Van Gogh, Don't Cut Off Your Ear! Your Top Trader Is Here

Chapter 4 Christmas Gift

"Sell paintings?" Van Gogh sounded like he'd heard a fairy tale, helplessly spreading his paint-stained hands.

 "Marcel, you're in Arles! Not Paris! The people here only recognize the stones of the ancient Roman amphitheater and the grapes in their vineyards! My paintings? They can barely be traded for a loaf of bread!"

Van Gogh's blue eyes drooped down, dull and lifeless: "Forget it, even if I took my paintings to Paris, no one would care. My brother Theo has tried countless times in Paris, and couldn't even recover the cost of paints!"

"Vincent, don't lose heart! Your paintings are great works of art!" Marcel couldn't help but step forward to embrace this dejected genius painter, patting his shoulder with the unquestionable confidence of a time traveler. "Now, you have me. Let me be your ace dealer, how about it?"

"Ace dealer?" Van Gogh widened his eyes, confused by this unfamiliar term, muttering it under his breath.

"Yes! Ace dealer! You'll gradually understand what that means!" Marcel said with confidence. "Vincent, gather all your paintings. During the Christmas holiday, I'm going to sell them all!"

Van Gogh thought about how this young man possessed the "magical power" to read his thoughts, knew gang secrets, and could paint religious icons quickly and accurately—truly impressive abilities.

Maybe he really could sell the paintings?

Nothing to lose!

The two worked efficiently and counted everything—36 paintings in total.

"Vincent, these 36 paintings, base price of 60 francs each, totaling 2,160 francs. How does that sound?"

Enough for Van Gogh's living expenses and painting costs for a whole year.

As a time traveler, Marcel knew that Theo, who worked as a manager at a Paris gallery, sent his brother Van Gogh 150 francs every month—1,800 francs per year.①

Van Gogh looked around blankly at the mountain of canvases on the floor, like a dusty junkyard.

Really worth 60 francs? Each one?

After a long pause, he finally nodded.

"As payment for selling the paintings, I'll move into the Yellow House, you pay the rent, and I'll focus on being your dealer. Deal?"

Van Gogh looked at the burning passion in the young man's eyes, that gaze flickering with unwavering determination.

As if possessed, he nodded again.

Thus, an evicted chimney sweep and a mad painter who couldn't sell his work formed the most incredible alliance on this cold Christmas Eve.

------------------

The next day, December 24, 1888, Christmas Eve.

The streets of Arles were shrouded in both holiday atmosphere and cold currents, the air filled with the sweet fragrance of roasted chestnuts and mulled wine.

Marcel walked through the streets and alleys, launching the first major battle of his dealer career.

His targets were crystal clear: Arles' largest store—Rémy Department Store, the busiest café—Café de la Place Lamartine, and the tourist-packed Arles Roman Amphitheater.

All places with massive foot traffic.

At Christmas, people would open their usually tight purse strings to celebrate properly.

What he was selling wasn't paintings, but Christmas gifts—a "Christmas miracle" that would make people's hearts race like gamblers.

------------------

He wrapped his thin old coat tightly around himself, shouldering a huge burlap bundle, moving against the crowd like a small boat cutting through waves of people, heading straight for the town center's most impressive "Rémy Department Store."

The store windows were dazzling with merchandise. Store owner Old Rémy stood on a tall ladder, carefully hanging a string of gold-foiled Christmas ornaments at the very top of the window display.

He was round and fat, like an overstuffed money bag, his face habitually wearing a merchant's shrewd smile.

"Mr. Rémy!" Marcel's voice cut through the store's bustle.

Old Rémy looked down, the ladder swaying slightly: "Oh? It's you, the chimney sweep? Not fixing chimneys today, selling junk instead?"

He glanced at the huge, dusty bundle on Marcel's shoulder, curling his lip.

"Christmas gifts!"

Marcel dropped the bundle with a "thump" next to the ribbon-decorated Christmas tree, stirring up a small cloud of dust. "Real art! From Mr. Vincent van Gogh!"

He pulled away the burlap in one motion.

Twelve paintings were exposed under the department store's bright lights.

