by Cathy Ace
“Luckily we’re tourists here,” I snapped, “so no one will condemn us, I’m sure. We’re all sorted for tomorrow, by the way. We’re off to see Willem Weenix at his shop first thing, then we’ll be seeing your mother.” I had no real reason to be so annoyed with Menno, but I was.
“Please say hello to her from me,” was the lawyer’s strange reply.
“You don’t see her often?” I couldn’t resist.
“We disagree on many things,” said Menno.
“But she’s still your mother,” I retorted.
“This is true. Now I must go, my guests are waiting. Goodnight,” and with a little bow of his head the man took his leave of us.
“He’s weird.” I had to say it.
Bud’s face creased into a little smile. “You’re right. Cold. Or perhaps just truthful.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Bud rolled his eyes. “Maybe his mother’s even worse.”
“I hope not.”
The Art Supplier’s Shop: A Family Scene
WE WERE STANDING OUTSIDE JONAS’S house, ready to face a busy day. It took us another half-hour to wrap the uncooperatively large painting and get it down the narrow staircase to the front door. As we finally emerged onto the street, the enormousness of our task became immediately clear—we had to wait quite a few minutes before we could even get the huge canvas out onto the street itself, let alone turn it, arrange it between us, and set off. As we shuffled along, apologizing every five seconds or so, I wished we were both about two feet taller, which would have made carrying a five-foot-tall painting a lot easier. I envied the tall Dutch their genes. After what seemed like an age working through an assault course, we eventually reached our destination, and we placed the piece of art gently on the blue and white tiles at the front of the beautifully presented store so Bud could open the glass door, which announced WEENIX ART SUPPLIES: ESTABLISHED 1962. As he began to do so, a woman in her twenties ran toward us and opened it on our behalf.
“We don’t buy,” were her first words, “and we don’t do valuations. We sell supplies. That is all.”
Bud was the one who’d made our appointment so he took the lead. “Hello, I’m Bud Anderson, from Canada. This is my wife, Cait Morgan. Are you Els? I believe we spoke last evening.”
“No. She is inside. I am Ebba. Do you have an appointment?”
Bud smiled. “What a coincidence—my mother’s name is Ebba too. Are you Swedish by any chance?”
The young woman with blonde hair, tipped with red spikes, snapped, “No. Dutch. My grandmother was from Sweden. Come in.” At least she held the door open so we could lift our package over the threshold and into the store. Once inside, the young, angular girl called, “Els. For you. People.” She allowed the door to clang closed, the bell above it almost rattling off its bouncing hook.
I sighed, and Bud shot me a warning glance, then smiled again as another woman approached us. This one returned Bud’s smile and held out her hand in greeting to each of us in turn. “You must be Bud and Cait. It is good to meet you. My father is in the back of the shop. It is his hiding-hole. He was excited to know you would be here today. You can lean that against the counter here. We are not busy.”
The man who sat at the back of the store in a small, slightly more private alcove area was a far cry from the beaming, ruddy-faced person I’d been expecting to see. Willem Weenix was much older than he’d been portrayed in the portrait, and was wizened almost beyond recognition. Claw-hands rested in the lap of a man whose clothes hung in loose folds, as did his skin. The only resemblance was the eyes, which still managed to glitter with mischief. He gave us a gummy grin as we approached, and tried to lift his stick-like arms in greeting. He didn’t even attempt to rise.
“Of course, you are Jonas’s blood,” he said to Bud in a tremulous voice. His accent was strong, and his voice reedy. “You look just like him.” I wondered about the man’s eyesight. Milky lenses spoke of cataracts, while slightly yellowed whites suggested some sort of issues connected with a compromised liver. Willem Weenix was not a well man, and he looked to be failing. I suspected we’d made it to him just in time.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Weenix,” said Bud gently, shaking the man’s partially extended hand. “I understand you and my uncle were great friends for many years. You must miss him. I am sorry for your loss, but, as your daughter may have told you, my wife and I have some remembrances of Jonas he asked us to deliver to you.”
