I recently inherited a painting. It's not really pretty, just some flowers in a vase. Like all paintings, though, it has a history. It hung in my grandmother's sewing room. It spent some time in South America. The artist lost a son. It's history has become part of my history. The rumour was that there were four paintings in all but I only remember remember one other one. It's a pastoral picture of sheep in a field. Keep in mind this is going back 50 years! Got pictures of three paintings the other day. The one I remember most clearly is not one of them. Were there five?

So, what's the story with the painting? I want to know not only how my dad ended up with it but its whole history. 'Cuz it's a story, a history, of migration, of pain and suffering, of joy and success. It's a story of decisions and consequences. Maybe you can relate. I do know that my painting has not hung on a wall for quite a number of years. One reason for that is, of the paintings that came along from the old country, it was the homeliest. Ironic, isn't it, that it becomes the focal point by which the others gain fame. Fame, of course, is a bit of an exaggeration. It's more like a resurrection from obscurity, perhaps a salvation from the trashbin of historical irrelevance. Anyway, that it should fall into my hands, at this time, is not without a note of serendipity.

Serendipity. Yes. Fortune or fate, luck with purpose. The happenstance of a teleological universe rails against the dominant ideology of nihilism. We have no purpose, they say. But we do. We know what purpose is. We can define it. Ergo, we have it with us. We need only to choose its form. Phew! Got that off my chest. Sometimes the extraordinary meaningfulness of even simple objects astounds me.

My painting and its companions arrived in Montreal in February of 1954 and whether they went west by road or rail is unclear. All I know right now is that they flew in from New York. They had been transferred from a KLM milkrun from the Dutch West Indies. I found out today that the painting did hang on a wall fairly recently. It was in the care of an uncle for about 10ish odd years. I've been told that it was featured in his den/office just off the front door. The truth of the past is a bit peculiar, don't you think? It changes according to the information one has. And it's always susceptable to change in the future. Iindeed, the truth of the past is contigent... forever. Either that, or we can never know it. The Flower Painting's milkrun came through Nassau, Bahamas; from Curaçao; from Port of Spain, Trinidad; and originated in Paramaribo, Suriname. It was another world. It was riverine and steamy and alien.

Paramaribo is where the flight started but family didn't live there. They lived inland, upriver, on Neiuw Meerzorg plantation and, before that at Charlottenburg plantation. Four years earlier, Flower Painting sailed from Holland but I don't know from which port. It probably came on the first of two freighters. That one carried most of the family's belongings as well as a four member advance party including my dad and grandfather. It would be interesting to know from which port the family left from the Netherlands. The logistics of moving 31 people and their belongings from close to the German border is amazing. And I didn't even mention yet the 30 ft metal-hulled boat they took along too.

In any case, Flower Painting started its trek overseas from Nieuw-Amstetdam, NL. There's a rather dreary painting of its drawbridge by Vincent VanGogh who, by the way, lived there in 1883. At this point it's rather difficult to know how Flower Painting came into Opa's possession. I can speculate, though. There's what looks to be a lot number on the back of the frame. So, was it bought at auction? Maybe. We'll see if the other paintings have the number too.