The best painting ever

Those last words. The man should not have uttered those. If he had just kept quiet. And if this wouldn’t have been possible. Just a greeting. A casual comment. A pun perhaps. Nothing would have happened. In fact, Vincent's life would have looked promising. He would remember the evening as the moment his life took a radical turn. No more money worries. No more jokes about his craftsmanship. He would be praised. He would fit in. Vincent rubs the knuckles of his hand. He was able to wipe off most of the blood. Perhaps it would be wise to check whether his guest has already gone home. Or that he is still outside in the chilly drizzle.

It started so promisingly two hours earlier in the late afternoon. Vincent stood in the doorway to let his guest in. A viciously cold wind hit him in the face. The visitor greeted him courteously but did not hesitate to squeeze past the young painter into the narrow corridor. Vincent managed to close the front door with difficulty.

They stood awkwardly next to each other in the narrow space. Like two men looking for the bathroom in a restaurant that’s new to them. Vincent showed his guest the entrance to the studio and they both carefully shuffled along the moldy walls to the workshop.

“What a nice weather outside,” said the man as he stood in the studio and looked around curiously. There were some raindrops on his Gucci rimless glasses. Despite the hope and desire that the room would be well heated, it was still much colder than expected.

“Nice to meet you, my name is Raymond! Rayman Buckmaster!” The man extended his hand to the somewhat dazed, confused artist. Vincent felt his thin fingers disappear into the businessman's massive hands. The tycoon took off his coat and looked for something to hang his garment on. Vincent took the beige parka from Raymond and decided to put it over a kitchen chair.

“So this is where it all starts?” The industrialist took the time to look around critically. The worn wooden floor that was littered with old newspapers, paint tubes, loose sketches. The square window that let in the late afternoon light. The walls that were covered with sketches, drawings, etchings, paintings, photos, portraits.

“I have been here for almost four years now,” Vincent explained. Timid, frightened. “The intention is that the old warehouse will be renovated and apartments will be built in it. Until that is the case, it will be made available to small entrepreneurs like me.”

'Ah, that something that unites us! Entrepreneurship!” The visitor walked to the window and looked outside. He looked unapologetic, energetic, vital. As if he still had his whole life ahead of him.

While the artist prepared his things, the sketch paper, the easel, the camera, the wood chalk, Raymond wandered somewhat restlessly through the studio. Vincent knew. The late afternoon light was too dull to start painting. He would do some sketches and take pictures. So that at least an initial idea of composition could arise.

“Do you already have a preference for how you want to be painted? Setting? Background?" asked the painter. The retired entrepreneur shook his head. He was open to everything. However, his relatives and especially his wife, had insisted on making a classical portrait. That went well with the rest of the interior of his house.

“Strangely enough, I recognize the atmosphere in this workspace,” the guest admitted. “It reminds me of so many years ago. When I decided to start my own business. I had no money, no connections, no experience, no strong mission. I only had big dreams.”

He fell silent. And stared at the paint splatters on the floor. Did he recognize a pattern? He just smiled and continued his story.

“And no one believed in my ideas, my plans. By then, I had a very good position at a well-known multinational. I had a big salary, and even bigger company car. But I missed the freedom. I miss myself. My talent, my drive. That's why I didn’t want to give up on my dreams. That's why I fought for my own chances.”

Vincent gestured to the industrialist where he could sit. A stool right next to the square window. The man nodded that he understood the idea. He briefly stroked his full head of gray-white hair.

“Can you sit on it? Or would you prefer a more comfortable place to take a seat for the first session,” Vincent wanted to know. But Raymond was fine with it. Proud, self-confident and strong-willed, he strode to the stepstool and sat down on the high chair.

The artist apologized. He had to go to the toilet. When he had locked the door, Vincent grabbed his head with both hands. His hair was wet of sweat. His legs were shaking like branches in an autumn storm. What was wrong with him? What made him so nervous, so timid, so intensely afraid? This was the big moment of his early career. It had to happen. When this failed, there was no hope.

When Vincent returned to the workshop, Raymond was still sitting obediently on the stool. The man smiled expectantly when he saw the painter walking towards him. Suddenly Vincent stood still. Something caught his attention. The face of his visitor. The look in the eyes of his benefactor. It awakened a memory in him. It was an impression that made him even more restless. He had just pulled himself together. He just had admonished himself to be brave. With all his might, he tried to push away this new feeling of anguish.

