The Dutch Artist and His Muse

The Dutch Artist

and His Muse

Inspired by true events in the life of the artist Jan Sirks

Yosay Briels

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher. For permission contact www.yosaybriels.co.nz

©Yosay Briels 2017

About the Author

Yosay Briels has a Bachelor’s degree in Art History and French from the University of Canterbury, Christchurch New Zealand. She is the curator for the art collection of Jan Sirks and the author of www.jansirks.com

She lives in the port town of Lyttelton, New Zealand and from her office window, she looks over the awe-inspiring Lyttelton Harbour/Whakaraupo.

www.yosaybriels.co.nz

TO MY DAUGHTER ISABEL

Acknowledgements

I have been immensely fortunate with the support I have received whilst researching and writing The Dutch Artist and His Muse.

I thank my husband Daniel Petrache for his unfaltering support,

Isabel Petrache-Briels for her insights,

Marianne Edelmann and Paulus Briels for their input and trust,

Editor Katrina Rainey for her professional expertise and Frank Visser for his contribution to the design of the cover.

I thank my early readers for their honest and detailed feedback.

I am deeply grateful to the late Louise Briels-Sirks for sharing her knowledge about the art and the artist.

Most of all, my thanks to the artist Jan Sirks for daring to touch the soul.

Yosay Briels

The Dutch Artist

and His Muse

Contents

Louise 1938

Jan 1897

Hillegonda 1895

Jan’s Future 1903

The Dutch Iron Railway Company 1903

Coaldust on Snow

Amsterdam

Hillegonda 1912

The Studio 1912

The Meeting

The First Sitting

Essence

A Crescendo of Visits 1898

Gon’s Plan 1900

Gon’s Music 1907

Johanna’s Burden

The First Etching 1912

An Unannounced Visit

The Concert

Mr Rosenbach’s Lesson

A Sister’s Advice

Return to the Studio

A Father’s Advice

Another Clash

A Dinner Invitation

Jan’s Diplomacy

Granny

The First Galleries

Intuition 1913

Utrecht

The New Voice of Art 1914

The Coal Depot 1914

World War I

Gon Takes a Job 1915

Preparation

Solo 15 April 1915

A Review

The Printer 1915

National Brigade

Return from Brabant

An Announcement 1916

A Meditation

The Outing

On The Threshold

A Different View

The Bookshop

Not Quite a Cubist

The Theosophical Society

Changing Friendships

Internal Confrontation

A Changing Perspective

Multiple Angles

Crossroads

Vision 1916

Search for Meaning

A Collective Voice 1917

Artistic Pressure

Huize Van Hasselt 1917

The Opening

Divided Opinions

Clashing Views

Bubbles Contained 1918

Gaining Strength

Arpeggios

Domestic Bliss

The Market

The Taste of Luxury

An Early Surprise

Members Only

A Surprise

Time

A Doctor’s Visit

The Smell of Autumn

The Trump-card

Hanging Orphans 1918

The Fourth Branding Exhibition

Self-appointed Rulers

Judgement Day

A Traitor

The War of Peace

A Self-portrait

A Personal Perspective 1919

Solo in Rotterdam 1919

A Leaky Vessel

A Séance 1920

Laura 1921

Private Viewing

Frustration

Making Time

Freedom of Expression

Freemasons 1922

Paris and Concarneau 1925

London 1927

London’s Pea Soup

Southwark Cathedral

The Art Dealer

A Perfect Studio

A Perfect Announcement

The Move

A Son 1928

Defeatists and Theorists

Defining Needs

The Rotterdam Artists’ Society 1929

The First Meeting

The Call of Justice 1931

An Idea Surfaces

Friendship’s Mysterious Ways

The Crisis Exhibition 1932

A Review

Louise’s Questions 1933

In Gon’s Footsteps

An Artistic Oasis

A Family Affair 1933

The Specialist

Anger

A See-Saw of Emotions

Choices

Doctor Hettema

Laughter and Cake

Of Cats and Dogs 1935

Kazan, The Dog

The Need for Truth 1936

Balancing the Scales

The Fist of Reality 1937

Hitting Back

A Different Sparkle

From Canals to Trees

At Ease

Jan 1938

An Open Studio Door

Last Days

Louise Bites

The Muse Returns 1938

Quotes

Colour is the keyboard, the eyes are the harmonies, the soul is the piano with many strings.

The artist is the hand that plays, touching one key or another, to cause vibrations in the soul.

