“Twenty thousand… twenty thousand. Do I hear twenty-five thousand… twenty-five thousand? Offering the diary of Sien Hoornik, girlfriend of Vincent Van Gogh. Do I hear twenty-three thousand… twenty-three thousand? Last bid is twenty-thousand… twenty-thousand… on the phone… still at twenty-thousand. Fair warning… twenty-thousand… twenty-thousand. Going once… going twice…” The loud knock of the gavel: “Sold! On the phone… twenty thousand!” It was late in the afternoon, and my prized possession is sold.

I’m alone now in the auction studio – numbered paddles resting on plush, red chairs. The stage is still brilliantly lit with spotlights eyeing the empty display easels. I am happy that this was a private auction for museum curators; I’m also happy that I will receive twenty-thousand dollars for the diary… but I feel empty – like a lover was forever gone.

The diary –actually a sketchbook – was produced by a poor, obscure soul who would soon be famous – only because she shared her life with another famous unfortunate. Her scribbled notes were so simple and personal that I felt like she and I had been lovers. It’s difficult for me to imagine that she died long before I was even born.

The diary appeared in my life nearly a decade ago when I visited Holland. I was hoping to recuperate from the loss of a real lover. Since I had heard so many memories from my Dutch grandparents, rather than the other distractions like Paris or Venice, I chose to travel the Netherlands. Only recently did I recognize that perhaps some muse wanted me to re-discover Sien Hoornik for the world.

I had been trying to enjoy myself – with no luck – in Rotterdam. Despite all the amazing sites, I was quickly bored. The numerous outdoor cafes were filled with the friendly people, but my sadness subconsciously kept them at a distance. All that strong, Dutch coffee necessitated spending an equal amount of time in the beautifully-designed outdoor kiosks – the Dutch public toilets. It seemed that I didn’t buy the coffees… I only rented them.

As I was exiting one of the kiosks, I noticed a colorful shop sign a short distance up a side street. Why not? I thought. As I approached the store front, I discovered it to be an antique shop – small, with unkept, dusty offerings inside. I thought it unusual that it was situated on a street of upper-class taverns and gift shops.

Once inside, I stood in a previous century. The brick walls were barely visible behind the layers of ancient tapestries and clothing. Clothing and rusted farm tools hung from the ceiling; glass counters were filled with costume jewelry and knick-knacks.

After an hour, my exploration had guided me to a narrow stair at the rear of the shop. The owner motioned me to the next floor. More artifacts – both common and strange – more history, more bits of real lives – and more dust – surrounded me. I wanted to buy many of the interesting things I discovered, but I would have to settle for one ‘practical’ souvenir – a book on Dutch art, perhaps.

Two walls were full-height bookshelves – the books and shelf edges layered with dust. As I put one interesting art book after another back in its place on the shelf, a book fell to the floor; from where… I don’t know. The cover was a black, textured cloth– a wooden pencil tucked in the binding. The book held perhaps a hundred or so pages of quality paper – the edges slightly discolored. I imagined that it hadn’t been opened since it was last used – long ago. Fanning through the pages, I could see it was an artist’s sketchbook with numerous handwritten entries. It showed the progress of the artist from true beginner to a reasonably accomplished art practitioner, and it appeared to span a period of many years.

Each page illustrated several attempts at capturing a particular shape or object; many were accompanied with a title or comment about the subject. The upper corner of each page noted the date of entry. The sequence of the sketches showed, not only an improvement in skill, but a progressive confidence. I found the diary to be a fascinating lesson of how a skill is mastered – so I bought book.

After I returned from my trip, the sketchbook sat in my ‘Miscellaneous Memories’ box for over nine years while I recovered from my original loss and moved on with my life. I was taking my second art appreciation class at the local college where I became friends with David, the art teacher. Over coffee, one evening after class, I mentioned the old sketchbook – that it was interesting to see the progress of a novice artist. Since he showed an interest, I brought it to class the following week.

Several days later, David called me and insisted we meet at the coffee shop as soon as possible. Before I even settled into the booth, he asked in a hushed but excited tone, “Do you know whose diary this is?”

When I shrugged in the negative, he opened the inside front cover and showed me the name in pleasant script on: “Clasina Hoornik… Clasina Maria Hoornik… Sien Hoornik!” David could hardly catch his breath.

“Van Gogh’s girlfriend! Vincent Van Gogh… was teaching… Sien Hoornik how to sketch! And… catch this! She made notes about their relationship! This is amazing!” He pulled a sheaf of photocopies from his briefcase: “When I recognized the name, I sent copies of the pages to a Dutch art expert.”

My “so-what” look visibly disturbed him. “Everyone knows about Van Gogh” I said. “He had a hard life, he never sold a painting, he cut off his ear and gave it to a prostitute, I think. He committed suicide while still in his thirties.

“That prostitute… is this Clasina Hoornk!“ he shouted in a whisper, turning the name toward me again. “Do you know what this means?” I stared at him, waiting for his explanation.

