If we had closer to fifty thousand dollars, we could potentially rent a space for a year and have a gallery of our own. We could find ways to promote ourselves and take the time to do the marketing, to play the games. We could finally have some power.
Yeah, we’ve talked about all of it. We’ve started planning, but we’ve barely been able to raise our heads and see over the horizon because we’ve been so obsessed with getting the cash to even get started.
What if we could actually do this with Stella? What if money wasn’t an issue?
“We don’t need to make any decisions tonight. Let’s sleep on it.” I’m desperate to close my eyes.
“I have dessert,” Lucie says, and pulls a joint out of her pocket. I don’t smoke. It makes me anxious and nauseous. I wish I could though. I wish there were a drug that would gift me the right amount of oblivion when I need it.
“We can fucking do this.” Lucie sucks in a long inhale.
Weed makes Lucie feel invincible. I know this shift well. I’ve seen her pick a fight with bartenders who’ve overcharged us. She once borrowed a teenager’s skateboard outside the Sacré-Coeur and attempted a kick flip. She nailed it.
“It’s insane,” I say. “Insane that we are talking about this at all. Insane that we have a real Van Gogh in our living room right now.”
“But so is this.” Lucie spreads her arms wide. “It’s insane how much we have to struggle just to make ends meet and to get people to notice us. We deserve something better, something more. And no one is going to just give it to us.”
I interrupt her rant. “To be fair, Stella did give this to us.” I gesture around the room. “She got all of us here. Brought us together. She changed our lives.”
“We should help her,” Colette whispers. “What do we have to lose?”
“A lot,” I mumble. “We need to know more. We should talk to Stella tomorrow.”
We sit in a circle on the floor, the way we did before we got the three-legged table. We’re so close. Our knees are touching. I stare around the room for a moment. Every spare inch of wall is covered in art we’ve either made ourselves or purchased from the Fleas. We hang it according to shape and color, finding complementary lines and shades each time we add something new. It’s a science in a way, and if we ever move I want to exactly replicate the position of every piece.
We lean our heads toward one another. It means more to me than any prayer, this connection between us. It’s better than any drug.
We stay like that for a minute, then another. I don’t know who grabs whose hand first, but eventually we’re locked together. I squeeze. We are each other’s anchors. They squeeze back, their fingers warm inmine.
10
Claire
A drink isthrust into my hand, and I give Anna Veth a thankful glance. Though I have never been much of a drinker, it has always helped me to relax in social situations where I find myself of inferior mind.
Anna grasps Jo’s elbow firmly and nods to me to flank her other side. We will be her armor at this party. I appreciate the inclusion of me in their little club.
Anna leads us to a trio of men chatting quietly in a corner.
“Gentlemen, may I introduce you to Jo van Gogh, wife of the late Theo van Gogh, and her companion, Claire. The two of them run the boardinghouse down the lane together.”
The man closest to us cocks his head to the side with interest. He is well-dressed in a bloodred velvet frock coat with matching trousers. With his clean-shaven face, he looks to be about Theo’s age, or the age Theo would be now, and I wonder if they knewone another. He reaches for both of our hands in turn and surprises me when he shakes them like a man’s.
“It is a pleasure to meet the wife of the man who so selflessly fought for the avant-garde,” he says to Jo.
“This is the artist Jan Verkade. I am sure you are familiar with his work,” Anna explains, taking an empty glass from one of the men and motioning for a passing waiter to refill it.
“I am.” Jo straightens up. “I know that Theo quite enjoyed it too. Did you know my husband?”
“Only by reputation, sadly. He is still spoken very highly of by Monsieur Gauguin. He calls your late husband a champion of the new Impressionists. I am so very sorry for your loss.”
“I appreciate your praise and your condolences. Theo did sell several of Paul’s paintings and I am sure he would have sold many more. If you see him, please give him my best.”
“Absolutely. Though he’s run off to those wild islands again and who knows when he will return. Paul did say that you moved here to Bussum and that you have an attic full of Vincent van Gogh paintings that he painted when they lived in Arles together. Is this true?”
“They are not in the attic. We have them on walls all over the house and many are in storage, to protect them from the elements. They are also with several galleries in Paris,” Jo lies.
Most of them are in the attic. Little Vincent often runs around them when the weather is poor and babbles to them like they are alive and might chat him back. And there are no Parisian collectors aside from Tina Segatori. But I understand Jo’s fib. She doesn’t want these men to think the paintings are merely accumulating dust. And she wants them to believe they are already in demand. She’d told me her aims going into this party. She is desperate to launch an exhibition of the paintings here in Holland, but she needs sponsorship and support. She needs to convince the Dutch that the Parisians already find Vincent’s art worthy.