Wassily Kandinsky

Louise 1938

There was barely a sound to be heard. She inhaled the smell of this city, so different without that edge of salt and tar. Crossing the narrow cobblestoned bridge near the Dom Tower she stopped briefly to look at the tiny, angular waves on the canal. Different waves, without the force of the sea. Looking up, she gained some comfort from the tower’s solid form and from the thought that he had been here too. A lifetime of waves ago.

Her inner turmoil played havoc with her emotions. Shots of confidence were interspersed with the flapping wings of a multitude of butterflies. She felt her hand go up to smooth her hair, wavy and free without the familiar long plaits. It is important they do not notice the fear, she thought. She had learnt enough from him to disguise it. No one can see it if you do not share it with them.

The sound of her footsteps on the stones echoed in her ears. The small heels made her feel older than her sixteen years. It was not a comfortable feeling.

The polished brass handle felt cold under her hand and a slight shiver travelled along her spine. The door opened unexpectedly swiftly. She had expected it to be heavy: heavy and cumbersome like the incredible weight she now carried on her narrow shoulders.

She stepped inside and although the lights were on, it seemed dark. Her eyes gradually adjusted as she paused at the entrance and surveyed her new environment. The folder hung heavily over her right shoulder as she looked around for something familiar. She swallowed the uneasy lump in her throat. Etchings and engravings covered the white walls. The sight of these helped, just a little. A strong and familiar smell hit her nostrils and provided another brief moment of comfort. She inhaled the deeply familiar smell of ink and paper and felt, just for a moment, as if she was in his studio again. The memory of those smells was beginning to fade and this was all she could do to keep them alive, she had to make it work.

She stepped forward boldly, put out her hand and gave her name to the gallery owner. He looked surprised. His handshake was firm. His eyes seemed surprisingly kind, yet shrewd and full of humour. Did he recognise her from that one visit all those years ago? The quick glance up and down did not miss anything. She felt so different. Everything in her life had changed. So, Louise, what do you have in your folder?

She followed him into the adjacent room. The smell was even stronger here. Frames backed against frames and shelves heavy with paper. Mounds were neatly arranged like tiny angular soldiers, sorted by style and colour, covering one entire wall.

The two tables in the middle of the room were large and the felt covers worn. Glass plates were neatly arranged on one of the tables. On the other, cream and coffee coloured mounting boards were laid out next to a pair of white gloves and a large print. She paused briefly and looked at the print. She narrowed her eyes as if by instinct and moved them rapidly across the work. An engraving, she thought, not an etching. Seeing his smile, she realised that she had spoken aloud, instantly feeling embarrassed. Was that a look of admiration?

He motioned to the biggest table and waited patiently as she opened her folder. Within seconds, the contents covered the deep grey felt on the surface.

Spread them out so I can examine them properly. It seemed like a command. Don’t you have any work from Rotterdam?

She had thought it appropriate only to bring local work and shook her head. She felt herself shrinking.

Collectors who do still buy select the larger work as investments; these are uncertain times. He sounded stern.

Her heart sunk and she wanted to gather everything and disappear, run to the safety of the outside world along the canal. She forced herself to smile and held on firmly to the notebook she had pulled out of her coat pocket.

I see you have retained the printer; the quality is excellent. He bent over the table and examined a signature with a magnifying glass.

The small notebook felt damp in her hand. She had chosen one with lines. Neat lines to ensure her orders would be easy to read. What orders? She felt unable to breathe. Her hands clenched the notebook. The silence enveloped her and with it, she felt her mood sink.

After an eternity he looked up. Her heart was pounding.

Please supply me with six large Dom Tower etchings; four of the large Canal. His voice was gentle, yet commanding. Her pencil danced across the lines. He paused for a moment and she held her breath. She was about to put the little notebook back in her pocket, fighting back the anger that was welling up inside. But she had been too quick; he had merely paused. He started calling out orders so fast, that she could barely record the titles quickly enough.

One page of her notebook was already full, yet he kept going. Working swiftly, he called out one title after another, his manicured hands moving purposefully through the works on the table. He examined them all, holding them up with the tips of his fingers. First, he held them close, then he moved them to arm’s length, narrowing his eyes as he did so. He continued to call out the titles as he worked. Several more of the small pages were full, her heart soared.

Finally he stopped. She added up, rapidly flicking the pages, and gave him the total, surprised by the confidence of her own voice. He nodded, excused himself and disappeared into the next room. She felt as though her face would break and was sure her tightly pursed lips could not conceal the smile.

