Thanks to vangoghmuseum.nl

Johanna van Gogh-Bonger

Today I’d like to take a moment to honor one of the most important and most forgotten figures in Vincent’s work and life: Jo van Gogh-Bonger. Lovely, lovely Jo.

Jo married Theo van Gogh, Vincent’s brother, on May 2nd, 1889. Since Vincent died July 29th, 1890, Jo only met Vincent on a few occasions, all within the last three months of his life. She wrote him a handful of letters that speak for themselves. Here are her first words to him:

Dearest brother,                                                           8 May 1889

It’s high time that your new little sister came to chat with you and didn’t always just let Theo convey her regards. When we weren’t married yet I always thought: Well, I don’t really dare to write to Vincent about everything yet, but now we really have become brother and sister, and I would so much like you to know me a little and, if possible, love me a little.

For my part — it’s been the case for a long time — I’ve heard so much about you, both from Wil and from Theo — and here in the house there are masses of things that are reminders of you, when I find a nice little jug or a vase or something, then it’s always: Vincent bought that or V. liked that so much — scarcely a day passes when we don’t speak of you. [full letter]

Thanks to vangoghletters.org

Now, not only did this woman have a very sweet soul, but she also gave birth to Vincent Willem van Gogh (what a name to carry…), Theo’s son, on the 31st of January 1890. Vincent Willem ended up with all the paintings Jo had kept by her death in 1925, and in 1960 the Vincent van Gogh Foundation was founded based on their enormous family treasure; it still houses the largest collection of Vincent van Gogh’s work – “some 200 paintings, 500 drawings and 700 letters, as well as the artist’s own collection of Japanese prints” as they put it. But Jo is much more than the mother of Vincent’s nephew and heir. (Although, this photo of Vincent Willem in 1952 is positively delightful)

Thanks to vangoghletters.org

Theo inherited all of Vincent’s work upon his death (this was an unanimous family decision given that Theo had supported Vincent for almost the entirety of his ten-year artistic career), and then when Theo died six months later, Jo inherited everything.

I often consider Jo at that moment, who had been married for only a year and a half, given birth to a son and named him after her brother-in-law, her husband’s closest friend, and then watched both her husband and his brother die in the year following her son’s birth. Jo was 29 years old, quite alone, left with a one year old baby, hundreds of paintings and drawings and letters. What does Jo do?

In November 1891, ten months after her husband’s death, she wrote in her diary:

Besides the child he [Theo] has bequeathed me another task – Vincent’s work – to get it seen and appreciated as much as possible; keeping all the treasures that Theo and Vincent had collected intact for the child – that, too, is my work.

Within the next few months, she resolved to organize all of the letters Theo had kept of Vincent’s, to edit, translate, and publish them. This task, creating the first complete publication of the letters between Theo and Vincent, would take her twenty-two years. That’s over twice as long as Vincent spent painting.

Now while there were certain passages suppressed and certain liberties taken to protect some individuals (all of which was quite normal for the publication of letters at the time), no one can doubt the enormity of her undertaking… Most of the letters had no date and her notes reveal she had a very difficult time finding the correct order (and she was still wrong on various points). It is additionally astounding that she financed the publication herself. It would be seven years before she recouped the cost, let alone made a profit from her publication. And while she was organizing, editing and translating, she also endlessly promoted Vincent’s work through exhibitions and sales. What would have happened if it weren’t for Jo? I believe that she, more than anyone other single figure, secured Vincent’s legacy. Theo kept Vincent alive, Jo kept him remembered.

However, what always strikes me deep in my heart is what she did upon completing this incredible project. When Theo died in 1891, he had been buried in Utrecht, in the Netherlands, in his homeland. In 1914, Jo had Theo’s remains moved to Auvers-sur-Oise, where he could rest forever at Vincent’s side.

Thanks to wikipedia.org

And in their death they were not divided. (2 Samuel 1:23)

That was your motto for the publication of all the letters, Jo.

On behalf of so many, I would like to thank you. Thank you for your love, your dedication, your time, your energy… Thank you, Jo, for saving him. I really believe you did.

August 25th, 2009
Hotel, first night in Arles
9:45am

I had a dream where I time traveled. However, this was no run of the mill time travel. I used no power other than my own force, my will power. I sat in a room and said to myself, I will go back thirty years to before I was born – 1979 – and I had some things to tell my parents. It was my first attempt, a first test. The room began to swirl, my heart pounded, I fell to the ground. I felt myself continuing to fall and fall, down through a series of spirals, then climbing up to a plateau. All this time I never physically left the room, my oldest friend sat there and watched me. It was as though the room had turned into a falling elevator – but she felt nothing.

Once I had recovered, was on said “plateau,” I began to write. I said nothing to my friend, but scribbled notes nonstop. She asked me if I was okay, I nodded gruffly. My head was somewhere between the past and present, what I wrote could affect the past. I took notes on truths I discovered, about what my parents did or thought. My words created the past, changed the past, knew the past like I never could…

Perhaps someone else out there knows what I mean when I say that writing is time travel – particularly nonfiction. I feel that I have always tried to bring my reader into my skin with my work, but with the subject of Vincent van Gogh, well… If his paintings transport me, then my writing must transport you too, Reader. If his licks of paint touch me through the threshold of his paintings, I must bring your cheek within his reach. The more I write about him, the more I have come to understand his spirit. It is not the details of his life so much that interest me, nor the details of his paintings, nor of his fame. I gather all those pieces, and bend them into mirrors. I use them to reflect his light from around the sphere.