“Is it an idea to put on some background music?” Vincent asked the financier. Raymond thought this was a good suggestion. Something from Oscar Peterson maybe? The Canadian jazz pianist? That music always inspired him, revealed the millionaire. There was something pure about that music, something original.

The painter picked up his phone. He looked up the right playlist. Then he explained to Raymond that he was going to take some photos. To get a first impression of the composition.

While the young artist was busy, the entrepreneur started talking. Quiet, relaxed, pleasant. As if they were sitting in the local cafe. He told how he had seen Vincent's work at an exhibition with a good friend of his. The Baron of Shortland. On his Birchwick Castle.

“I was immediately impressed by your style. Not that I'm an expert, mind you. But it stood out to me among those other paintings. That subtle balance. Between intensity and rest. Enthusiasm and control. It certainly can relate to it. That fight between emotion and reason. Between an open intuition and a strict mind.”

Vincent put down his camera. Despite the weak light, the photos turned out well. He heard the man talking but wasn't really listening. It was that new tension, that fresh restlessness that haunted his mind. There was something about this man. Had he met him before? Had he read something about him in the newspaper? Something wasn't right. His intuition never deceived him. What made him feel so restless? What was wrong with his buyer?

“From an early age on I have had the dream of becoming a painter. In the last year of primary school we visited the National Museum. I was immediately hooked. I did not know what I saw. Rembrandt. Van Gogh. Monet. Turner. Picasso. A whole new experience.”

It appeared it was Vincent’s turn to start talking. The words were tripping over each other. Maybe this could help? To get rid of that overwrought feeling? To start chatting, jabbering? Just like it helps when you were irritated, to go for a walk. To clear your head.

“At first my family, my friends, my teachers laughed a bit at my ambition. Artist? Painter? Why ? How? But as I got older and I held on to my ideal, they started to express real criticism to me. Wasn't it too much of a stretch to become an artist? Wouldn't it be better to take it up as a pastime? And what about getting get a decent education so I could get a respectable job? With a stable income?”

And while Vincent was talking, he remembered everything. The conversations with his parents, his brother and sisters, his friends. How they wanted to protect him. How they hoped to talk him out of it. To prevent him from choosing his own path. To hinder that he became too idealistically, too recklessly. After all, how many successful painters did he know? Which artists did he meet who had succeeded in their mission? Their vocation? Calling?

Things didn't get better when he got into a relationship. In the beginning, his girlfriend supported him through thick and thin. Until they moved in together. Until she realized that their student room would remain a student room. While her friends moved one by one to neat single-family homes, while their husbands saw their income increase every year, while some of their close acquaintances had children, she and Vincent lived in a draughty apartment above a drugstore. They bought their clothes at thrift stores. They could not afford a car. Sometimes they went on cycling during holidays. If the bikes weren't broken. Then they stayed at home. Then they watched TV shows through an illegal account.

“Eventually my father gave in. And helped pay for my studies. Until he was sacked overnight. Then…” Vincent's voice faltered. Was it one memory too many? The recollection of his father? And then suddenly he realized it. That agitation, that panic inside. It was the man on the stool. Raymond Buckmaster. Only his name wasn't Raymond at the time. Everyone called him Ronnie. Concrete Ronnie. Because he was such a tough businessman. Because he could walk through walls, he had a no-prisoner mentality.

“Have I ever told you how I earned my first million?” The visitor now sat down in the kitchen chair with his parka coat hanging over the backrest. “I managed to buy a stockpile of TVs through my connections in Germany. Of all things, we're talking the sixties, aren't we? How many people had a TV in their living room back then? But those German TVs, there was something wrong with them. Problems with the transistor, the display. You name it. A friend of mine could fix them. And I sold the TVs later on.”

Vincent was standing in the kitchen. He had the kettle in his hand. Two cups stood on the counter. The pot of instant coffee was next to it. A peaceful scene. The painter felt his hand trembling. He put the kettle back on the plate. He didn't dare turn around. He didn't want to look Raymond in the eye. He took a very deep breath. “Calm down, calm down, Vincent, “ he muttered to himself.

“With that first million guilders I was able to buy an old bankrupt pan factory in the vicinity of this town. That was a masterstroke. That story is also described in detail in my biography, which will be published by the end of next year. If you are interested, I can arrange a copy for you from my publisher,” proposed the mogul.

Vincent held the counter with both hands. He felt a deep anger rising within. An anger like a terrifying beast. He had no idea what was happening to him. Wasn't he known as the most peace-loving man in the neighborhood? In fact. His girlfriend often encouraged him to stand up more. To not be walked all over so often.