He returned and caught her eye; a gentle smile played across his lips. He peeled off the notes and handed them to her. She thanked him and immediately placed the notes on the table. She looked up at him and smiled before carefully counting aloud.

That is correct, thank you.

She tucked them away in the pocket of her coat. She did up the button and gave the pocket a little pat as though it would flatten the slight bulk.

I look forward to seeing you again Miss Sirks, and please, do bring some work from Rotterdam next time. He paused and then looked at her intently.

I am so sorry about your Father. All of us sadly miss him. Please give my very best to your Mamma. You are so like her.

Louise’s eyes lit up as she smiled broadly. Thank you!

She shook his hand firmly and left the gallery. Outside, along the canal, her step broke into a skip, for just a moment.

Jan 1897

The sudden movement of the light in the classroom startled him. It danced across the desks, the sleepy students and the parading teacher, and made kaleidoscopic patterns on the walls. The more he looked, the more it seemed to dance. Just when he thought he understood a colour, it changed again. His pencil scrawled across the page, barely touching, yet leaving clear lines. He stared at Dolfsma, the history teacher, as he paced up and down in front of the classroom like a caged animal. Jan noticed that his forehead had finer lines than the ones etched around his eyes. His large ears sat oddly forward. Jan chuckled quietly to himself.

The mouth was so hard to do, why did he have to speak all the time? And why did he have to pace? There, just that thin line. He seemed much more at ease when he did not speak.

Jan felt intimate with the lines on his teacher’s face and the clear blue of the eyes that narrowed with each inhalation of smoke. Intimate with the cigarette smoke that curled its way around the wide nostrils and across the perpetually raised ebony eyebrows. It was a questioning face, Jan thought. Strange that Dolfsma never answered any questions, but wiped them into insignificance with an impatient wave of his nicotine stained fingers.

This newly felt intimacy with his teacher’s looks made Jan wonder about him. What did he really do with his life? Was this it? A puppet that was moved across the stage by some unseen force. This force was his burden and clearly weighed heavily on his narrow shoulders. His raised eyebrows were surely the sign of a questioning mind, yet he abstained from questioning. He seemed more at ease sitting, waiting for time to move the day along. His frequent pacing was in permanent conflict with his seemingly gentle and accepting nature.

Jan thought history was a subject for questions. But apart from permanently raising his eyebrows, Dolfsma showed no sign of questioning anything in life. He just paced and recited dates and incoherent facts. He existed and the light played with him. Was it mocking him by feigning change?

As Jan was shading around the eyes and the nose, he watched youth change to maturity with each additional pencil stroke. Light and dark played with reality. Jan could capture him with lines. Through the contrast of light and dark his teacher emerged on the page.

What was real? Was it the light or was it the darkness? The black or the white? Or perhaps it was colour? Or maybe, just maybe, it was what he thought about that made him real. There were so many questions. But for now, the reality came from the black of his pencil, from the ebony strokes on the white paper. Life defined by the contrast of black and white. Tangible.

Jan’s father stressed the importance of understanding history. But what was there to understand? What was true about it? There were only lines in a book. No light, no darkness. Just lines. You somehow had to bring it to life in your mind. Make sense of the black and the white.

This is not what his teacher did. The subject was dead under his care. Perhaps people had different views about what understanding actually meant. To Jan it always seemed that as soon as you had found an answer to something another question would develop. Always paired with that uncomfortable sense of not knowing and the emerging need to know about what was left out. The white.

Yet somehow, by creating this line drawing, Jan felt as though things were real and tangible. He had to do this whether his teachers allowed it or not. And whether or not they took the drawings away. Jan simply had to draw.

The bell rang and Jan slowly put his things away. Everyone around him was rushing, yet he showed no signs of haste as he methodically placed his belongings in his worn leather schoolbag. Pencils upright in the small metal case with the narrow ribbed edges, the nibs pointing upwards; the timber ruler flat on the bottom so it would not chip; the books carefully placed on top.

Still doodling Sirks? Jan looked up at his teacher, a worried look on his face as he realised the drawing was still on his desk.

Yes, Mr Dolfsma, still doodling.

You know what we have said about the doodling don’t you?

Yes, Mr Dolfsma.

Jan’s heart sank as he worried about the forthcoming punishment. What would it be this time? Probably multiple detention periods filled with useless tasks. Jan felt the anger rise but as he looked up, he saw the teacher smile as he looked at the drawing. He relaxed just a little.