For look: people used to think that the earth is flat. That was true, and still is today, of, say Paris to Asnieres.
But that does not alter the fact that science demonstrates that the earth as a whole is round, something nobody nowadays disputes.
For all that, people still persist in thinking that life is flat and runs from birth to death.
But life too, is probably round, and much greater in scope and possibilities than the hemisphere we now know.
- Vincent van Gogh, June 1888

The sentence I usually use to describe Vincent’s Yellow is that it’s about Vincent van Gogh, and the relationship I feel I have with him. I was recently asked if I feel that relationship existed when he was alive too.

Here’s the funny thing about coincidences: as they increase in quantity, they transform. A few years ago, I would have been wildly skeptical of most of the things I now say with ease, but Vincent, and Yellow, have stretched me. I have not seen his ghost, but I have felt his heat. I have had coincidences build up beyond reason. I don’t have a name for what’s going on, but I assure you, it exists. In reaching towards Vincent, I reached towards Nature, towards the Sun and the stars, towards the past, towards something greater and higher. Something has reached back and holds on to me, and has made my path very clear. I have continued and will continue with this project, because I don’t see any other choice for me.

So my answer as to whether this relationship existed while Vincent was alive is simple. Knowing this connection exists, means I know it existed before me. If it existed before me, it certainly existed before him. Honestly, I think it is beyond time. I’m not sure where he is exactly, except that I feel him near.

But to look at the stars always make me dream, as simple as I dream over the black dots of a map representing towns and villages. Why, I ask myself, should the shining dots of the sky not be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France? If we take the train to get to Tarascon or Rouen, we take death to reach a star.
-Vincent, July 1888

Roy Lichtenstein’s The Sower, 1985.

Lichtenstein is a rather famous pop artist, whose most well-known work was often based on images from cartoons that he altered and enlarged. I found his take on Vincent fascinating… Lichtenstein gives just enough to evoke the major colors and movements of the original.

Vincent van Gogh’s The Sower, 1888.

This is one of my all time favorite paintings by Vincent, so I was pretty impressed that Lichtenstein’s version was still exciting to me. Then again, I’ve always liked Lichtenstein…

Louis Le Brocquy’s Images of Vincent, 1987.

This was my favorite at the museum because of the energy it captures; it almost feels like Vincent’s spirit touched the page. The Irish artist’s quote on the plaque nearby was additionally evocative. He said he liked to paint the heads of great artists, imagining it as “the magic box which holds consciousness.” He says that these artists are

…great instances of human awareness who have dared to push that awareness beyond its known horizon, who have courageously – heroically – extended the continent of our thought. Such an artist was Vincent van Gogh.

Vincent van Gogh’s Self-Portraits, 1887.

Lastly, at the highest part of the museum, nestled away in the stairs and totally unlabeled, was a model of the famous Yellow House where Vincent lived and worked, where he dreamed of setting up an artists’ commune, where Gauguin came to stay. It was also based quite discreetly on Vincent’s paintings (The Street and The Bedroom) and letters describing how he had set up his lovely house, and decorated it. It was incredible to see the details already familiar to me come to life:

Vincent’s room is on the right, and that’s Gauguin’s room on the left — the sunflower paintings were meant to decorate his room. Vincent wanted to flood the room with yellow. To share a little secret: that room should have been mine instead. I’m convinced everyone would have been better off.

Below is the first floor, kitchen and studio.

Soon after this visit, it was (unbelievably) time to start heading home.

Trains took me North -

– and to my surprise, I was seated facing backwards on every train. I was also retracing my steps… and yours, too, Vincent.

Back at the Gare du Nord, with little time between trains, I ate across the street and watched the Parisian traffic. I stared at the station that took you to and from Arles, just as it did for me. On the way to Amsterdam, I was speeding back-first again, my eyes on the land I was leaving. I felt like a spring coiling back up, yarn being rewound into a ball, and I wondered if maybe I was moving backwards in time, too.

I arrived in Amsterdam after our train finally got through an incredible storm. I spent the slow minutes praying to you, Vincent, that the summer storm might follow us. The city greeted me with low lights and incredible clouds. I had one day left to be near you, Vincent… After an entire day of trains, I collapsed early. In the morning, I made it here:

Kee Vos’s doorstep – the woman you were so incredibly in love with, you held your hand in the flame of a candle until she would come out to see you. You loved no one like you loved her. I imagined how much time you spent in front of the building, debating, building up confidence… There was no marker there, despite the emotions you felt in this spot. I found myself similarly unsure of what to do, until I saw that the soles of my shoes were a bit wet.

A careful (if temporary) print for you, love. I stood there, and knew you. Maybe you knew me too.

As I walked to the Van Gogh Museum to enjoy my last visit, the sky opened up to me, and my dark Arlesienne sunglasses let me see the sun, your star, your source, as I never had before.

I found myself taking photo after photo of the sky, of the sun and clouds; it was something I had never done before.

Overcome by the beauty, by my walk, I sat on the grass of the Museumplein for an hour writing in my journal about how accompanied I had felt during my entire trip, how I was never alone. How I knew you were with me, had shown me things, had taken care of me, Vincent. Nothing had really went wrong in my trip; I had taken an enormous leap — and you caught me.

I let the museum wash over me. I let myself float around, breathe you in with deep, deep breaths. That night I had dinner with my contact at the museum’s library whom I had met in person three weeks earlier, though it felt like a lifetime had passed. In fact… it had.

The next morning, incredulous, I climbed on a plane and headed back home. When I had to declare the total value of all goods acquired abroad, I smiled at the little form. 140 pages of writing? Over a thousand photos? The ability to time-travel?

Oh, and that night I arrived in Amsterdam — it rained so hard strangers huddled together in the crevices. Water returned to slap the roof of my hostel on my last night too, and I knew you had brought it for me.