Les Furnanz - Finding Vincent

I was seventeen when Vincent van Gogh painted me in my yellow coat with black hat and white necktie. He had captured my emotions of uncertainty and hope. I still saw myself that way. Now at age twenty-four I wondered if I'd ever see my painting again.

This would be my first visit home in France since I joined the army in 1889. It had been several months after Vincent left Arles. He had given Father a portrait of each family member, all dearly valued. While at my base in Tunis a year later I learned of Vincent's death in northern France. I wished then to again view his paintings. As I reread Father's recent letter, I paused where he noted selling those works. I pondered how and why.

Father, the postman of Arles, had wanted me to be a blacksmith. He felt it would be better than his trade as a postal sorter. So he scraped for funds, and when I turned fourteen he sent me to Lambesc village for a six-year apprenticeship. He had known the master blacksmith in his youth. It didn't take me long to know the trade wasn't for me. However, I realized I'd never be able to discuss this with Father. I stayed in Lambesc for four years. Yet, when I was able and ready, I joined the army in Tunisia. The move was right, but I still regretted using Father's limited funds and disappointing him.

I'd initiated this voyage home in March. Wanting to set things straight, I'd written Father a letter of apology. I proposed a visit to see the family. I received his response within a month. He was positive to my visit, but expressed little emotion. Not being a good writer, he had dictated to my brother Camille with a family update. It was more news than I'd expected, and it encouraged me to go forward. However, he did not offer forgiveness. His final words noted the sale of our Roulin family portraits. His closing salutation, Thank you for your letter, Armand. It will be good to see you, seemed distant. I then realized I'd need to bear his grim attitude.

Mother, my brother Camille, and my sister Marcelle would understand me better. That would help me remain patient with Fathers resentment. Mother would exuberantly show love and appreciation, but shed avoid any expressions that irritated Father. Shed be sure to listen, but not have much interest in the army or Tunisia. I was excited to see my brother and sister. Camille was now nineteen, my age when I left France. We would joke and he'd tell of his explorations and plans. He'd be interested in my life. Marcelle was now eight. I'd be entirely new to her; she'd been only two when I left.

My thoughts returned to the present. My boat had sailed a few days earlier and would land soon in Marseilles. I walked the upper deck and gazed at the Mediterranean. France's coastline, barely visible on the northern horizon, called me. The calm vista invited reflection. Should I reenlist or opt out of the army? My obligation was for only six more months. This would be a tough call, as I enjoyed the army life. But my career prospects seemed limited, and recently I felt lonely and isolated. It would be nice to meet a pretty woman and perhaps marry. I imagined her and wondered how we could meet. My mind wrestled with endless possibilities.

The waters grew almost still; small ripples lapped at the hull. After what seemed endless musing, drowsiness eventually brought me to my bunk for the night.

Armand Roulin, 1888, Museum Folkwang Essen

Camille laughed and grinned. Its been six years since youve talked to any of us, and now you want to tell us about the world? Tunisia, yet! You couldnt even remember our new President Faures first name.

Felix! Felix Faure! I replied. I have to admit it took me a few seconds, but I got it. Now tell me what hes done since taking office. You just got your Bac diploma. I didnt have that chance; so preach to us about what hes done!

Nothing! Marcelle interrupted laughingly, her eyes gleaming with wisdom.

Thats right, continued Camille. He was elected as the only Republican nobody disliked. Its the same now; nobody likes him; nobody dislikes him. He wont commit to anything.

Ill drink to that, I added, as we raised our wine glasses.

My father appeared looser as he offered, Its always the same. Frances so-called Third Empire is a joke too conservative we need liberals who can take care of us commoners. Look at me. Im in charge of all mailbags for Marseilles's 8th arrondissement post office. My wages barely cover our rent, meals, and this small bit of wine.

Weve heard this story before, Camille interjected. He looked quickly at Father and stared longer at me. Father glared at the two of us.

Why do we get this stare? I asked. Father, you've persevered at the Poste and you've kept this family clothed and fed. I agree you should be paid more. Remember when we lived in Arles and you earned even less? You moved the family for the better.

Thank you, Armand, replied Father. Camille, youre getting too arrogant. Now that you have your Bac, I can kick you out. Watch your mouth. I'm always thinking of us. Look how I sold our family paintings this year. It gave us money for a rainy day. I loved those paintings by Vincent, but family comes first.

Father, I cant understand this, I responded. Vincent painted many, many portraits of us: Mother, Camille, Marcelle, several of you, two of me. He had you choose one of each of us as his gift to the the family. We were thrilled. I had no idea that you were selling them. Those paintings meant so much. This hurts.

Father shifted in his chair. Look, Armand, a young art dealer from Paris, Mr. Vollard, visited me last month and made me an offer for those five portraits. It was 450 francs, two months salary! I dont want to hear any more on this. Theyve always been my paintings painted for me by my friend Vincent.

Father paused. I thought of how his transfer to Marseilles had prevented him from helping Vincent after he fought the painter Paul Gauguin. Vincent had cut off his own ear and ended up in St. Remy Asylum. Perhaps Father was feeling guilty.

I looked back at Father and he glared at me squarely. If youre not careful, Ill grill you about why you left the apprenticeship. You only had two years to go!

I couldnt hold his gaze. I looked at Mother. We're not getting anywhere, are we? When should we prepare dinner, Mother? Id be glad to set the table.

Thanks, she said with relief. Lets eat early. Ill show you the dishes and flatware. Father shook his head, trying to hold back his tension.

The dinner started with a strained tone, but we avoided confrontation. Camille and I finally started trading jibes, emphasizing our heroism. Father and Mother allowed the banter longer than expected.