Never knew I was so good at teaching art. I see you are most definitely beyond doodling! See you next time Sirks.

A broad grin transformed Jan’s serious face. Thank you Sir!

Since Jan had started at high school things had improved slightly, but he had been told on numerous occasions that art was strictly for art classes. One period per week. There was not quite as much punishment at high school, but there was still punishment. It had not taken him long to work out the different attitudes of the teachers: the iron fist or the intrigue. He did not know which one he preferred.

He slowly made his way out of the classroom. The noisy crowds had gone from the corridors. He thought about his art classes as he made his way down the wide stairwell. Initially he had been flattered by the attention, but very quickly this feeling had changed into one of frustration. Jan did not want anyone telling him how he should draw or paint. He just wanted to do his own thing. Not fill pages with dots and lines using different pencils and pens. Not paint little coloured dots with a paintbrush on paper that was so thin you could look through it.

During art class one day, he had sketched all his teachers on a large sheet of paper, just to express his frustration. He had executed them very neatly, with tiny dots and lines. It had caused an uproar, the other students grateful for the distraction. Wow, you can really draw. Peter, the quiet, pale boy at the desk next to him had said.

Some other boys had also left their seats. The teacher had yelled for order and told Jan to come up to the front with his work. His face had changed colour as he looked at the images of his colleagues dotted in front of him.

This is what we do with the work of arrogant students, he had hissed red-faced as he ripped the sheet into a million little pieces and dropped them on the floor.

Now pick that up and take it to the principal.

The class had protested as Jan was busy on his hands and knees and Peter had come to his aid.

What do you think you are doing …? You … out too!

The detention had been so tedious. Writing lines after school about the need to follow instruction. Thousands of them. It had taken him ages.

He had learnt something that day, but it was not about art. It was about trust and freedom. He had felt compelled to thank the boy who had come to his rescue. Peter had not wanted to take any thanks but his actions had sealed their friendship. That was so unfair! Make sure you keep drawing, you’re good!

Doing as you are told had come to mean only one thing to Jan. Freedom. The freedom to be the master of his own time as opposed to being locked away under the spell of punishment. Time that could be used for things he needed to do. Things that made him feel good. Drawing.

Jan needed to be the master of his own time. That was so important that he conformed to the rule of keeping art strictly for art class. Well, almost. With just the occasional black and white drawing to keep things real. The layers of life; the surface and the depth, expressed in black and white.

Jan usually took his time as he made his way home from school across the busy shop-lined Alkemade Square in the heart of Rotterdam. He loved watching his city in action: the boats that dominated the water, the trades on the quays, the people rushing about their daily lives.

Today however, there was no idling. Jan had a mission. He almost ran, schoolbag in hand, all legs and arms. He thought about what the teacher had said to him about the doodling and grinned a schoolboy grin. He had actually received his first compliment from the punishment brigade. The warm glow quickly faded: the compliment would not last and the punishments were bound to continue. Jan simply had to draw. His teachers called it doodling and it was a punishable offence. And punish they did. He was convinced that his parents thought it a waste of time too. His brothers, Willem, Gerard and Laurens, constantly teased him. They often stole his paper and pencils and Willem in particular took great delight in lighting Jan’s short fuse. He had no choice however. If he did not draw, a heavy, solid feeling would rise in his stomach. When he was younger it was easy to obtain satisfaction from drawing anything and anyone. These days it was different. Jan was never quite satisfied with his results, yet could not possibly destroy any of the drawings he had made. He had folders full of them and would bring them out regularly. He felt he could learn from looking at them. Sometimes he would just look at the light and shade he had created within a work. Other times, he focussed strictly on the perspective he had drawn. Or on that undefined element, energy.

He knew that today there would be no mistakes. No experimentation.

As he walked through the narrow street along the canal, he saw a small barge loaded up with heavy sacks floating slowly through the water. Strange how these solid and awkward looking vessels managed to plough through the water. The dirty sacks piled high on top were made of a coarse cloth that had seen better days. Not unlike the barge itself, which looked worn, most of its black paint had dulled down to a sad, dirty grey.

It pained Jan to see the barges uncared for. They seemed so alive and when he spotted a well-maintained barge carving its way through the water, his spirits would instantly lift. He was fully aware that barges transported dirty goods and would be hard to keep clean, yet somehow the barges that were loved by their captains had a glow the others lacked. The unkempt ones, grimy and with sad, dull paint, reminded him of the near starving cats and dogs he saw all over the city. Forgotten and with that forlorn look in their eyes.

