What if everything we think we know about Vincent van Gogh is all lies?
Vincent’s Women:
The Untold Story of the Loves of
Vincent Van Gogh
by Donna Russo
Genre
Historical Biographical Women’s Fiction
Donna Russo's 'Vincent's Women' is the untold story of
Vincent's loves: how they shaped his life, his art, and his death. It writes
against the 'myths, ' exploring the possibility that none of them are true. It
is the only novel to bring into question his sexuality, how he lost his ear,
who he lost it for, and how he might have died, all through the eyes of a
woman. We learn of Her; we learn all of it through Her.
The story is guided by Johanna van Gogh Bonger, Vincent's
sister-in-law, as she decides to reveal the truth about Vincent to her son. We
are then taken on a journey through Vincent's life, each section bringing a
pivotal moment of Vincent's life alive while showing us the part she played in
bringing it about. Between each woman, our guide, Johanna, gives us the
transitional periods, right up to his death, which is now in question.
Hundreds of the nearly thousand letters between Vincent van
Gogh and his brother Theo, now considered one of the greatest documents of the
human experience, were used to help construct this novel, its narrative, and
dialogue, especially the dialogue of Vincent himself.
Vincent van Gogh is one of the most well-known artists of all time. The world knows of his madness, traumas, and suicide. But what if all that we know isn't true? What if this knowledge is based on rumors and nothing more? What if his true story is vastly different when based on factual material and forensic information? What if the truth of Vincent's life-his madness and his genius-is defined by his never-ending search for love?
Advance Praise:
“Arresting…masterful… a provocative and compelling look at one of history’s most enigmatic artists.” -Publishers Weekly
“A symphonic novel that sheds new light on an elusive genius.” -Kirkus Reviews
“Vincent’s Women represents historical fiction at its best…astute, thought-provoking, and revealing.” -Midwest Book Review
“One of the most wonderful books about an artist I have
ever read." -Stephanie Cowell, Author of Claude and Camille: a novel of
Monet, and Marrying Mozart. Recipient American Book Award.
“A powerful and satisfying read." -Lynn Cullen,
Bestselling Author of The Woman with the Cure and Mrs. Poe
“The writing and dialogue are all so well done, and the use of a fictional narrative makes it all feel authentic. Very highly recommended.” -Readers' Favorite 5-star Review
“This novel is not just a book; it is a masterful painting in itself, portraying the vibrant, volatile, and often tragic life of one of history's most renowned artists.” -5-Star Amazon Review
“This is historical fiction at its best…a tour de force!” -5-Star Goodreads Review
“This is easily the best book I’ve read this year!” -5-star NetGalley Review
A Foreword Reviews Editorial Selection
FINALIST Next Generation Indie Book Awards
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She held the squalling baby in her arms, one not of this world for more than seconds. Her grasp loose and low. Its warmth like that of the March wind.
“A fine, healthy baby you have there, missus.” The plump midwife wiped her hands of the blood and fluid upon a rag. “What will you be calling him?”
Anna looked down at her second-born son wiggling in her arms. The fuzz upon his head the red clay color of the Carbentus family.
“Vincent. It is Vincent.”
“But—”
“Anna, are you sure?” Her husband stood in the doorway, his first glimpse of wife and son in his eyes. The white collar of his profession encircling his throat. “Is it wise, for you, for our son? This one lives. Should it bear the name of the one that did not?”
“It is Vincent,” Anna said. That and no more.
*
Months later the house echoed a repetitive refrain.
“Missus, the babe needs you.”
“I am needed elsewhere at the moment.”
2
Dorus had thought it too soon. He’d agreed with the doctor. The midwife.
The first Vincent had only been in the ground three months when Anna asked for the resumption of marital relations. She did not ask for the pleasure of it. She rarely thought of the pleasure. It was her duty.
Anna never spoke of her pain. The depth of it. Her melancholia a family trait. One that slayed her stoicism. Dared to tremble her stiff upper lip. She need not speak of it. She could not. Emotions, especially dark ones, were meant to be hidden. Locked away inside. It was what she had been taught. It was what she would teach.
No one ever taught her how to deal with the death of a child.
In the three months after the birth and death of the first Vincent, Anna paid little attention to visitors. Made few visits.
She often sat at the piano for hours. Often playing the same gloomy tune. Again, and again.
Dorus, a reverend three years her senior, knew. She could see the knowledge of her in his eyes. He knew her want was not of him but what he could give her.
Anna thought of another child not only as a panacea to her pain but as a replacement for what she had lost.
If only it had worked.
*
“Vincent,” Anna called to her young son from the shadows of the open front door. Nicely. Others could hear. She hid in the darkness of the threshold. She hid her darkness.
“How many times have I said that you are not allowed to play with the street children?” Inside the parsonage, door closed, she spoke as she pleased. “Do you refuse to listen, or do you not understand?”
Five-year-old Vincent stared up at his mother. Did she see fear or anger in his eyes? He said not a word.
“You will ruin the family name associating with those dirty urchins.”
Their good name; a cross high up on a main wall.
Vincent remained mute. Silence was an argument in itself.
Anna loved all her children. What mother did not? She did not love them all the same. She did not deny it. She did not apologize for it. She mothered them all, nonetheless. But not the same. Did she see him as a child much like the child she had been? Anna was one in this world that saw only what she wished to. She saw Vincent grow sullen and solemn, an unremitting challenge.
“If we could do whatever we wanted,” she warned him as she warned all her children, “unharmed, unseen, untroubled…wouldn’t we stray further and further from the right path?”
The child gave her not a word to whip him with.
“To the kitchen, Vincent,” she instructed. The words hissing out between her teeth. “You will scrub the floor. With your hands. On your knees.”
Vincent went without complaint. If only he had complained.
Donna Russo is the bestselling author of historical fiction, women’s fiction, and fantasy including the international bestselling Novels of Newport: Gilded Summers and Gilded Dreams as well as her latest release, Vincent’s Women.
Her critically acclaimed work has been praised with multiple awards and has received a starred review in Publishers Weekly. (For more awards and reviews, please visit https://www.authordonnarusso.com/books).
Additionally, Donna worked as a model and actor since the age of seventeen, working on such projects as Martin Scorsese’s The Departed and Showtime’s Brotherhood. Donna is also an award-winning screenwriter, ghostwriter, and painter. She holds two degrees from the University of Rhode Island. Her two sons Devon, an opera singer; and Dylan, a chef—will always be her greatest works.
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