It is a rainy Sunday morning. Stef and I are so bored, we start to count droplets on a kitchen window. Fifty-four… Fifty-five… Fifty-six… Fifty se—
“Nicole, we should do something.” Stef proposes.
“What something? It’s raining outside. What could we do but stay inside?” I reply in defeat. I understand Stef, I really do. Observing the world outside is no fun. Especially if it’s through the glass.
“We could play a board game. I’ve got Monopoly!” Stef says, feeling victorious over boredom.
I like Stef, she’s super smart. Always gets good grades. In class, she’s the first one to raise her hand. And she alternates her after-school activities between playing soccer and volunteering at a nearby animal shelter. What she’s not, though, is adventurous.
“How about we play hide-and-seek?” I suggest, hoping we will not spend any more time daydreaming of what we could be doing, instead of actually doing it. “C’mon, Stef, it’s going to be fun!”
“I don’t know, Nicole….” I can see Stef’s face change from excited to worrisome the moment I say “hide’ of hide-and-seek. “What if we break something?”
“But what if we find something?” I make an attempt to clearly accentuate the word "find", hoping she will find some interest in the mystery and excitement of the game. Who doesn’t like that? It’s like being a detective on a case, looking for a hidden object, or in the case of this game, a person.
“I don’t think we—”
“Okay but what if we find something that we can learn from?” I interrupt Stef mid-sentence. Not a good look, I know, but it’s for a good reason. I try to approach her from a different side, one that she likes - learning.
Stef likes to learn about anything and everything. I like to learn about art, and more specifically, the hidden world of art. You know, stolen art, lost art, art that says it’s art but it’s not really art. Since I was little, I dreamt of being an adventurer, like Indiana Jones. I got to know about him from movies my parents watch. It’s a story of an archeologist, who would search for missing pieces of history, or sometimes objects just known from legends. “That belongs in a museum!” I remember him screaming his brains out. Anyway, it’s the idea of uncovering the mystery of what’s lost or hidden. I really like those stories.
After a few seconds of very careful consideration, Stef cracks. But I knew she would. She likes puzzles but what she loves more is learning new things. Before I get a chance to even boast about my victory, Stef gets up to tell me the rules of the game.
“You hide, I seek. I count from sixty, not one or half a number more, but exactly sixty. And I look for you. My parents’ room is off-limits, of course. Do not break anything or move anything. Got it?” Stef lists those rules as fast as she can run. Did I mention she’s the fastest in class?
“Got it!” I say. Oh my, the level of precision she goes into. If she will count in the speed she listed those rules in, for sure I will lose.
Sixty… fifty-nine… fifty-eight…
Alright, let’s do it. I already knew where I wanted to hide the moment I came up with the game. I’ve been everywhere around the house and Stef knows it like the back of her hand.
Fifty… forty-nine… forty-eight…
But there’s one place that I have never ever been to - it’s the attic. And now is the time to check it out.
Forty… thirty-nine… thirty-eight…
I run upstairs and stop at the door leading to the very top. I turn the knob slowly, avoiding any unwarranted sounds. It’s a rule of survival - I learned that at camp last summer.
Thirty… twenty-nine… twenty-eight…
I grab a torch light hanging on the inside of the attic door and walk up the narrow stairs into the darkness. A wave of cold air and an eerie feeling welcome me.
Twenty… nineteen… eighteen…
I turn on the flashlight and quietly step on my toes. Creek. Oh no, I hope Stef doesn’t hear that.
Ten… nine… eight…
It starts to get colder and a little scarier. I worry that maybe it’s not a good idea but I guess it’s too late to turn back around.
Five… four… three… I hear Stef’s faint voice coming from downstairs so I walk more toward the center of the room, looking for a good hiding spot. I turn around and there I see it - a red velvet cloth over a square-ish object. What is it? I wonder. As I come closer, I feel goosebumps on my arms. I pull down the cloth to uncover a painting. Thick brushstrokes of green, yellow, and blue make up a landscape of a field with trees and tiny ponds. I extend my right arm, wanting to feel the heavy paint texture—
“No, Nicole!” Stef shouts from behind. “Do not touch that!”
Busted. I didn’t even hear her coming up the stairs.
“Paintings are very delicate. You cannot just touch them with your bare hands. You need to handle them with care.” Stef explains. I do hear a slight snobbish note in her tone of voice, which, if I must be honest with you, is slightly annoying. “Plus, this painting means a lot to my family. It was my great-great-great grandfather’s. He would rise from the dead if he would see you touch it.”
More like it was ‘Stiff Stef’ who just rose from the dead. I ask Stef if she knows who painted it, trying to switch her attention away from me messing up her ancestors’ peaceful rest.
“Well, there’s a family legend….” Stef sighs. I have a feeling she doesn’t really want to share too much of the story but once again, she cracks. She likes to tell stories too. “The family legend says that it was made by a painter named van Gogh.”
“Van Gogh?” I cannot believe it. “You mean, the Vincent van Gogh? The one that cut his ear off?”