Jan increased his pace. For as long as he could remember, the water’s edge had drawn him. To watch the patterns of the waves initiated by the bows of the barges and ships as they carved their way through the dark body of water. There was usually no stopping him when the westerly blew. It carried the smell of salt and adventure through the entire city. His nostrils picked up smells from ships and cargo, oily and thick with dust, yet ever so appealing. The westerly fuelled his imagination; its enveloping cloak usually called him to its hive of activity. The smell of adventure. Inside the large arms of the port was best, right on the edge of the docks. The fact that his mother had marked it as forbidden territory made it even more attractive and often Jan would break her rules by detouring there after school. Jan was not one for rules. But not today.

Today he did not have time to slow down. He needed to get home to collect his sketchbook. His new sketchbook. The large format one made from quality paper. He had touched all of the sketchbooks until he had found exactly what he was looking for. He had known it was out of his reach when he first saw it; his pocket money would never have stretched that far. And so had his parents when he had mentioned it. They had struck a bargain. He had been allowed to choose it himself at Lukas’s art store after his last school report had arrived through the slot in the door.

The report met their expectations. Heavy paper with a real texture. The slight undulations would give his drawings depth. Nothing like the slippery rubbish they had to use at school. This was the real stuff; paper specifically made for sketching.

The argument after his first school report had not been about the marks. There was no need to mention those. The anger resulted from his lack of attention. Jan had denied it of course.

Not in this family, his father had said, his voice rising to that scary level where it looked as though his neck was straining so much that the button of his starched white club collar would pop off. In this family we are respectful, his speech in odd contrast with the clearly mounting anger. In this household we do not say that our teachers are liars.

His father had been right; it was there in black and white. As black and white as the drawings he made when he was supposed to listen to his teachers. It was futile to deny it.

His mother had softened the blow of course. That is what she did. Let his father do the dirty work and then step in via the open door. She had cleverly inserted the sketchbook hook, knowing full well he would try to bite it. Initially it had seemed impossible to deal with the monotony of the daily lessons. So tedious and slow that it felt as though he was not doing anything. Whenever a class showed signs of slowing down too much, he would want to escape into his private world of pencils and paper. But he had taken the hook, and there was no going back.

Now, with his prized possession about to be tested, he felt happy that he had conformed. He felt even better given that he had found a tiny loophole and still been able to win the coveted prize. Peter had offered to help him after the incident with the ripped-up caricatures. They had worked out which teachers were the more lenient ones. There were only two: Dolfsma and van Hinteren, history and English. Occasionally, when moving through the class aisles to check their pupils’ work, they would slow down and look at what he was doing. Like today at the end of class, when he had scored his first compliment. All the others required the hawk approach. Peter had volunteered for the hawk role in exchange for help with his homework. He was permanently on the look-out as he was desperate for help. They had agreed Peter would kick his leg, as the initial arrangement of shoving Jan’s arm had destroyed one of his sketches. They had not spoken for days after that, until a mathematics test made Peter cow-tow. Jan had detested that and had told him not to beg. They had shaken hands on it.

Jan checked his watch and looked at the overcast sky. Perfect. There would be no glare. Once he had collected his things, he would make his way to his favourite building: the Civic Chambers. All columns and grandeur. Such a proud building. And he would draw it straight onto the paper. Not the way he had been told to do it by his art teacher, by starting with the perspective lines first. No, he was going to do it his way. Freehand. The way he saw it in his mind. He would transpose it directly onto the paper and work from the outside in. From bold to narrow. Probably just how it had been built. He knew others did not see things like that. He knew he did not need the complexity of all those lines. He could simply draw it as he saw it.

That is not possible, Mr Ezerman, the art teacher had said when he had told him. He had seemed angry and the colour of his face had changed slightly. Jan did not mind the anger but he had wanted to prove him wrong. In his new sketchbook. Today.

He knew he would succeed.

Hillegonda 1895

How could this have happened whilst they were sleeping? It was so still; their entire world had been magically transformed into a white paradise. The little girls pressed their noses against the window. They giggled as the iciness tinkled on the tips of their noses.

As soon as their brother came down they would not be able to get near the window again. It was strange how he had not beaten them to it today.

When is Mamma coming down to have a look through the window?

Not today, Hillegonda, she is not well, said the elderly women.

When will she be better?

I am not sure but perhaps you can go and see her. I’m sure that will make her feel better. The girl smiled and quickly skipped toward the door.

