I can see the laser cameras, four of them, each overlapping to provide impenetrable beams around the Van Gogh painting – the Bridge at Langlois, Arles, hanging on the wall in front of me. We have just flown in from Amsterdam, having spent the previous two days at the Van Gogh Museum, studying the security surrounding two of the other Langlois bridge paintings. My preliminary assessment of this one, at Cologne’s Wallraf-Richartz Museum, is that the lasers can be beaten!
Daytime security only relies upon the eyes of two security guards, each monitoring three separate rooms, constantly moving between the spaces. I time their circuits at 180 seconds. I take high-resolution photos of the jointing on the picture’s frame. I map the exit: three turns, and then the automated doors. Nothing to fear here.
I leave the gallery and note the high lavender hedge that runs as an ornamental wall 100 metres from the entrance. I return to our hotel. Wendy’s hired motorised wheelchair has arrived and she is rapidly gaining confidence at the controls, running up and down the corridor. She comes back into the room and we spend the next few hours reviewing our MO.
The century-old frame will not be an issue. Zooming into my photo, we can see the old mitre joints – a fine, well-placed chisel will quickly tease the timbers apart. I have an overly large umbrella tube assembled and attached to the back of Wendy’s wheelchair. We now just need some wet weather.
The following day is sunny, we schedule a late afternoon visit to the Museum, anticipating weary guards as museum closure approaches. Wendy is in the chair, powering along the footpath, me at a trot, trying to keep up. Inside, we introduce ourselves to the security staff, Wendy suitably schmoozy, gushing over the wonderful collection, to beguile and imprint ourselves on their memory.
Mid-afternoon drizzle arrives the next day. The large umbrella keeps us dry between the hotel and the Museum, but the wheelchair drops water in the foyer. I conscientiously use a hotel bath towel to mop up the puddle. Security nods their approval.
Inside we admire the Rembrandts, the impressive collection of Albrecht Durer drawings, and the comprehensive collection of French Impressionist’s. Van Gogh is in an adjacent gallery and while Wendy engages the guards, I walk purposefully towards my appointment with Vincent.
The guards resume patrolling, and I have the painting off the wall and my chisel easing the timbers apart. I remove the top and bottom sides of the frame, quickly rolling the painting around the remaining two sides. Wendy arrives on cue, and the painting disappears into the umbrella tube.
We are outside, on the footpath, shielded by the lavender bushes and moving fast towards the hotel. Behind us, distantly, alarms wail as we collect hand luggage from the concierge and loudly flag a cab to the airport. A prearranged plan has the taxi dropping us at the train station: first class SNCF to Brussels.