Van Gogh is one of the most celebrated painters in the entire world. It’s unbelievable that I am now seeing his painting, so closely I can almost touch it. I mean, I probably would if Stef wasn’t here.
“Well, Nicole, technically yes, that one. But I would much rather you focus on his artistic talent. His works were revolutionary. You must know of the ‘Starry Night.’” I hear a slightly condescending tone in her voice, again. She continues her speech, “You must recognize the yellow stars melting into a swirling night sky. It’s a beautiful composition.”
“Yes, Stef. I know the swirls. They look like a glazed donut to me.” Not really but I make a point to mess with her. I can see her face change from proud to irritated. I continue to say, “Don’t be a know-it-all, Stef. You know I like art.”
“Anyway.” She responds to change the topic. “That’s the painting. But I wouldn’t take it as true.”
I ask Stef what she means by that. I can see that she’s drawn back but I have a feeling there’s more to it.
“Well, it’s quite… controversial…” she whispers and continues in her normal voice, “in our family. That’s why it’s in the attic. My mom told me that my great-great-great grandpa purchased the painting believing it to be Vincent van Gogh.”
Both Stef and I lean over the painting to eye the details of the brushwork. The paint is so thick, it seems to be trying to get out of the canvas onto the real world. Vincent van Gogh…
“Wow, Stef,” I mutter. That’s the only thing I am able to say now because my eyes, and my mind, are drawn to the painting.
I focus on the deep shades of green and blue. Broad and askew brush strokes activate the trees and the tall grass in the composition, making the entire scene look very dynamic. When I look at the painting, I can feel a slight summer breeze coming from the right side. I guess that’s what the curved brushstrokes are supposed to represent. They add a slight roughness to the painting. But that roughness is balanced out with pastel yellow and pink, at a time when the sun has just set. On the left side of the canvas, I observe a big dark spot that looks like a rock. No, it’s too big to be a rock. Maybe it’s a building? I think to myself. One that looks like a church. It’s hard to say it for certain but I am one hundred percent sure of one thing…
“Sunset at Montmajour” (1888), Vincent Van Gogh. Oil on canvas.
“You’ve got a masterpiece in your attic!” I exclaim, knowing perfectly the value of such an artwork. “Vincent van Gogh was one of the most important artists, ever! It could be worth hundreds of millions.”
“If it is authentic, yes,” Stef says. “But we don’t know that.”
“What are you saying? Could it be a forgery?”
While Stef is the best student in class, she’s not one to take everything for granted. She’s the best because she has her own voice, own opinion, and own beliefs that she doesn’t base on someone else’s thinking but her own study and experience. I admire that in her.
“Okay, this is how the story goes.” Stef begins. As I said before, Stef likes to tell stories. So, here we go. “During his lifetime, Vincent van Gogh wasn’t as famous as he is today, of course, but his work was recognized among his friends who were fellow artists.”
She tells the story while pacing back and forth on the creaking wooden floor, like a teacher. Stef continues, “But his talent didn’t do well beyond his artistic circle and the painting didn’t really sell well. Van Gogh was also a very troubled person, as you very well know, Nicole, which led to his untimely death.”
She picks up a chalk and starts to draw on the attic floor something that looks like a food chain we studied a long time ago. Uh, rebellious. Wait till her mom sees it. Maybe Stiff Stef isn’t as stiff as I thought she was.
“This painting was made by Vincent.” Stef writes his name, followed by an arrow pointing downwards. “After Vincent’s death, the painting was taken by his brother, Theo. And then it was passed on to Theo’s widow, Johanna, who sold it to an art dealer in Paris.”
After four arrows down, Stef continues, “And then, my great-great-great grandpa purchased it from that art dealer. By that time, Van Gogh was a name to remember. Everyone knew him and everyone wanted him. Well, his paintings, because he was dead. My great-great-great grandpa purchased it as an authentic painting but shortly after that, it was called a fake.”
“A fake? By whom?” I ask in disbelief.
“I am not sure. I think it was a friend who came over for dinner once. My mom told me that my great-great-great grandpa was so excited about purchasing the painting that he made a celebratory dinner. And then some guy in a tuxedo came up to him and called that painting a fake.” Stef tilts her head down.
“Well, that’s a great way to kill a party,” I smirk, trying to liven up the mood. I can see the sadness in Stef’s eyes.
“Yeah, I think at that moment this man became my great-great-great grandpa’s arch enemy.”
Who does that? I wonder. On what grounds? Show me the evidence.
“Did the tuxedo man have any proof?” I ask Stef.
“I don’t know, Nicole. Maybe he did, maybe he just wanted to make my great-great-great grandpa mad. But ever since then, the painting has been tucked away, moving between different homes, and different attics, from one generation to the next one. I feel sad because I think it caused my great-great-great grandpa a lot of sadness. He believed in something and someone crashed his dreams. But still, the legend that the painting is a true Van Gogh lives strong in the family, even to this day.”