“The doctor has told him to rest,” Els said to me. “He had a stroke a couple of months ago. He must not always be moving. We live upstairs, but he insists on coming down to the store every day. He says he will wither if he does not.” I saw tenderness and worry on her face as she spoke. “My daughter has gone to prepare coffee for us all.”
“Ebba is your daughter?” I asked, putting two and two together. Els nodded. “So your mother was Swedish?” again, she nodded. “Your daughter has the same name as Bud’s mother, Jonas’s sister.”
A smile crept across Els’s face. “I did not know this,” she said quietly. “A coincidence. Names are fashionable, then old. My daughter does not like hers. Maybe her late father and I should have given her a proper Dutch name, but my mother was already dead when she was born, and I wanted to recall her with my own daughter.”
Bud had taken a seat beside the old man; the two were deep in conversation, it seemed. Bud stood and said, “Of course,” then motioned to me to follow him.
“I said we’d bring the portrait in here, for Willem to see it,” said Bud, so, for the last time, we struggled with the huge piece and finally set it against the wall, then removed the two bed sheets we’d tied around it at the studio earlier in the day.
As the linens fell away, Els gasped. “It’s magnificent, Father. He has shown you exactly as you once were.” I spotted her quivering chin, and she turned her head from her father so he couldn’t see her tears.
There wasn’t much Willem Weenix missed, it seemed. “Don’t cry, my child. I am not young anymore, but I am not dead yet. Time for tears when I die. Now, help me up to see it properly, Bud.”
They tottered across the room until he was able to focus on the portrait in its entirety, then Bud supported him again as he moved closer to study the painting of his own face. He nodded the whole time, or maybe it was a less controlled movement of his head—it was difficult to tell. One thing was clear when he turned to look toward me and his daughter—his eyes were alight with something. I suspected it was memories of the days when he’d been as vigorous as the man on the canvas before him.
“He was an excellent artist,” was all he said, then motioned to be returned to his seat. We were rejoined by his granddaughter, who carefully placed a tray of coffee cups and saucers on a little table beside her grandfather. Each saucer held one biscuit.
Looking at the painting for the first time, she moved toward it, then back again, then approached it until her nose touched the canvas. Finally, she stepped back.
“My clever, talented girl has trained in art for many years, and in portraiture also,” said her mother proudly. “She is now an expert restorer. I wonder what she thinks of this portrait of her grandfather.”
Ebba looked at her mother, then her grandfather, and finally scowled at Bud and me. “You are making fun of us, I think. Who painted this? Han van Meegeren?”
“No, it is not one of his. My very best friend in the whole world painted it, Jonas de Smet,” said Willem sharply. “Why? Don’t you think it’s good? I think it looks very much like me, forty years ago.”
It surprised me when the girl pulled a magnifying glass out of her trouser pocket. She returned to the painting, examining it closely.
Eventually she said, “Extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Willem let out a little, “Ha! Good?”
&nbs
p; Plopping the magnifying glass onto the table, the young woman who’d selected a career that involved the study of the minutiae of great works of art said, “If it wasn’t for the size, which is all wrong, and the fact that it’s your face, Grandfather—and that it is signed ‘Jonas,’ of course—I would say this is the best version of this painting I’ve ever seen. I’ve seen several. And a few very good fakes too. We studied some in class. The reproduction of the clothing is perfect. Even the facial hair is just like the original. You told me you liked Van Meegeren, Grandfather. Did your friend Jonas share your enthusiasm? Is that why he shows you as The Laughing Cavalier? That piece was Van Meegeren’s most famous fake. Lost forever, it seems.”
I was puzzled. “Why would anyone fake The Laughing Cavalier? Doesn’t everyone know it’s on display in London? No one could ever possibly think they were buying the original, surely?”