Sunflowers so full they seemed ready to burst, golden flower heads like frozen suns, burning with primitive life force against deep blue backgrounds.

Wild brushstrokes carried reckless passion, instantly overwhelming the exquisite but lifeless merchandise in the windows.

Surrounding customers unconsciously stopped in their tracks, letting out low gasps of amazement.

Old Rémy's smile froze, his small eyes staring at the paintings, filled with astonishment.

This style... too wild, too rebellious!

"Mr. Rémy," Marcel's voice carried persuasive power, "look at these people! Your store needs something different to draw all the money from their pockets! Hang these twelve paintings in your most prominent location, price them at 80 francs each, no markup! As a Christmas special promotion! For every painting sold, you get 8 francs commission! Whatever sells, sells!"

Old Rémy frowned, unconsciously twisting the sparse whiskers on his chin, clearly calculating gains and losses.

Could these paintings... actually sell?

Too risky!

"You're just consigning them. Any unsold paintings, I'll take back. For you, it's guaranteed profit with no loss!" Marcel saw right through Old Rémy's thoughts.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice to deliver the real killer blow: "Plus, buying a painting gives you a chance to enter the Christmas grand lottery! The money is hidden right in the frames! Three grand prizes: 200 francs, 150 francs, 80 francs! Think about it, Mr. Rémy, those crowds flocking here for the lottery... will they leave your store empty-handed? Twelve paintings mean twelve golden billboards for attracting customers! You profit from both commission and foot traffic!"

"Lottery? Grand prizes hidden in the frames?" Old Rémy's eyes suddenly lit up.

And foot traffic!

That's what he valued most!

He could almost see surging crowds of customers coming like gamblers for that possible 200 francs, sweeping his shelves clean.

"Deal!" Old Rémy waved his fat hand, shrewdness instantly overcoming doubt. "Hang them! Hang them right now! On that most visible wall next to the window! Hans! Stop hanging ornaments! Come move these paintings!"

------------------

Through lanes filled with coffee's roasted aroma and bustling voices, Marcel shouldered his second large bundle and pushed open the heavy wooden door of Café de la Place Lamartine.

Inside was packed, smoke-filled, with Arles' idle folk hotly debating the recent "Franco-Siamese Agreement" between France and Thailand, and Arles' weather.

Owner Luc was a tall, thin middle-aged man wearing a crisply starched white shirt and black vest, his hair combed without a strand out of place, elegantly polishing a silver coffee pot with a snow-white cloth.

"Hi,Luc!"

Luc looked up, brow slightly furrowed, examining Marcel and his bundle with an artist's particular scrutiny: "Young man, we only display art that meets our 'standards.'"

He emphasized the word "standards," his gaze sweeping over several conventional landscape reproductions on the walls.

"This is exactly the opportunity to elevate your taste and class!" Marcel showed no fear, pulling away the burlap.

Twelve sunflower paintings, but smaller this time, depicting different states of the flower bouquets—budding, blooming, withering.

That pure, blazing yellow carried religious-like infectious power, instantly making the café's reproductions appear pale and powerless.

The passionate colors and bold brushstrokes strangely harmonized with the café's lazy yet vibrant atmosphere.

Several customers holding coffee cups let out soft "Oh!" exclamations, their gazes firmly captured.

Luc stopped polishing the coffee pot, his sharp eyes scrutinizing the artworks, his criticism finally touched with hints of interest and shock.

"Consigning genuine artwork, 80 francs each," Marcel struck while the iron was hot, "ten percent commission. Hanging here makes your café's unique artistic calling card! Think about those critics from Paris—how will they talk about this Arles café with such avant-garde paintings? And," he raised his voice to ensure surrounding tables could hear, "Christmas grand lottery! Buying a painting gives you a chance to win 200 francs cash prize! The prize money is hidden in the frames! Give your customers a surprise Christmas gift, and bring yourself surprising foot traffic!"

"Avant-garde art? Paris critics? Surprise gifts?"Luc repeated these phrases, his eyes sparkling.

Class, talking points, potential customer flow... this deal was profitable no matter how he calculated it.

This was exactly the kind of distinction he pursued.

"Hang them up!" Luc decisively pointed to the most prominent wall opposite the bar. "Replace those damned Seine River landscapes that nobody looks at! Move quickly!"