I take another look at the painting. Now, I see more sadness in it. The dark wooden frame looks more grey than brown as it's covered in deep dust. I spot cracks in the paint and a yellowish tone on the surface. It looks like it’s been a while since the painting was last seen and admired.
Stef steps to the corner of the attic and leans over a tower of cardboard boxes. Looks like a set from a TV show about lawyers that my aunt watches. They have rooms full of these boxes.
“Before I was born, my mom tried to revive the painting. She even sent a letter to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, asking them to authenticate it. Take a look, Nicole.” Stef pulls an already opened envelope from a pile of papers placed in one of the corner cardboard boxes. From the envelope, she takes out a single piece of paper with the museum’s letterhead and points to one of the lines typewritten on the letter.
“It says that because the painting is not signed, they cannot prove it was really painted by Van Gogh,” Stef explains the reason why the museum did not accept its authenticity.
“But aren’t they the experts for van Gogh?” I start to question the experience of these museum people. “Why do they need to rely only upon the signature? It seems silly to me that something can be said that is not real because it doesn’t have a stamp or a mark or a signature of the artist. I mean, I saw so many unsigned medieval paintings that date back to a few centuries ago but they are attributed to specific artists.”
“Well, Nicole, you are right. Signatures became widely used during the early Renaissance but not really before.” Stef says. “These experts state their opinions based on their experience with other works of art from the same artist. They look at the style, the movement of the hand, and signatures of course, and determine whether, in their opinion, the work is real or fake.”
“Is a signature the only way to confirm that a painting was actually painted by the person? Surely not, right? There must be paintings that were not signed but are still claimed to be real.” I start to wonder aloud.
“There are some documents, books, and diaries that are specifically dedicated to the artists,” Stef responds, making a pause. “I also recently saw a documentary about new technology in art. So scientists and art historians work together to do scans of artworks to see what’s underneath them or take material samples to date the works.”
“But what do you think, Stef? Do you think it’s real?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Nicole… It’s a mystery to me. But I do not want to give up on the belief of my great-great-great grandpa….” Stef responds.
I can sense slight defeat in her voice. And now I know what to do to fix that.
“Stef, are you willing to take someone else’s opinion for granted?” I ask. “Without doing your own research?”
“No,” Stef responds with confidence.
“Let’s do it then, Stef. Let’s investigate the mystery of the painting so we can get to the bottom of this case of authenticity. And the family legend will become a family history.” I jump on the tower of cardboard boxes, feeling like Cesar, making a triumphal and inspiring speech.
“Really, Nicole? You would do it for me?” Stef looks up at me with a big smile on her face.
“Of course, Stef. Friends got each other backs, right?” I smile back at her.
And as I want to jump down, I feel the boxes zigzagging under my feet. “Oh, no!” I yell as the tower crumbles below me. I fall down to the ground, along with hundreds of papers out of the boxes. As Stef opens her mouth to, most likely than not, yell at me for making a huge mess, I get up at the speed of light and put my index finger over her mouth to shush her.
“It’s okay, Stef. I will clean it up later.” Of course, I won’t. But I need time to think about how to authenticate the painting. Stef closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Okay, Stef, how do we authenticate a work of art,” I ask.
“I don’t know, Nicole.” She responds with confusion. “Why would I know?”
“I don’t know, Stef. Maybe because you’re the best student in class?” I mock her, poking at the title she’s so proud of. “You’re like a walking encyclopedia.”
“Maybe I am. But maybe encyclopedias do not have that information, huh Nicole?” Stef fires back at me. She knows how to stand up for herself.
“Okay, Maybe-Encyclopedia. Do you have a for-sure-encyclopedia at your home that we can check?” I respond without stopping the banter.
“What?” Again, with the confusion. “What do you mean, Nicole?”
Ugh. Sometimes, people do not get my jokes.
“Do you have a real encyclopedia, like a paper copy, somewhere at your home?” I have to explain myself.
As Stef says yes, she runs down the attic stairs, I guess to bring the book. I step closer to the painting and kneel down. On the ground, I see a dark blue paint chip, which must come from the painting. I scout the canvas for that same color. I spot it. A tall elongated building. With a tower to the left. Connected to a small… house? Of course. It’s a—
“I got it, Nicole.” Stef comes back, interrupting my train of thought. She opens the heavy leather-bound book at the end, moving her index finger down the index page.
“Aha!” Stef exclaims, “Art authentication.” As Stef turns to the beginning of the book, the sound of turning pages echoes in the attic.
“There are three ways to authenticate a work of art,” Stef reads. “First one is scientific analysis. A selection of both invasive and non-invasive methods for a technical examination of artworks and cultural heritage objects… Hmm… Sampling a part of the painting or examining the work using imagining techniques helps to identify materials used to produce the work of art as well as visualize certain aspects of image composition.”
“What?” I ask Stef, hoping she will explain the gibberish technical language.
“Scientific analysis is based on a technical examination,” Stef begins to explain. “So you are either looking at what the painting is made out of, for example, to date the painting to a certain period or detect inaccurate materials or scanning the painting to see what’s under the layers of paint, hoping to find what’s hidden underneath.”