“There are many copies, some from the late 1800s; most are more recent,” replied Ebba. “Van Meegeren sold one, they say. Do you know him?” Bud and I both said we didn’t. The young girl smiled. “He died of a heart attack before he could be jailed for forgery, in 1947.”
“How did they catch him?” I asked.
Clapping her hands, the girl replied, “They didn’t. He confessed. He had to, or he’d have been tried for treason.”
I was at sea. Already annoyed that I’d never heard of the person she was talking about, I wanted the full story. “Treason?” It seemed a bit extreme.
Willem butted in, a thoughtful smile on his face, “In the war, the Nazis took everything they could. A lot of people got Van Meegeren to paint fakes of their precious pieces, so that’s what ended up being ripped from their walls. One of his fakes, a Vermeer, was found in Hermann Goering’s hands, and Van Meegeren was about to be charged with having sold a Dutch national treasure to the Nazis. Arrested him as a collaborator, they did. He had to paint a fake in front of a panel of experts so they’d believe he could do it, and they found him guilty of the lesser charge. It was a very big story at the time.”
It was a fascinating tale, and I suspected there’d be a good deal more to it. I told myself I’d do some Internet digging into the chap’s life when I had a chance; I hate not having the full picture.
As Willem had been talking, slowly, I had watched Ebba as she examined the painting. “This is the best rendering of the costume I have seen. The lighting on the subject’s face—your face—is also excellent. Did your friend paint for a living, Grandfather?”
The old man smiled and nodded. “No.” So, he nods for yes and no.
Walking toward the staircase, his granddaughter asked, “Is this for you now?”
Willem’s head bobbed.
“May I study it?”
“Certainly. Will you copy it?”
“You know I am not that good, Grandfather,” she replied, then made her way upstairs. “Call me if you need me. I am reading some papers for a class tomorrow.”
“She teaches restoration as well as practicing it,” said the proud mother, by way of an explanation. “Much of what she does with her students is practical, but she has a summer school class to teach that is all about theory. A lot of it is chemistry, not art.” The bell on the shop door drew her attention, and she rushed to greet a customer.
“Jonas said I would learn about him from his friends,” said Bud, sensing his chance to glean something. “My mother never really knew him, so I know she’d be grateful to hear anything you could tell me about her brother.”
The more I watched him, the more I was convinced Willem’s head-bobbing was an involuntary motion. It became more pronounced as he gave Bud’s question some thought.
“We knew each other for—” he paused, and I could see his curled fingers working, “—almost seventy years. That is a long time. There is too much to tell, so what really matters? He was a talented artist. He loved art—all art—though he favored the work of some artists above others. Van Gogh, Vermeer, Rembrandt, Hals. These were his idols. They were the reason he came to the Netherlands, and why he stayed. He found this country through art, and made it his home. He was not afraid to study hard to learn, and he knew there were no shortcuts in life. He worked at his art, and at his art history. He laughed easily, loved recklessly, drank foolishly, and never took a friendship for granted. I loved him.”
Impressed by Willem’s ability to distill seventy years of companionship into such a meaningful description of Jonas, I ventured, “Did you meet him here, in Amsterdam?”
“In 1948, I moved from the north of Holland to Amsterdam for work. It was hard after the war. Reconstruction here meant more jobs. I was in my prime. Older than Jonas by five years. These hands did good work. I was strong, tall, with big arms, like a windmill. Jonas and I met at a bar. He was sketching the barmaid. It was a good sketch. She gave him two drinks in return for the sketch. I congratulated him. He sketched me, but I had nothing to give him in return for the sketch, so he made me promise to meet him for a drink at another bar the next night. I did, and, again, he made a drawing of the barmaid. This time we had one drink each, and a good conversation. We talked about Van Gogh, and how he would try to exchange sketches for food and drink. Jonas thought it amazing that it was easier for him to do this than it had been for his idol. He could not understand how people didn’t see the genius of his hero. He worshipped Van Gogh. When I met him, Jonas was already a guard at the Stedelijk Museum. They had Van Goghs there. He said it was his dream come true. Of course he had almost no money. I had a little more. He lived on the floor of my bedroom for two years, so we both saved some money. He taught me about art. I loved him even more for that.”