Not now, darling, your Mamma is resting and you know she needs her rest.

The little girl walked over to the armchair by the garden windows and climbed onto it. Her mother’s favourite spot. But today there was not the comfort of her mother’s embrace. She looked lost, so small and vulnerable, clutching the arms as though the solid timber would comfort her. She looked at Mrs de Wit and large tears welled up in her blue eyes.

Alright Hillegonda, I’ll go and see if she is awake and you can come up with me but you need to stay outside the room until I tell you that you can come in. And you can only stay for a few minutes as the nurse is due to come again.

A hint of a smile lit up Hillegonda’s tearstained face. Jumping off the seat, she skipped toward Mrs de Wit, took her hand and pulled her impatiently toward the door.

Let’s go, let’s go, she said excitedly.

As they moved across the parquet floors toward the stairs, Mrs de Wit heard the suppressed coughing.

When she opened the door to the bedroom, her heart sank. The night had not been kind and the young woman in the bed looked even paler than yesterday. Her lank hair, once an abundance of chestnut curls, framed her ashen face. As ashen as that of her young son in the room next door.

Hillegonda did not want to let go of her hand and peeked around the door at her mother.

Mamma? she said cheerily. The woman in the bed tried to smile but an endlessly deep cough took control of her body.

Mrs de Wit tried to stop her but the little girl was too quick and before she could catch her, she had climbed onto the bed and nuzzled into the crook of her mother’s arm.

I love you so much Mamma and when you are better you can come down and look at the snow, it is so beautiful. You will get better soon won’t you?

Jan’s future 1903

His father placed the dish with potatoes in front of him on the embossed linen tablecloth. It was a beautiful dish, Jan thought. He concentrated on the shape and wondered why its creator had shaped it that way. He attempted to hold on to that thought whilst trying to phrase what he needed to say. He felt the resistance building. Everyone was at dinner that night and, as his father appeared to be in such a good mood, he thought it was the right time to tell them. It was late May and the garden doors were open to let in the spring breeze. It was exceptionally warm for the time of the year and his parents had invited friends to come over that evening. Jan knew he had chosen an excellent time as his mother was preoccupied with preparations for the evening and his father would not have enough time to object. After seeing the play at his school, everyone had proclaimed his talent. His course was set.

I want to become an actor, he announced with pride.

What on earth do you mean? his father asked as he cut the slice of roast beef on his plate carefully. He did not look up to meet his son’s eyes. This was not what Jan had expected. He cleared his throat and, biding time, slowly placed his cutlery on the edges of his plate. He wiped his mouth with his serviette.

Looking up for a moment he realised he had everyone’s attention. Five pairs of eyes on him. He looked at his plate again.

Well, I’m clear about what I would like to do after I finish school in June, he said, trying to sound confident. His mind was like a seesaw and an eerie silence enveloped everyone around the table. Feeling the joy of youthful confidence rise in his chest, he looked straight at his father, certain of his response. After all, if there was one thing his parents loved, it was the theatre. They attended most, if not all, of the major plays.

What do you mean? his father asked again with a raise of his eyebrows. Like Jan, he had also placed his cutlery carefully on the edges of his plate. Jan noticed he did this very slowly. He had seen that before but could not quite remember when. Was it when he was somewhat younger and Willem, his older brother, had been causing problems?

Everyone was still looking at him and he felt his heart thump in his chest. He felt tiny beads of sweat on the back of his neck roll down as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat whilst clearing his throat again.

Well, he said, carefully selecting his words, I will join the theatre and become a professional actor.

Father and son locked eyes.

Laurens, never in favour of too much discussion, studied his plate intently. Willem and Gerard shifted in their seats, their eyes darting from their brother to their father. A smile played across Willem’s face. He was awaiting the inevitable crescendo. Gerard’s expression was impossible to read. He was the diplomat of the family. Jan’s mother too, put her cutlery down. For a moment, husband and wife exchanged looks. Then it was his father’s turn to clear his throat.

Your mother and I have arranged for you to start work with the Dutch Iron Railway Company in an administrative position straight after the holidays. You’ll be working in my office. We weren’t going to tell you until after your exams as we thought it would be a nice surprise for you. You’ve always taken such a keen interest in my work. There was a hint of a smile.