------------------

Under the huge arched shadows of the Arles Roman Amphitheater, cold wind howled.

The ticket booth's wooden shutters rattled in the wind.

Manager Gaston, wrapped in a heavy old military coat, huddled in the booth, breathing on his reddened hands, with only a small charcoal brazier providing weak warmth.

Winter was the off-season for tourism.

Not many visitors.

"Mr. Gaston!" Marcel's voice carried warmth, cutting through the cold.

Gaston lifted his stubbled face, eyes cloudy and wary: "What do you want?"

Marcel heavily placed his final bundle on the ticket window's wooden counter: "Adding some valuable color to your stones!"

He pulled away the burlap for the third time.

Twelve paintings were revealed, featuring Arles landscapes—the Yellow House, the amphitheater's arches, golden wheat fields after harvest...

Still Van Gogh's signature intense colors and swirling brushstrokes, the ancient landmarks blazing with life under his brush.

Gaston's cloudy eyes instantly widened.

The amphitheater arches in those paintings had a hundred times more passion than the cold stones before him!

These paintings... could make people remember this broken place's glory?

"Consigning Mr. Van Gogh's passionate works, 80 francs each," Marcel spoke rapidly, "ten percent commission! Hang them right next to your ticket booth! Tourists see them before buying tickets, and think about them after! These are the best souvenirs! A hundred times better than your crude plaster models! More importantly," he leaned close to the window, his voice full of temptation, "Christmas grand lottery! Buy a painting and get a chance to scratch off the lucky banknotes hidden in the frames, directly taking away 80, 150, or even 200 francs in real money! Think about those families with children coming to visit, think about those young people wanting to try their luck! This grand prize is the best bait to attract them to buy tickets and enter your amphitheater!"

"Bait? Grand prize?"

Gaston's numb-from-cold brain seemed awakened by the huge number "200 francs."

He looked at the entrance, then at the seemingly burning amphitheater in the paintings, then at the banknotes Marcel held.

In his withered eyes, a glimmer of eager light finally ignited.

People! He needed more people, more foot traffic!

"Hang them! Hang them right now!" Gaston suddenly pulled open the ticket booth door, roughly shouting at workers, "Hang them in the most visible place! Let all tourists see them!"

------------------

Before noon, throughout Arles' streets and alleys, especially at locations displaying Van Gogh's paintings, eye-catching golden posters appeared:

【Unique Christmas Gifts!

Purchase original works by avant-garde painter Vincent van Gogh, only 80 francs!

Instantly receive Christmas grand prize opportunity!

3 cash grand prizes sealed within 36 frames!

Prize money: 200 francs, 150 francs, 80 francs

Winning rate as high as 8 percent

Witness your luck! Miracles are in your hands!】

Below the posters, consignment locations were listed: Rémy Department Store, Café de la Place Lamartine, Roman Amphitheater.

"200 francs? Hidden in the frames?"

"200 francs, that's a whole two months' wages!"

"80 francs for a painting, possibly winning back 200 francs? This... what's the difference from picking up free money?"

"Van Gogh? That red-haired weirdo from the Yellow House? Can his paintings... work?"

"Let's go see! Looking doesn't cost anything! What if we win? That's a whole 200 francs!"

"Take a gamble! Even if we don't win, buying a painting as a Christmas gift isn't bad!"

News spread like wildfire.

All of Arles was talking about whether to buy Vincent van Gogh's paintings, whether they had enough luck to win.

On Christmas Eve 1888, the Provence town of Arles was quietly witnessing whether a young dealer could rewrite the fate of Van Gogh's paintings.

───────────

①Regarding Theo's financial support for his brother Van Gogh, see Van Gogh: The Life (CHAPTER 17: "My Little Window"): Vincent's dire warnings and desperate pleadings did succeed in wresting from his brother a raise in his stipend: from one hundred to one hundred and fifty francs a month. (Ever skeptical of Vincent's budgeting, Theo insisted on sending the money in three installments, on the first, tenth, and twentieth of each month.)

Van Gogh: The Life, written by Steven Naifeh & Gregory White Smith, published by Random House, 2011.