“We would need to see what’s hiding underneath, maybe there’s a hidden signature.” I chip in and turn around to Stef, “Do you know how to operate an imagining technique…. uhm… machine?” I ask, not really knowing what kind of a machine that would be. Stef and I fall silent for a moment, looking at each other, knowing perfectly that maybe it’s a little bit too big of an undertaking for us.
Stef breaks the silence first. “The second way to authenticate artwork is expert opinion.”
“Yes and negative. The museum already rejected the authenticity of the painting.” I respond and after careful consideration, I add, “But only on the grounds of no signature. The brushstrokes look very similar to Van Gogh’s other paintings.”
“You are totally right, Nicole. We could take a look at some of his other works.” Stef says. “This ties in with the third way, which is…”
“Provenance research!” I exclaim. I love the detective work and that’s basically what it is. “It means looking at loads and loads of books, auction records, gallery or museum catalogs, or primary source materials, like letters.”
“Letters…” Stef remembers, “Our local library has a collection of books about Vincent van Gogh. I wrote an essay about Impressionist artists last year and they had a great collection of books about the topic. Maybe we could check it out?”
I just nod in agreement. There’s no time to waste.
Before we leave the attic, I look back at the painting once again, directing my eye to the corners of the frame, trying to spot a sign. A sign that would lead me to solve this case of authenticity. And I think I found it.
***
We run downstairs and take our bikes out. Let’s solve this mystery.
Funny enough, the rain has stopped and the sun came out shining through the clouds. Can this be a sign of hope? We bike with an early September breeze in our hair, race through puddles left by the rain, and omit hedgehogs that stand in our way. This is the wildest fun we had in a really long time together. Stef and I are on an adventure and I am very happy to see her enjoy coming out of her stiff shell. After a few minutes of biking, we arrive at our destination. The excitement of moving through the pages of books overcomes me. We park our bikes outside in front of the library and run inside over to the main desk.
“Good afternoon, Miss Ivonne. This is Nicole, my friend from school,” Stef introduces me to the librarian at the desk. “We are looking for books about Vincent van Gogh.”
“Good afternoon, girls.” The library clerk welcomes us with a smile. Her glasses are so big, I can see our reflection in them. “Are you interested in anything in particular? Biographies, exhibition albums, maybe a catalogue raisonné….”
“Uhm… What is a catalogue raisonné? “ I ask.
“I’m glad you asked, Nicole.” Miss Ivonne smiles, again. It’s a never-ending smile. “A catalogue raisonné is a collection of all works made by a specific artist.”
“That’s perfect! And…” I say with hesitation. “Well, we would like to know more about Vincent’s brother, Theo.” I turn around to Stef. We are in this together and I want to make sure we are on the same page. She nods in approval of the research topic.
“We’ve got a book about Vincent and Theo, which describes their brotherly relationship. It might be a good start. Let me search it for you…” Miss Ivonne types on the keyboard at the speed of light. “Okay girls, let’s go get your book.”
We follow the librarian through the corridors of bookshelves. It seems like a maze. Stef is in the seventh wonder. I run my fingers through the books, and as I say “Wow”, Stef turns around and shushes me.
“You need to stay quiet in the library. No noise. Look,” Stef points at a sign ‘Silent zone. Please be quiet.’ Great, I got scolded, again.
We stop in the art section. Miss Ivonne pulls out a few books from the stack and gives them to us. “This one is the book I was talking about - a book about Theo and Vincent. Here you have an excellent biography of Van Gogh. And that one is the catalogue raisonné. Oh, and here’s another one, an album of artworks located in the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam.” She says.
Miss Ivonne leads us to a designated table, at which we sit down. I start off with a van Gogh biography and Stef already started reading through the book about Theo and Vincent. After a few moments, Miss Ivonne comes back.
“Here are some more books I found for you,” Miss Ivonne says as she places yet another stack of books on the desk. “I found a book containing letters written by Vincent. I think there might be also letters exchanged between him and Theo. And here are some recent exhibitions featuring Vincent’s works. Hopefully, you will find what you are looking for.”
“Thank you, Miss Ivonne.” We both say in excitement as Miss Ivonne’s silhouette vanishes in the maze of books. Ups. We both forgot to stay silent. I look at Stef. I guess I am not the only one who breaks the rules, anymore.
Since we got to the library, the rain has come again and gone, again. We missed lunch but we didn’t care. Besides my stomach. Stef hears a gurgling sound and gives me an annoyed look.
“Don’t look at me like that. You know I cannot help it, Stef.” I whisper in my defense as she rolls her eyes.
Hunger eats at me but I get back to work. Only a few more minutes, I hope. Otherwise, I will start to rip out pages from the books and snack on them. I open the album listing all of the works that are in the collection of the Van Gogh Museum. It’s a place dedicated to his works. If he would have only known that in the future, he will have his own museum. As I flip through the big pages filled with paintings and drawings, one image catches my attention. I notice a building that looks familiar. No, it can’t be…
“Stef, look!” I ignore the sign, yet again. I show the results of my research to Stef.