“You don’t understand,” he continued in a forced whisper. “Yes, we know she was a prostitute… and that she modelled for him. But this tells us that she was more than his model. She was in love with him and… and that he was in love with her! She tells us about their feelings for each other!”

A hurried sip of lukewarm coffee and David explained further. “It has long been believed that they just had an arrangement – she had a safe place to live for herself and her baby, and Van Gogh had a model that was always available and free!” With a hint of embarrassment, he added: “And yes, it is conjectured that the second baby she had – Wilhelm – might have been Vincent’s which… David was pointing to the black diary, “Never mind that… they were lovers! She talks about it.”

I was not impressed by these revelations as David was and as the art world might become. Since I couldn’t read a word of Dutch, I never read Sien’s notes. I had merely enjoyed seeing her grow as an art student.

David seemed less frustrated with me now. He fanned through the book saying: “The first third of the diary is sketches with a label of the subject… boxes, table, vase and so on. Then you begin to see how Vincent guided Sien in making shapes into objects: boxes into farm buildings… wavy lines became rows of crops. Here, look! Here’s a place he must have gotten frustrated with her – you can tell by her timid pencil sketch and on top it is his bold charcoal strokes.”

He stopped on the page marked 24apr. “On the left page, Vincent had Sien sketch two boxes, then two boxes with texture; below that, the boxes with shades and shadows. Then on the right page are two barns out in the Dutch countryside… similar proportion as the boxes, same distance relationships, same shadows and shading!” Before I could study the drawings, David flipped to 19aug.

“But never mind that!” he said. Turning the page to me: “She starts to make notes of the techniques he is teaching her.” I was looking at a simple landscape. The size and position of the two large trees on the left side balanced against the single tree on the right. Simple lines described the clouded sky. At the bottom, Vincent had noted: “Composition is everything!”

The next page that David flashed to me was of a simple, silhouetted tree fronting a gentle hill. This is where Sien began to note her feelings: “Vincent is pleased with me today.” I, too, was feeling proud of her.

Near the center of the book, I was shown the incomplete sketch of a woman at a loom. David transcribed her note: ‘I know I’m not very pretty.’” I stared at the text and I felt sad for her.

Sien had begun to show amazing progress by the following February with a sketch of Vincent in a rocking chair, a sleeping baby in his lap. She captured the peacefulness of the setting, and Vincent’s relaxed happiness.

David explained that Van Gogh’s family and friends would no longer support him – they detested his arrangement with Sien… and his drawings weren’t selling. “Look what she writes here.” He read from the translated photocopy: ‘I found their letters… They abandon my Vincent because of me. Why do they hate me so? He is happy when he is with us. They all have so much and Vincent has nothing!”

David was holding the diary in both hands, leaning over the table toward me. “It’s been argued that he either had sever tinnitus or heard voices. Sien confirms the tinnitus on 16nov. “He began cursing and pounding the side of his head… he can’t stop the buzzing.”

Though David was excited by these revelations, a depressing note on a blank page hurt me deeply: On 14dec,  Sien wrote in sad handwriting: “I offered to go back to the streets to get some money. He hit me…”

Three days later, she added: “He is leaving for Drenthe so his father believes I’m gone. Then they will send money. I am scared that he will never come back. It makes him angry… but he needs to paint. What will happen to Maria and Wilhelm…”

I needed to change the subject – I asked David “When did Van Gogh die?”

“He killed himself in 1890. Many experts believe that they weren’t together for several years because of his father, but this entry suggests that maybe they did see each other surreptitiously. Sien writes in August, a month after he committed suicide. Look at the anger in her writing. ‘I hate those people! He was happy with us, but instead of coming home to us, he goes home to God.’”

When I asked David what ever happened to Sien, he leaned back, his shoulders slumped, and thought for a long moment. “Fourteen years later, she committed suicide, also.”

I understood David’s enthusiasm, because of the historical value, but I had been excited about Sien’s artistic progress – much like a parent watching his child mastering a new skill. As her skills improved and her confidence grew, I began to feel like a lover – thrilled to see his woman being at her best.

Here in the auction studio, I run through a range of feelings all at once: I am happy I added to the Van Gogh story; I am happy about the boost to my finances. I am sad for the wretched lives they were destined to lead. I envy Van Gogh’s consuming passion and his opportunity to be in love. I am angry at his family and friends.

But I guess the biggest ‘takeaway’ for me in this whole journey, is that Sien – so often regarded as a ‘mere prostitute’ – can now be appreciated as a courageous and determined woman who was capable of love, companionship and creativity.

I remember the last page in Sien’s sketchbook – a simple but elegant color sketch. It was a wood-slat table in a meager kitchen. On the table sat a metal coffee pot, a wooden cradle and some cut flowers. Beyond the window could be seen a field of waving grain fronting a barn and silo. It was dated 11nov 1904 – some fourteen years after Van Goth’s suicide – the day she threw herself into Rotterdam harbor. At the bottom of the sketch, Sien had written: “Wilhelm and Maria are grown now, somewhere. I can be with Vincent again…”

The auctioneer’s assistant just reminded me that it was closing time…