There was a time when art was the province of effete snobs — the kind of people with whom I like to mingle. The typical museum couple was a well-dressed elderly widow and her mother. But then Dan Brown’s “Da Vinci Code” and the “Indiana Jones” movie series made art fashionable. Instead of trick-or-treating as politically incorrect cowboys and Indians — Oops, I mean Native Americans — kids (and adults not dressing as French maids) roamed the neighborhoods costumed as a fedora-wearing, whip-yielding Ivy League art professor (and who among us would deny treats to a kid who came to the door armed with a whip?). Worse yet, we now have to share art museums with the Plebeians. But I digress.
As part of this movement, a new genre of literature has emerged — focused on the high stakes art world of theft, forgery, international intrigue, and murder. A particularly popular sub-genre consists of books about recovering precious art looted by the Nazis. One of the authors to capitalize on this trend is Jonathan Santolofer — himself an artist and art teacher. His debut novel, “The Dutch Artist,” was an international bestseller, and his “Anatomy” of Fear” won the Nero Award for Best Crime Novel of the year. Santlofer’s recently released “The Lost Van Gogh” falls squarely within this new tradition. Regrettably, the book does not measure up to the art it describes.
The plot of “The Lost Van Gogh” is partially invented, but based on a real-life rumor. Contemporary accounts of Van Gogh’s funeral report that, at his wake, the artist’s casket was surrounded by some of his paintings, including two self-portraits. According to legend, one of the self-portraits — reputedly the last such portrait that Van Gogh ever painted — mysteriously disappeared. Santlofer’s novel includes a postscript speculating on how that painting disappeared, but that episode is tangential to the novel.
The novel is set in the present, but develops through a series of flashbacks. The flashbacks take us to occupied Paris during the Second World War. The author signals that we are in a different era by presenting those scenes in italics rather than regular typeface — because how else would we know that we have traveled back in time? In Paris, we encounter members of the French underground, who smuggle famous paintings out of the city by gluing tracing paper over them and painting nondescript scenes on the overlay to disguise what is underneath. This is how Van Gogh’s last portrait was treated.
Through a series of wildly improbably coincidences, the lost self-portraits finds its way to an antiques barn in rural New York, where it is purchased for $25 by one of the novel’s protagonists, Alex, who is working on her doctorate in art history. She brings the painting home to her boyfriend, Luke, an aspiring painter and recovering alcoholic (for whom the author cruelly arranges several meetings in chic bars). Noticing that some of the paint is pealing, Luke surreptitiously chips away the rest of the overlay — totally oblivious to the fact that Alexa paid good money for this picture — and, voila, discovers what appears to be a Van Gogh self-portrait underneath. Of course, Luke and Alex are not certain that the painting is authentic, and so they decide to consult an expert. Alex’s best friend from art school, Jennifer, recommends taking the painting to a curator named Anika van Straten.
But less than a day after acquiring the painting, Alex is mugged and the painting is stolen. Unbeknownst to our heroes, there are other eyes on the painting. One pair belongs to a notorious black market dealer in stolen art who has adopted the nickname “Trader.” Maybe I’m missing something, but if you were engaged in a criminal enterprise buying and selling art looted by the Nazis and you wanted to maintain your anonymity, could you possibly have chosen a worse nom de plume than “Trader”? It was Trader — working through a network of sleazy operatives — who stole the painting from Alex, and Interpol aims to get it back. Oddly, the novel never explains how either Trader or Interpol learned that a painting missing for nearly 80 years ended up in a second hand goods store in upstate New York.
In an effort to recover the lost self-portrait, Alex and Luke and the Interpol team travel independently to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. What our lovers hoped to accomplish there isn’t clear. Interpol, at least, had a plan. Working through an undercover agent posing as a dealer, Interpol seeks to draw Trader into the open by offering to trade a Matisse and a Monet for the Van Gogh. How Interpol just happened to have a Matisse and a Monet on hand is never explained, but those are just details.
As the plot unfolds, we learn that no one is who he or she appears to be. For example, Anika, the curator to whom Alex planned to take her painting, is actually the head of Interpol’s art recovery division. Alex’s art school friend, Jennifer, is sleeping with both Trader and Anika (but only because Trader made her do so to gain information). Various gallerists with whom Luke visited to gather clues about the missing painting (and to market his own paintings) turn out to be part of Trader’s criminal network. Interpol draws into the plot a convicted art thief who just happens to be Alex’s estranged father. That makes sense. If you can’t trust a convicted swindler, who can you trust?
Trader and his henchmen leave Amsterdam, kidnap Iterpol’s undercover agent (whom they have unmasked), and travel to Auvers-sur-Oise in France, where Van Gogh spent his last days and is now buried. There, they plan to make one more score. Unbeknownst to the rest of the art world, the great-grandson of a guy who did menial chores for Van Gogh just happens to have a sketch of what later became Van Gogh’s last self-portrait. Trader and his cronies plan to murder Alex, the undercover agent, and the great grandson and abscond with the Van Gogh, the Matisse, the Monet, and the sketch when Interpol swoops in at the last minute to save the day. Who saw that coming?
Although the very existence of the Van Gogh was in question and no one had seen it for a quarter century, Interpol manages to track down the rightful heir in just a few hours. This noble fellow agrees to donate the painting to the Van Gogh Museum. Happy ending? Not quite. Alex’s scoundrel father somehow manages to escape the authorities in Auvers-sur-Oise and absconds with the sketch. Am I the only reader who sees a sequel in progress?
Beyond the needlessly convoluted plot, the novel is interesting in a couple of other respects. First, the book’s 311 pages are divided into 94 chapters — an average of 3 pages per chapter. So, the book is perfect for reading during commercial breaks in the sporting events you are watching on TV. Second, the novel is written in both the first person (with Luke as the narrator) and the third person. Try as I might, I cannot think of any reason why the author adopted that convention.
The bottom line is that, if you are willing to suspend disbelief and if plausibility does not matter to you, run to your nearest bookstore or library and secure “The Lost Van Gogh.” It’s a fun ride through the world of lost art. But even if you are a dedicated art crimes enthusiast — as I am — you are likely to find the book just a tad disappointing.