“This is a picture, I mean a drawing, a picture of a drawing, by Van Gogh. It is…” I stop to read the title under the image. “Montmajour Abbey in Arles, France. 1888. It reminds me of the building that’s on the painting. I think this is it. What do you think, Stef?”
Stef leans over my left shoulder to take a better look. It’s a paper drawing of what looks like an abandoned, emptied building. In fact, it is an old, ruined monastery. The drawing is made out of transparent red paint, some lines are accentuated with a pencil. I recognize the tower on the left. It must be it, just from a different perspective. After a long pause, her eyes meet mine.
“The Ruins of Montmajour” (1888), Vincent Van Gogh. Pencil, reed pen, and pen and brush and ink, on paper. Credits: Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam (Vincent van Gogh Foundation).
“I think this is it, Nicole,” I can see her eyes sparkle in excitement. We are one step closer to authenticating the painting as a true Van Gogh!
“We’ve got a place and a date, now. Arles, 1888. Let’s search the book of letters and see that maybe Vincent wrote about that abbey.” I say the instructions for the next steps.
Stef quickly places the book in front of us on the table. I switch on the desk lamp as it’s getting darker outside. It’s soon time to go home.
“Attention, readers.” A voice from library speakers startled us. “The library will be closing in 10 minutes. Please return the books and head toward the exit. Thank you.”
Stef and I look at each other with clearly alarmed faces. We’ve got only ten minutes. We need to find it, now.
Stef opens the book of letters on the table of contents. She moves her fingers through the dates and flips the pages to the start of 1888. I look over at the wall clock. Eight minutes left.
We quickly scan through the heartwarming, and at times saddening, words of love and passion. I never realized what kind of a person Van Gogh was. I always thought that he was the ‘Mad Painter’ who painted twirls and cut his ear off but never knew his more touching, sensitive side.
“Attention, readers.” The anonymous voice through the speakers surprised us again. “In five minutes the library will be closing. Please head to the exit.”
Only five more minutes. Are we going to make it? As I ask myself this question, Stef whispers, “I found it, Nicole!” Just in time, I think. “This is a letter Vincent wrote to Theo on July 5th, 1888. It reads,
Yesterday, at sunset, I was on a stony heath where very small, twisted oaks grow, in the background a ruin on the hill, and wheatfields in the valley. It was romantic, it couldn’t be more so, à la Monticelli, the sun was pouring its very yellow rays over the bushes and the ground, absolutely a shower of gold. And all the lines were beautiful, the whole scene had a charming nobility. You wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see knights and ladies suddenly appear, returning from hunting with hawks, or to hear the voice of an old Provençal troubadour. The fields seemed purple, the distances blue. And I brought back a study of it too, but it was well below what I’d wished to do.
“A ruin on the hill… twisted oaks…. yellow rays over the bushes… a shower of gold… I think this is it, Nicole.” Stef says but awaits my confirmation.
I look back at the drawing. Could it be the study Vincent describes in the letter? No sign of twisted oaks, lack of any yellow but the yellowed paper but the ruin is there.
“I think so too, Stef, but we need to get back home and take a look at the painting to be sure,” I respond.
“Agreed.” Stef confidently says. We pack up and run to the front to rent out the book.
“You just made it in time. We close in exactly one minute. If you were five minutes left, you could have spent the night here,” Miss Ivonne says as she scans the book on our way out. “You are all set. I hope you found what you were looking for.”
“Yes, Miss Ivonne!” Stef and I both call out, as we run out of the library. “Thank you, Miss Ivonne!”
We jump on our bikes and head back to Stef’s house. The sun has just set but the gold tone illuminates the sky, similar to the scene in the painting. The puddles remain in place, as they were when we were biking to the library. Today was a good day, I think. We found what we were looking for. Not only that but we also uncovered a mystery and proved that a long-lost painting was in fact a true Van Gogh. Maybe they will write about us in the paper?
“Do you think we will become famous after this story breaks?” I ask Stef.
“Maybe they will write about us in the paper,” Stef replies, not losing sight of the road ahead.
“That’s what I thought!” I yell back, as she overtakes me. “Or, even better, invite us to Amsterdam when they will unveil the painting to the public.”
“Or we will get to write an essay in the exhibition catalog,” Only Stef could be excited about writing.
“Or they will make a movie about us!”
“Or we will get a Noble Prize!”
We shout, we laugh, we dream as we head home.
***
As we open the front door to Stef’s house, her mom peeps out of the kitchen. She’s wearing an apron smeared with chocolate cake dough.
“Where have you been?” She startles us with a concerned look. Maybe it’s an angry look. Honestly, I cannot tell because my mind is currently whirling like a whirlpool. I focus on a wooden rolling pin she’s holding. Stef’s mom can be a little… hmm… intimidating. That’s where Stiff Stef gets her stiffness from.