“We managed to get an enamel layer in the pans and pots using a clever process. That was unprecedented at the time. You should think of some kind of non-stick coating. Ordinary people could now buy exclusive kitchen tools for a very reasonable price.”

Vincent turned around, apologized and disappeared into the toilet again. The man must think that I am under the weather, it crossed his mind. And maybe it was. His head burst. A sharp pain tore at his eyes. Everything came back. The image of his father. How proudly he placed the pans and pots on his work table in the draughty shed behind their terraced house at the end of a long day. His father the inventor. His father, the handyman. He could do magic with sheet metal. There were sketches of frying pans, saucepans, roasting pans, and sauté pans everywhere in their house. He could still see it in his mind's eye. His father's face. How it beamed with happiness, bliss, joy. And imagine, he was allowed to work for Concrete Ronnie. The well-known business man of the whole region. It appeared to be a golden duo. His father was given the freedom to experiment. Ronnie got the money, the success. It didn't bother his father at all. As long as he had the time and space to invent new things. New pans. New techniques. New applications. New cooking tips. He showed his inventions to everyone. Family, friends. And they came from far and wide to buy his enamel layered products. The famous pots and pans.

Until one day it was over. Just like that. A round of layoffs. The factory had to make cuts. No more new products had to be created. From one day to the next, his lively, funny, handy, smart father was at home. And he turned into a dead, gloomy, tired, confused man. Sometimes he went to the factory on his bicycle and stood at the factory gate for hours. He chatted with some former colleagues. They reminisced. Drunk coffee. But it did not help. His father was getting worse by the day. And three years after his discharge he went into cardiac arrest and was done for. Barely sixty years old.

When Vincent mustered up enough courage, he took his sketchbook from the coffee table and pretended to make drawings. In reality, he was scratching nervously and angrily in his sketchbook book. Stupid lines, dumb circles. In the meantime, Raymond didn't seem to notice Vincent’s rage. He hummed along to the swinging piano music of Oscar Peterson. And looked around. Careless, unbothered. He didn't seem to get enough of the paintings and drawings that hung throughout the studio on the walls.

“Those pans and pots, did you come up with them all yourself?”

“Those pans and pots? No. I am all thumbs. And I don't know anything about cooking. At the time I couldn't even tell a saucepan from a frying pan. And for the development of new pots and pans? That's what I had my guys for. Good workers! At that time they still knew what work was. But ultimately they were dependent on me. From my contacts, my sales skills, my money, my perseverance.”

It was then that Vincent decided to pour boiling hot water over that arrogant face of his visitor. Or no, to stab the man in his left eye. With a freshly sharpened pencil in a targeted but very delicate manner. Vincent stopped in the middle of his studio.

"Is there something? You're so quiet. You seem so tense?” Raymond got up from his seat, pushed the kitchen chair towards the painter, and gestured for Vincent to sit in it.

“Tell me, what's going on? What's wrong with you this afternoon?”

That inviting gesture, those kind words. It calmed the anger of the young painter somewhat. Vincent took a deep breath.

“Do you feel the pressure of the assignment? Do you feel that this promising task should not fail?” The business man would like to know. “Precisely because so much depends on it? What if it all works out? How many of my connections, of my friends, will want to contact you? It could be the start of a whole new life.”

Raymon leaned loosely against the countertop. Meanwhile, Vincent tried to think. What would his father have wanted? Would he have strongly advised against it? To make a portrait of the man who had helped he destroyed him? Or would he have encouraged it? Because through this assignment Vincent's artistry could finally come into its own? Because he got a big one-time opportunity?

Because that was the last and most beautiful thing he remembered about his father. How on his deathbed, he had grabbed both of Vincent's hands, looked his son in the eye and adjured him not to waste his talents. Never to gave up. To continue to believe in his gift, in his unique talent, until the bitter end.

They drank a cup of tea. They talked about football, local politics, ambitions and how stuntmen often cry to sentimental songs when they are alone. Vincent's belief grew stronger and stronger. He would continue to make Raymond’s portrait. It wasn't just going to be a portrait. No, this would become the best painting ever.

After Vincents had made the final sketches, they arranged the follow-up meeting. They agreed that Raymond would come by every week to pose for an hour. Vincents felt no more rage or fury when he helped the client into his beige parka coat. Raymond thanked him very much for the nice and entertaining evening. Vincent guided him through the narrow hallway to the front door. Just as Raymond was about to leave, he turned around once more, looked Vincent straight in the eyes and whispered one last sentence.

“You know, I had really no other choice. It was swim or sink.”