Jan froze and was unable to avert his eyes. His mood plummeted from its exalted high. Millions of thoughts suddenly raced through his head. He felt like slamming his fist on the table and running out of the room. Out into the open air where he could run and get away from this gripping emotion. But his anger sealed him to his chair; sealed his mouth and tensed every part of his body. He could not move, let alone speak. He just sat there and stared at his father in shocked amazement.

Well Jan, is there anything you would like to say? his mother asked in a gentle tone. The maternal, fait accompli tone that forbade further discussion.

I do not think there is much I can say, Jan’s voice sounded flat. The words seemed to come from far away. His throat felt constricted and the now rapidly mounting anger surged though his body as he desperately tried to think of something to say that could defer the death sentence they had just handed to him. The buzzing in his ears made him want to grab his head and scream. Scream and hide. He pushed his chair back so violently that it fell over. He slammed the door and fled to the safety of his room.

Jan?

He tried to ignore the gentle but incessant knocking on his bedroom door. He sat on the edge of his bed and held on tightly to the edges of his sketchbook. Moving his head from side to side, he assessed his drawing. Broad, confident lines had captured his father at that fateful moment. The moment in which he had destroyed Jan’s future plans.

There was another knock at the door. Someone moved the doorhandle rapidly up and down.

Jan, open the door, now! There was an unusually sharp edge to his mother’s gentle voice.

He sighed deeply as he raised himself from the bed and smoothed the heavy bedspread, after placing the sketchbook on the bedside cabinet. Again, the handle was rattled. He quickly moved the back of his hand across his eyes before unlocking the door.

Aletta pushed in, ready for the soon to arrive guests in a new light blue silk dress with her hair swept up high and her cheeks flushed a deep red that contrasted uncomfortably with the pearl choker around the thin folds of her neck. Aletta quickly cast her eye around the room, its order was such a contrast with the rooms of the other three boys. Everything had its place. Books lined up, pens and pencils neatly arranged. There were no stray clothes or socks. Just an array of objects worthy of sketching. Gnarly sticks, rocks and glass jars with skeletal trophies. Small bones from rats, mice and the odd vertebrae from a cow or a sheep.

Jan stood in the middle of the small room and looked down at his shoes.

Jan we need to talk.

What’s there to say? Clearly you and Father think you own my future!

Don’t you dare use that tone with me! You know we have your best interests at heart.

I don’t think so. I think what you have at heart is what sounds right, not what is right for me. Why on earth can’t I do what I want?

May I at least sit down? Aletta gestured to the chair at Jan’s desk.

Of course Mama, forgive me! Jan quickly went over to turn the chair around so his mother could sit down.

Jan returned to the middle of the room and folded his arms tightly across his chest.

I don’t think it is very polite to talk to me from that height. Unfold your arms Jan and sit down, please.

Sulkily, Jan sat down on the corner of his bed.

A well-caught moment! He did not miss the admiration in her voice.

He shrugged.

Jan, you know I really dislike it when you act like this. I just paid you a compliment for God’s sake. You are my son and I do not want you to waste your real talents.

Jan shot her an angry glance and immediately looked down again.

What real talents, sending me to a tedious desk-job to shuffle paperwork for the rest of my life? Is that where you think my talents are?

There was no reply.

After a few minutes of silence, Jan finally looked up only to see his mother’s shoulders shake. A feeling of guilt tugged at his heartstrings and just as he wanted to move closer to her, he heard the suppressed laughter. This unexpected reaction shook Jan completely out of the embrace of the indulgent self-pity of the young.

What’s so funny?

What is funny is that there is not a moment worth noting in this household that you haven’t made a drawing of. Very few have a passion like the one you have.

Aletta looked up at him, serious now. Jan, you would be wasting your time as an actor. The reason we are guiding your path is in the hope that it will give you time to continue with your art. I know that you did not often see eye to eye with your art teacher Mr Ezerman, but he has offered his support.

Jan threw her a disbelieving look.

Ezerman loved to criticise whatever I did. We are not great friends.

I am not asking you to be friends with him, I am asking you to consider what he has said. Perhaps you can talk to him?

Why would I want to do that?

Your teacher said you have promise.

Ezerman said that I have promise? Jan laughed a short sarcastic laugh. Why did he never tell me that at school? He always criticised everything I did.

Well, you tend to know everything when it comes to art, Jan. Perhaps listening to the advice of others can actually help you? Perhaps you can go to night school? You know you need regularity and consistency in your life.

Well, I don’t want to go to art school but I won’t stop drawing. And if Ezerman was that clever he wouldn’t be teaching art. He would spend his days painting!

