Men! Two husbands and a brother-in-law, dead or as good as! And now I am forced, by circumstance, into an industry dominated by self-important misogynists who dismiss me out of hand. It is time for women to stand up, to unite. I have joined the Social Democratic Labour Party, and steer the Women’s sub-committee. It’s time for change!
My musical and linguistic accomplishments, and my teaching skills all go unused in the hurly-burly of the art world’s demands for exhibitions and promotional soirees. Both are greased with large amounts of alcohol, opiates and braggadocio.
Aah, my Theo, I miss you so. I remember your note, just five years ago, asking me to come to Paris and marry you. We had barely met, just a few times when your work brought you to Amsterdam. Brash, youthful, but interesting. I let you dangle for the moment. I had my studies at the Institute to complete and I had an offer of work in London for a few months.
You never really got over Vincent’s death, blaming yourself for the physical distance between you two; he in Arles, you at the other end of the country, in Paris. Your grief took a toll, adding to the effects of the pox from your earlier whoring. Six months after Vincent’s suicide, you followed him into the soil.
I have little Vincent, my constant joy. We are left with a small apartment, widowhood and the shame of a family suicide. My darling Theo. I have your legacy of over 200 unsaleable paintings, hundreds of sketches, letters between you and Vincent – and no income! I need my wits to turn these intangibles into a livelihood.
Holland and my familial roots beckon. I leave Paris. I teach piano and use my French and English language skills in manuscript translations. I open a small boarding facility. I am making do, but Vincent’s legacy continues as my main project.
I force myself to reengage with the art milieu, following up with Theo’s old contacts, sometimes dancing to the tune of the gallery owners, just to secure one or two of Vincent’s paintings or sketches exhibited. I gift a painting to a friend. It generates interest and two paintings sell!
Vincent’s voluminous correspondence with Theo has marketing value. I compose a note, attaching two of the letters, and send them off to a publisher. They agree to publish and their editorial staff help me prepare the material for print. The initial run of 1,000 copies sells steadily, in the Netherlands, in France, the UK and eventually in the USA. I work on the translations of Vincent’s work into English. It is time-consuming!
I continue to wheedle the galleries. It happens slowly – the long-sought appreciation: sales start to happen on a regular basis and by the turn of the century, Vincent’s paintings, and the works of the others in this post-impressionist movement, begin to be sought by the collectors.
The family gains a steady income. A note from a legal friend advises me to ensure absolute copyright over Vincent’s writing, sketches and paintings remains within the family. In my will I ensure this is transferred from me to young Vincent, and to any future issue. The move is to pay off handsomely.
I am content. My son has married a wonderful girl, their first baby is due shortly. These days I tire easily.