I noticed a tear roll down Willem’s folded cheek. It disappeared into a deep crease. He wiped at it with his knuckles and sighed heavily. Neither Bud nor I spoke, but his daughter returned from the storefront and announced, “Jonas was a talented man. This is a beautiful painting. We will display it in the shop, no?”
“That is good,” said Willem simply. “I do not know when he made this painting, but it is of me when I was happy. I think he loved me too. This portrait tells me so.”
“There’s something else for you,” said Bud, pulling the much smaller piece Jonas had bequeathed to his friend out of the pillow-case in which we’d packed it. He handed it to Willem. “It’s not another portrait, but he indicated it was to be given to you.”
The old man’s hands curled around the edges of the piece; he showed surprise at seeing a representation of Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring in the manner of Edvard Munch, of The Scream fame. His fingers moved across the uneven surface of the thickly painted piece lying in his lap, then he picked it up to peer at it more closely. He smiled. “This explains a good deal, right Els?”
The elderly man’s daughter moved to take a closer look at the piece and mirrored her father’s grin. “Indeed. It explains why he became one of our best customers. He bought more supplies of acrylic than I could imagine anyone could use. Most people come to a place like ours because they adhere to the traditional materials. But Jonas? He became a devotee of acrylics in the past few years. Now I see why. It was a part of his sense of humor. He’s been making fun of the masters. Good for him.”
She turned the piece to examine the back. Bud and I had noted how the canvas had been drawn around a wooden box-like structure to allow the acrylic paste to be applied all around the edges of the “two-artist” pieces Jonas had been making. The picture itself wrapped right around the edges of the structure, meaning they would be impossible to frame, unless you wanted to lose a part of the image.
“The artist’s dilemma,” said Willem, sounding suddenly tired.
“Pardon?” said Bud.
“Jonas and I talked about this a great deal. The artist paints without a frame. The artist can rarely afford one. Frames are chosen by people with money but with no aesthetic investment in the piece
. Most artists hate the way their work is framed, but have no choice in the matter—by then it is sold. They need the money for supplies to paint the next piece. Jonas admired the painting by Van Gogh where he used an old frame for his work and painted the frame so it was a part of the picture—all one piece. It was a great pity they damaged this piece when it was stolen once, but they repaired it, and it looks good now, I understand. I think this is Jonas’s joke. No frame, just the work. I love how it feels. It feels like life—full of unexpected highs and lows, turns and paths. Jonas made me love art so much that in the fifties I stopped being a laborer and began to be a supplier of paints and brushes to students taking art lessons here in Amsterdam. In those days I had a great love of the work of Munch, who only died in 1944. I am happy Jonas remembered that, and gave me this gift, so I can feel the work as well as look at it. Ah yes, it was good of him; he was the best of us.”
“The best of the Group of Seven?” asked Bud, but Willem had fallen asleep, his eyelids fluttering, his breathing heavy.
Els placed the two-artist piece on the table and ushered us into the shop. “He is tired. He will sleep for a few hours, then I will help him walk upstairs, where he will eat, then take another nap. That is the way of it for him now.” A shadow of sadness moved across her face as she looked from her father’s heaving bosom to the glittering eyes of the smiling portrait. “Father was right; he was always a strong man. He built this business from nothing, and earned much respect from Amsterdam’s artists, and those who visited. He was not an artist himself, but he has helped to create much that is beautiful in this city, and around the world.”
“Was Jonas the leader of the Group of Seven? Or was Willem?” I ventured.
The woman smiled. “No, the Group had no leader, but I do not know a great deal more. The person who would tell you most is Bernard de Klerk. He was the youngest in the Group. I think the last to ‘join,’ if you can call it that. He and Greta van Burken, the only woman in the Group, would probably know more than I do. You will see every living member of the Group, correct?”