Jan, that is inappropriate. You should at least consider his advice; he has a good reputation. There is nothing wrong with wanting to become an actor, but it wouldn’t be right for someone with such talent in another area. Irrespective of who’s advice you take, you need to listen to your heart! Concentrate on your art; it is what you need to do. I have watched your growing love for it ever since you first picked up a pencil.

Jan just looked at her; unable to speak. Then, a broad smile lit up his face.

And Jan, something tells me that you will make it work.

With that, Aletta rose to her feet, kissed her son’s cheek, and left the room.

The Dutch Iron Railway

Company 1903

He tried to fight the sense of pride he felt almost immediately on entering the office in Rotterdam at the Delft Poort. The architecture was stunning.

Thoughts about his future had never held the constraints of a desk, let alone an office with lots of others in it. Work like this was for others, for people like his father. The crushing pressure on his heart that fateful moment his parents became the dictators of his future still held him in its grip.

He was told to follow the secretary as soon as he arrived. Straight past the other young men lined up with small folders clutched tightly. He would have much preferred to wait. Just like the others.

There is no need to wait, Mr Sirks. Mr Brandt is expecting you now, she said curtly.

He obediently followed the young woman as her heels clicked efficiently on the timber floor. Every step forcing him closer to the possibility of becoming an employee of the Dutch Iron Railway Company.

His fear of the unknown was heavily tinged by his youthful compassion for the transport workers he had read about in the newspapers at the time of the national strike earlier that year. Their working conditions were appalling and they had finally balked en masse. How would they treat him? As bad as those poor underpaid transport workers who finally banned together when they could not stand it anymore?

The secretary opened a large door and the broad smile behind the large polished oak desk covered with stacks of paperwork took him by surprise. The strong handshake and warm welcome rapidly pushed the fear of punitive bosses and narrow-minded colleagues to the far recesses of his mind. Almost. But this was not what he wanted. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair in response to the praise. It was delivered with another smile. He was not here to enjoy himself and he did not smile back.

We need well-educated young men like you to develop and realise our vision of a strong future in the railway business. The transport business is the most modern of industries. We welcome young men such as yourself who have a good head for business and want to get ahead. We are grateful to politician Thorbecke for his educational policy, he clearly foresaw our need for young people able to help map the future of this country’s commercial and technical endeavours. Your high school education will stand you in excellent stead.

Jan smiled and was immediately annoyed at himself. Now he was even helping to tighten his own noose.

The departing handshake came with a thank you and a far too close starting date.

Coaldust on snow

Jan tugged repeatedly at his starched white collar that Saturday morning. He felt as if he was choking in the stifling hot office. The large room that housed twelve desks was quiet apart from the churning noise of the recently installed fan. Twelve brains at work. The fan did nothing to reduce the stifling August heat. He tugged at his collar again and looked at the large clock on the opposite wall. It must be stuck. Not even ten o’clock. He sighed and returned his focus to the calculations in front of him. Volume calculations.

Distracted again, he glanced through the window at the labourers who were installing a heavy timber bar at the dead end of one of the tracks in the distance. A mix of envy and pity soared through him.

He was still surprised by how much he enjoyed his job. The transport scheduling work was challenging and interesting. His fear of shuffling meaningless paperwork had transformed virtually overnight into an intrigue with speed, timing, scheduling and volume planning. The military style line up of the desks had initially reminded him of school. Yet, instead of the anticipated replica of punitive attitudes, he had found surprising openness and encouragement of new ideas. Like his volume calculations. At least his physics studies came in handy.

Exactly the kind of suggestions we need to ensure future efficiencies. Go right ahead; your volume calculations will get the right number of carriages lined up. Saves time and money!

Jan held hopes that it might even save lives; after all, the constant irregular shunting of carriages was risky for the people working on the tracks.

The openness to implement suggestions made by the office staff quickly dispelled Jan’s fear of boring routine. The Dutch Iron Railway Company had a vision, and the plans to go with it. One day, there would be tracks across the entire country to provide transport for the ever-increasing urban population.

The thought of his father in the adjacent office had initially seemed intolerable to Jan, but he had quickly learnt there was no need for that. The fact that the others in the office liked his father gave him a cloak of protection. His father’s finicky eye for detail, so irritating at home, created an air of comfort for those who answered to him. He ran things with military precision and expected no less from anyone else.

Tracks were expanding at a rapid rate and with twenty-five locomotives across the country, accuracy was of utmost importance.

Accuracy starts with efficiency, his father would