“What is this, running away from home, not telling me where you are? I was worried about you, Steffie. So worried that I almost called the police!” After a few good seconds of looking deeply, and angrily, into Stef’s eyes, her mom takes a sudden notice of me. “Oh, hello Nicole.” Now, she’s the one who’s startled.
Stef apologizes with her head down, like a scolded puppy. So I turn to her mom and say, “Mrs. Steffen,” I begin. I’ve always been good with words, which help me get out of trouble. Now, it’s me against Stef’s mom on the word arena. This is going to be a challenge. And yes, Stef’s last name is Steffen. Stef Steffen. Stef’s mom is so strict that she even restricted Stef’s name to the first four letters of her last name. “We spent the entire day in the library. Although, we both know we made a mistake not telling you we were leaving, which we are sorry about, we were working on something extremely important. So important, it could change the world. And maybe even…” I take a look at Stef with a smile, “get us a Noble Prize.”
“Oh really, girls?” Stef’s mom smirks at us but I feel that she took an interest in the Nobel Prize. “What could possibly earn you a Nobel?”
Stef and I look at each other. It’s clear Stef is a little afraid to tell the story. While the legend of the painting lives on in her family, it still might be to be a taboo subject.
“We found proof that the painting you have in the attic was made by Vincent Van Gogh,” I say.
Stef’s mom looks startled, again, so Stef delves deeper into the story. She explains how we found a letter written by Vincent to Theo, his brother, describing a scene that is just like the one depicted on the painting. And that we compared the painting with some drawings of the same building that he painted, just from a different angle.
“It really is a Van Gogh,” Stef adds at the end. We show Stef’s mom the evidence in the books. She moves slowly through the pages, eyeing each detail. I suggest we go upstairs to take a look at the painting, once again.
As we get to the attic, we stand in a circle around the artwork. “It’s been years since I last saw it,” Stef’s mom says. “I think the last time was when we moved into the house, when Steffie was still inside my stomach, little like a bean. All these years it has been sitting here, buried among dusty furniture and cardboard boxes. And it really is a Van Gogh.” Stef’s mom kneels before the painting, touching the wooden frame around. I glance at Stef. Her mouth is wide open in disbelief that her mom is not abiding by her own rules.
“My mother was right. All these years, she tried to prove the authenticity of the painting but no luck. I did too but I didn’t have the resources you’ve got now.” Stef’s mom says. “I am really happy you took a chance. Let’s go write a letter to the museum, one more time.”
And so, that same evening Stef’s mom helps us write an official email to the Van Gogh Museum, detailing our reasoning, backed by research and book scans. We send it off the next day, proud of what we accomplished and hopeful for a movie deal in the near future.
Days, weeks, and months go by. The season changed from fall to winter and the new year began. Right after we emailed the letter to the museum, we waited impatiently for a response. Because it’s been so long since we didn’t get any response, we thought that maybe we sent it to the wrong email address. But Stef’s mom said to be patient. And one cold morning, Stef brings a printed copy of an email to the school.
“They rejected it, Nicole. The Van Gogh Museum said that our research doesn’t prove the painting’s authenticity.”
“It can’t be,” I snatch the paper from Stef and scan through the letter. The museum is claiming that Vincent’s letter to Theo as well as the drawing, while being interesting pieces of history, are not enough evidence to support such a claim.
“I told you that it’s just a family legend,” Stef sighs. “We shouldn’t have put our hopes up.”
This hits me. I haven’t felt such a pierce in my heart since I was reading about the Holy Grail only to find out that the story is actually a legend.
“Are you really going to give up, Stef?” I don’t want to give up on the painting. Something in me screams that this is a long-hidden Van Gogh masterpiece.
“We have no other choice,” Stef replies, defeated.
“Remember when we listed all of the ways we can provide its authenticity?”
“Yes but so what if expertise and research are not enough?” Stef says. “We failed, Nicole. We need to accept that and move on to more earthly matters like studying for next’s week's chemistry exam.”
“There are three ways to investigate the authenticity of a painting. But we only tried two. There’s still one more way that we can try, Stef.”
“You mean, scientific analysis?” She looks at me, baffled. “Really, Nicole? And how are you going to do that?”
I smile at her, already knowing the answer. But I don’t say anything. Rather, I take out a piece of cloth from a side pocket of my backpack and hand it to Stef. As she unwraps it, she lets out a slight gasp.
“You did damage the painting!” She yells at me while holding a chipped part of the painting.
“Calm down, Stef. I didn’t do anything,” I assure her. “It just fell out. I don’t know how it happened. I just picked it up from the ground. Anyway, we have a piece that we can test for—”
“The paint,” Stef finishes my sentence. She continues, excited, “And we can date it to find out what materials Vincent used. This is brilliant, Nicole.”
We smile at each other. I am happy to not have given up. We already worked hard on getting to the point where we are, so why stop now? We wait until after the school day is over to sneak into the school science lab. Lucky for us, the door is unlocked. The classroom is spotless, like an actual laboratory where adults work at. High tables with microscopes are stationed at each spot.
