. I could take you to see some of Vincent’s paintings, if you like. You will forgive me for not taking you to my home—we have many of them there—but we have a new baby, and to be honest, Vincent left the place as if a whirlwind had gone through it.” Now the anxiety of the new father peered through the polish of the art dealer; Theo had so many sources of worry for a young man.
    “Of course,” I told him, putting as much sympathy into my voice as I could. “I have two children myself. They’re older now, but when Marguerite was small we lived in Paris like you. I know how difficult it is.” Actually, I did not. I could not really know how life was for Theo van Gogh, who had to take care of a wife, a new baby, and a brother who was prone to nervous difficulties.
    He moved around the gallery, extinguishing the lights, then closed and locked the steel shutters. He led me out the back door, through a courtyard. “We bring the canvases through here,” he said. “Most of the big Salon-style productions go to the main branch of the gallery, on rue Chaptal, of course. Few of my clients have room for that kind of enormous painting. I think, and so does Vincent, that art buyers are looking for something completely different now, anyway.”
    “You mean easel pictures?” I asked, as we emerged onto the street and he locked the outer door.
    “Oh, of course. But more than that. Vincent believes that colors, certain combinations of colors, can prompt or express emotion. You will see,” he added, heading up the street. “I am taking you to Père Tanguy, the paint seller. Vincent left some canvases with him. We’ll go up by Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. Do you mind walking? It is a lovely evening.”
    “Not at all,” I answered. “I will be delighted to go to Tanguy’s. I have met him several times, but I’ve never visited his shop. Tell me, did your brother have any formal training?”
    “He spent some weeks at the academy in Antwerp but could not submit to the discipline. Here in Paris he took lessons at Cormon’s studio, but in truth he is more or less self-taught. You will see, his paintings have none of the technical expertise taught at the École des Beaux-Arts. With Vincent, it is more a matter of …” He hesitated for a moment. “I can only say that he sees the world as no one else does. Naturally this makes his paintings difficult to sell. But … Well, you will see.”
    Tanguy’s tiny store was wedged into a small building on the rue Clauzel, off the rue des Martyrs. If Boussod and Valadon represented the official face of Parisian art, with its chandeliers and crimson carpets, chez Tanguy was its other face, all charcoal dust and pungent fluids and shiny lead tubes. I had been in shops like this before. There were always poorly groomed men standing around arguing about the shape of a brush or the flexibility of a palette knife, the grain of a canvas or the luster of a glaze. Even at this late hour, the shop was open, though there was only one customer, choosing between a pair of palettes that the bearded, burly Tanguy held out for him. I glanced around, pleased by the familiar clutter of stacks of paper, jugs of brushes, and the wall of tiny drawers to store the pigments for oil paint.
    But then I caught sight of the portrait. Instinctively I knew that Vincent had painted it. I had spent only an hour in his company, but the picture obviously came from that vigorous, discerning sensibility. The subject, Tanguy himself, in a blue jacket and wide-brimmed hat, sat in the center of the canvas, looking out, not directly at the viewer but somewhat down. He seemed to focus on the body of the viewer—possibly on the heart? Behind him was a patchwork of Japanese prints painted in brilliant colors; a glowing blue, saffron, emerald green. Directly to