“She left that part of her life behind when she came toAmerica. And when my mother died in childbirth with me, my grandmother buried anything that was left of that life with her. What you read in those letters is what I learned when I found them after she passed. She only gifted me ourSunflowersright before her own death. You have to understand that in those days women were not taught to see the value in their own stories. And like I told you, the painting was always meant to be my insurance policy.”
“But was it stolen?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Stella snaps.
As I think on this, Stella is clearly concerned with other things. She approaches my easel.
“Absolutely gorgeous. You captured everything so well, especially the uneven browns in the floor of Vincent’s room, the thick wrinkles on his pillows. They look slept on. Even the mistakes.” She points to a few globs of paint in the right-hand corner of the canvas that Vincent didn’t bother to wipe away.
“Thank you.”
“And what about your own work? Are you ready to return to it? In earnest?”
“Sometimes I don’t know why I bother.” I sigh.
“What you do is wonderful. I wouldn’t have chosen you if it weren’t.”
“You chose me because I’m an excellent forger.”
“That…and. There are plenty of reproductionists out there. You are talented. Incredibly so, and you will make a name for yourself in your own right.”
Why can’t I believe her? I know it’s because of all the bile Pascal fed me at the end of our affair, about how my work didn’t have any critical or commercial appeal, how I was worthless as a painter.
“I want to paint things people see, that they live with, paintings in galleries,” I admit. “It’s bold and narcissistic, but I want to have an impact and change people. I want my work to be desired and wanted.”
Her voice softens like that of a mother trying to soothe a small child. But she says all the right words. “It’s what most artists want, and most will never achieve it in their lifetime. Vincent is lucky he had Jo to carry on his legacy. Most people are not so lucky.”
“It’s impossible for me.”
“No, it is not. You will have resources. I’m going to help you.”
“It’s a shame you’re dead.” This elicits a smile.
“The art matters, but your story matters more. Vincent is the best example of that. Jo not only shared Vincent’s story, but she shaped it into something that people wanted to own a piece of. A misunderstood genius, a man who conquered his demons to create, someone beaten down by the critics and the establishment. Jo made him a legend.”
“And hardly anyone knows she’s the one who did that. Barely anyone outside a very small circle of art historians even knows her name.”
“Maybe we could change that as well,” Stella says slyly. “We do have a batch of letters between her and Claire. We could publish our own compilation. Perhaps leaving out a few unsavory details. And we’ll find a way to tell your story as well.”
“There is nothing interesting about me.”
“Now you’re being quite stupid. What you wrote to me in your application for the scholarship. Your mother’s illness and deterioration, how you kept the two of you alive and learned to paint in the midst of it. You thrived despite all your burdens. Aren’t you as fascinating as Vincent?”
“Maybe I should cut off my ear.”
“Terribly messy. And besides, I like your ears.” She smiles at me. “You know most people don’t know the real story of how Van Gogh lost that ear, or why.”
“Do you?”
“Indeed I do. But it’s for another day. Jo never even told the whole story publicly. She chose what she wanted people to knowabout Vincent. His story has been well curated. She was very cunning in that way. She molded the narrative until he became a celebrity of sorts. You can choose how to tell your story and you will have every resource at your disposal when we are finished.”
“Thank you for saying that,” I whisper, truly grateful.
“I say it because it is true. Write your own story. Be your own Jo van Gogh.”
After Stella leaves for herhotel, I flee my room for some sustenance.
The red blinking light on our answering machine catches my eye. I think both Lucie and Colette stayed out last night. They might have called to check in on me.