“Nicole, get me a hair tie, gloves, a glass slide, and a white gown …” I do what she says, scrambling around the classroom for the stuff.
As Stef carefully observes the layers of paint, she moves her head away from the microscope and concludes, “From what I see, there are a few layers of paint. And, wait for it, there’s also a single hair in the upper layer!”
“Is it… human hair?” I ask grossed out a bit.
“I am not sure…” Stef responds looking at me with a blank stare. In that moment, we both realized that we don’t know how to differentiate human hair from synthetic hair. And I am not even talking about dating paint materials… I think we got too much in our heads, thinking we would be able to do all of this by ourselves.
Worrying that we will not be able to do much more and evidently we ought to give up our investigation, our chemistry teacher walks into the classroom.
“Excuse me but what do you think you are doing?” Mr. Frank says in a tone that demands an honest answer.
Stef freezes when she gets scared. She’s the top student in chemistry class, the number one pupil of Mr. Frank’s, like of any teacher, and she just got caught breaking the rules. But not just any rules; very important rules that apparently keep us out of danger. I guess the school lab is not just a regular classroom as it stores different materials, liquids, glass, etc. So you always have to be careful what you do here and how you handle the materials.
“Hello Mr. Frank, we are just preparing for our exam next week,” I say. That is a lie of course, and a bad one may I add. And Mr. Frank well knowns it.
“You know it’s against the rules to be in this classroom after hours. There are dangerous materials—” Mr. Frank explains.
“Well, Mr. Frank, the door was left open,” I interrupt. I have a bad habit of interrupting people but Mr. Frank sighs and as he opens his mouth to probably scold us, Stef chips in.
“Mr. Frank, we were doing an extracurricular project for art class,” What a great lie, Stef, I think to myself. “We are learning about forgeries and we just happen to have a chipped paint sample that we wanted to analyze to see what materials were used. But then, as soon as you came, we realized that we don’t really know how to do that. Maybe you could help us, Mr. Frank?”
Mr. Frank tilts his head up and smiles with a slightly proud look. Good job, Stef. No better way to get on someone’s good side is to show them how important they are.
“Actually, a long long time ago, during my university studies, I was doing a research project for a conservation department at an art museum. I could potentially take a look,” he says as he comes closer to the microscope. “But only if you promise me that you will never, ever again come into the lab without adult supervision.” Stef and I both nod in acceptance of the terms. Seems like a fair deal.
Mr. Frank takes a peak through the microscope. “Could you tell me more about the painting?”
“It’s an old painting, from the late 1880s,” Stef says and looks at me. “It’s probably a European artist, painted maybe in France?” She didn’t want to say too much but rather have the paint speak for itself.
“Hmm... Yes, that looks like 19th-century paint, cobalt blue,” Mr. Frank makes a note. “Cobalt blue was a popular pigment in France and across Europe. It was used by Delacroix, Corot, Manet, and of course, Van Gogh, a Dutch painter who was also active in France.”
Stef and I look at each other. The very last sentence Mr. Frank said ignited in us a sparkle of hope. So we decide to tell him the entire story behind the chipped paint. The great-great-great grandpa, the attic, the man in the tuxedo who called the painting a fake our research at the library, and finally - the email.
“What do you want to do now, girls?” Mr. Frank asks us. We know what we want to do. And so we convince Mr. Frank to help us draft another email to the museum, this time including a professional analysis from a well-regarded chemistry teacher.
That evening, we stand by Stef’s computer at home, waiting to press the send button.
“So this is it, Stef,” I say. I can feel my palms tingling from anxiety.
“This is it, Nicole,” Stef responds as we make a right-click on a mouse button, together. No more words are needed. We know we did everything we could and if authenticity still will not be confirmed, then it is not a true Van Gogh and we are both okay with that.
***
It’s Friday and I am at school, eagerly awaiting the bell ring, marking the end of the day. Five more minutes. The seconds couldn’t be slower. I cannot wait for the class to end as I am going to an aquarium with my brother. I mean, my brother was forced by Mom to take me there. Of course, I objected too. There cannot be anything worse than spending time with my older brother but Mom insisted that this is a bonding time. My brother, Greg, is studying zoology and I find it quite fitting as sometimes is like a wild silly monkey with his jokes. But on the other hand, I am excited to see that silly monkey again.
In the distance, I hear a voice yelling my name. The sound becomes louder as I realize that it’s my teacher. “Nicole, you are requested at the Principal’s Office. Your mom is waiting for you there.”
Uh oh, again? What is it this time? As I am running to the office, I see Stef slowly walking down the corridor toward me. She also looks surprised at getting called in. I think it’s the first time she lands at the Principal’s Office during class, and it’s never a good sign.
“I think we are in trouble, Nicole,” Stef says. “I think it has to do with us sneaking to the school laboratory the other day.” She whispers as we spot Mr. Frank next to our Principal, Mrs. Strong. And then I see my mom with Stef’s mom. Both look… happy? Something’s weird.
