Intimacy & Envy, Amsterdam, and Theo Van Gogh

Dear friend,

I’ve taken myself on a little solo trip to Amsterdam this week, and wow — it has been exactly what the doctor ordered. I just came from the Van Gogh Museum, which I left skipping along the cobblestones to grab my tram home. Until today, I didn’t realize that Theo, his brother, was his lifelong benefactor, and I listened, completely rapt, to the letters exchanged between the two of them. I spent nearly a half hour with Emile Bernard’s pieces and letters — gazing at his soft pastel style and provocative brothel sketches.

A Woman Washing Herself (1888) Emile Bernard

My favorite exchange was when he provided Vincent with a particularly edgy/erotic painting and asked, “Please don’t show these to your brother.” I laughed out loud at the accompanying caption: “Naturally, Vincent sent them directly to Theo.” If that isn’t a sibling relationship, I’m not sure what is.

“Naturally, Vincent sent them directly to Theo.” If that isn’t a sibling relationship, I’m not sure what is.

Theo and Vincent were close confidantes, who lived together in Paris during their young adulthood and stayed in close contact. When Vincent shot himself at the age of 37, it took him two days to die, and Theo was there by his side. According to friends, his coffin was strewn with sunflowers, and Theo sobbed uncontrollably beside it. I find myself welling up at one of the last letters Theo sent Vincent, when Vincent was in the psychiatric hospital the year before his death, begging for news. One can’t help but feel the deepest sense of sympathy for Theo, who, heartbroken, succumbed to syphilis the very next year. His widow had his remains interred beside his brother, a fact that made my eyes well over. 

But enough about Van Gogh, as it is a sad story and the night is young. I am dining at a hip café in the city center called Café Binnenvisser. So far my impression of the city center is one of immense calm, comfort, and coziness (“gezellig” as they call it). Even the houseboats lined along the canal are the most luxurious I’ve ever seen – with large, welcoming windows and warm lights shining outward like beacons. The apartments lining the streets have their curtains deliberately left open, making them feel like an extension of the city, as though Amsterdam is one big living room. At night, I hear the soft chatter of laughter from dining parties and see strollers chained next to bikes. By day, the wheels of the coordinated commutes whir in an orderly and content fashion. I see bicyclists smiling, one even singing, something I note to myself I don’t recall seeing, perhaps ever in London (though I sing when I Lime bike). In London, it’s as though each commuter has the pained expression of someone running a few minutes late, whereas here, the bikers’ lazy pedaling suggests a right on-time ness. Amsterdam has the same romantic architecture as Paris, Barcelona, or London, with 25% of the chaos and smog. I know it’s often said about Amsterdam, but it can’t be said enough: the city is truly transformed by bicycles.

The apartments lining the streets have their curtains deliberately left open, making them feel like an extension of the city, as though Amsterdam is one big living room.

I am writing you this letter from the bar, where two girls are on a date beside me, their legs and hands intertwined as they listen to something on one of their phones. Their passionate cuddling and easy intimacy are nice to behold, though I feel a touch of envy. What strikes me most is the handholding, the arm touches, the soft way one thumb strokes the inside of a palm, running back and forth tracing some invisible but well-trodden path, like a neuron bouncing towards its favorite thought patterns. If envy is a habit, what is the opposite habit? Mudita, of course, the Buddhist concept of finding joy in someone else’s joy – an expansive, sympathetic joy that allows you to delight in the happiness of others. 

When one of them leaves to use the bathroom, I lean over and ask a question: “Do you two know of any cute gay bars around here?”

The girl in the cozy beanie responds, “Oh we’re actually from London, but my girlfriend lived here for three years, she’ll know!”

They spent the next hour giving me dozens of recommendations for my next few days in Amsterdam, and we laughed, bonded, and giggled across the bar top. 

It is a nice reminder that sometimes when the intimacy of the world feels the most out of reach, it is just a small gesture away: a lean across a counter, a question posed like an invitation, an answer like a waving hand welcoming you across the threshold into the warm gezellig lights of a living room. 

I hope to talk soon. Please lean across the counter if you ever feel lonely.

Love,

Halle