“So, you are the famous Stef and Nicole,” an anonymous man in a suit welcomes us. He looks fully professional, as the woman standing next to him. He extends his right arm to shake our hands and continues to say, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Laars and this is my colleague, Eva. We represent the Van Gogh Museum, where you sent your letters. We would like to thank you for your interest in our collection and your hard work in tracing the origins of the painting.”
I think I must look quite perplexed at the introduction, as Stef’s mom chips in. “Mr. Laars and Mrs. Eva called us earlier today to request a meeting with you two. They believe that your research has shed light on what was unknown to everyone before - that the painting in our attic really is a true Van Gogh.”
The museum people continue the conversation to explain to us that although they will need to borrow the painting to conduct an internal investigation at their own museum, consulting their own archives, experts, and tools, our research has pushed them to a point where they strongly believe that this might be truly a masterpiece by Van Gogh.
“This is the first time that I have seen such an engagement from the public, especially from such a young audience,” Mr. Laars says to our moms while pointing at us. “Could we please take a picture with you, ladies?” We nod and smile at the camera with Mr. Laars and Mrs. Eva standing on the side. The meeting takes a few more minutes as we get invited on a special tour of the museum, not now of course but sometime in the future. The meeting quickly wraps up and we all go home. That night, I was dreaming of the painting, being on the covers of magazines, giving interviews, and getting an award for the Best Art Detective in the World. But that was just a dream.
A few weeks go by. Trees turn green again after what felt like an endless winter. One spring day, Stef and I are riding our bikes on our way home from school. As we pass by a local kiosk, something catches my eye. So I stop and call on Stef to turn around as she is ahead of me. I pick up our town newspaper with a front page titled, “TWO LOCAL TEENS UNCOVER A LONG LOST VAN GOGH PAINTING”. Below, is a photo I recognize - the one we took with the museum people a few weeks ago.
“So, that’s it?” I ask Stef. “I thought we would get a movie deal, at the very least.”
“We don’t always get what we want, Nicole,” Stef responds. “The role of a researcher is not to be famous but rather to shine a light on history. What we do have is the memory, the experience, and our own research, all of which no one can take away from us. I think this is just the beginning of the adventures.”
This is just the beginning, I repeat in my head. And soon enough, I will learn that Stef was right, indeed.
Sunset at Montmajour, 1888
🎨 Oil on canvas.
📍 Private Collection.
In 1908 a Norwegian industrialist, Christian Nicolai Mustad, bought the painting from a Parisian art dealer. One day, Auguste Pellerin, an art collector, dismissed the painting as fake. Mustad was so upset, he tucked the painting away and it lay abandoned in his until his death in 1970. In the 1990s, Mustad’s family contacted the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam to verify its authenticity but the painting was rejected as a true Van Gogh due to lack of visible signature. Only in 2013, the painting was rediscovered as a genuine masterpiece work and authenticated with the help of forensic science and a letter written by Van Gogh to his brother Theo describing the landscape in the painting. While the painting has been publicly exhibited, it currently remains in a private collection.
Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890) was a Dutch Post-Impressionist painter. Some of the most known paintings by van Gogh are Starry Night, Sunflowers, and The Potatoe Eaters. His legacy is honored by a museum dedicated to his artworks, the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, The Netherlands, which holds the world's largest collection of his paintings and drawings.
Vocabulary (in order of appearance):
Forgery - a document, signature, banknote, or in this case a work of art that was copied fraudulently, for the purpose of deception.
Art dealer - a profession, which focuses on art trade, such as buying and selling works of art.
Attribution - a claim that identifies a source or cause of something; in this case a work of art that is made by an artist.
Renaissance - a period in European history, marking the transition from the Middle Ages to modernity, spanning the 15th and 16th centuries,
Scientific analysis of art - a technical examination of artworks and heritage objects in a laboratory setting. Includes techniques such as analysis of painting materials or scans to detect structural features of objects.
Provenance research - a study of ownership of artwork to help establish authenticity and legal ownership.
Catalogue raisonné - comprehensive documentation of all the known artworks by a specific artist.
Selected bibliography:
Siegal, Nina. “A van Gogh’s Trip From the Attic to the Museum.” New York Times, September 9, 2013. https://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/10/arts/design/new-van-gogh-painting-discovered-in-amsterdam.html
“Guidelines for experts authenticating works of fine art.” Responsible Art Market. http://responsibleartmarket.org/guidelines/guidelines-for-experts-authenticating-works-of-fine-art/?print=print
“New Vincent van Gogh painting identified.” BBC News, September 9, 2013. https://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-24014186
All illustrations, unless otherwise noted, are by Natalia Kwiatkowska.
Dedication & acknowledgments:
I would like to dedicate the very first story from the "Nicole, The Art Detective" collection to my mother, who has been my source of love, support, and everything in life. Without my mother, I wouldn't be where I am today. Mom, thank you for believing in me and my ideas; thank you for listening to my dreams and hopes; thank you for providing me with opportunities, so that I can experience as much happiness in life as possible; thank you for giving me love; and thank you for showing me how to be strong. I love you.