A Secret History of 1971
Early this year I went to Washington's vaunted art museum, the National Gallery of Art. I didn't want to miss a much-acclaimed exhibition, Vermeer and the Masters of Genre Painting. Although not famous during his lifetime, the Dutch master Johannes Vermeer (1632-1675) is known in our times as one of the iconic painters of 17th-century Dutch "golden age" of art. Among the most captivating images of this prolific artistic era were the genre paintings, or scenes of daily life. These scenes of genteel Dutch households depicted elegant men and women, performing various household chores, writing letters, sewing fabrics, and playing music, all typically portrayed in soft, one-directional light entering through the window.
I have to confess that I did not go to the National Gallery of Art for the Vermeer show alone. I have seen Vermeer's work in the Netherlands, among other places. The real reason for my museum visit was to see one particular painting by the Dutch maestro. An oil painting on canvas priced at USD two million and on loan from Amsterdam's famous Rijksmuseum, the piece is called The Love Letter, painted sometime around 1669-1670.
The painting shows a particular moment inside an untidy room. A seated young woman holds a cittern (musical instrument) in one hand and a "love letter" in the other, with her head turned toward the housemaid, who displays a peculiar smirk on her face, most possibly after handing her a secret letter from an admirer. The vantage point of the scene is set from an adjoining room, highlighting a voyeuristic gaze through a doorway.
So, why was I so interested in this painting? There are other paintings, which are arguably more intriguing, by Vermeer.
My interest was actually less in the painting itself than in its fascinating history, embroiled in a daring art theft. Sometime around September 1971, Vermeer's The Love Letter was on loan from the Rijksmuseum to the Fine Arts Palace in Brussels as a part of the Rembrandt and His Age exhibition, which included 136 paintings by different Dutch masters.
On the evening of September 23—47 years ago this month—a 21-year-old Belgian hotel waiter locked himself in an electrical box at the Fine Arts Palace before the exhibition closed. When all was quiet, he came out and removed The Love Letter from the wall, cut its frame with a potato peeler, rolled the painting, and escaped through an air vent, without being noticed by the four unarmed museum guards on duty that night. The painting was insured for USD three-million by the Brussels exhibition organisers. The art world was utterly shocked to learn of this daring heist, as were the organisers of the Rembrandt exhibition.
The waiter's name was Mario Pierre Roymans, who worked at the café-restaurant of the Soete-Wey Hotel, located about 75 km east of Brussels. Roymans didn't have an adequate post-theft plan. He hid the Vermeer in his small room, but he began to panic and decided to bury it in a nearby forest. Then, as it began to rain, he dug it out and brought it back to his room, hiding it under his mattress, causing much damage to the painting.
So, why did Roymans, a loner, take this insane risk to steal a piece of art that the entire world knew about? Did he think he would get away with this brazen act of theft? He very well knew that he couldn't openly sell such a masterpiece in the art market.
He couldn't have done it for the money. So, why did he do it?
Roymans risked his life for an improbable idealistic cause, one that made global headlines, earned him many fans, and made him a "hero" in both Belgium and Holland, despite the art world's agony over a stolen Vermeer classic. In pursuit of his cause, Roymans presented himself as "Tijl van Limburg," a Robin Hood-type superhero, who helped the poor and the disenfranchised.
Less than two weeks later, on the night of October 3, Roymans secretly contacted a reporter of the Brussels newspaper Le Soir and disclosed his demand for a ransom of two million Belgian Francs for the Vermeer painting. He stated that this money would be spent to help an oppressed people, the victims of an ongoing genocide, in Asia. He set the ransom deadline for October 6 and demanded that the transaction take place on live television.
On the day of the deadline, he made a phone call to a Belgian newspaper from a public telephone at a gas station in eastern Belgium; the wife of the storeowner overheard him and alerted the police. Roymans was arrested soon thereafter and the two-week drama came to an end. The Love Letter was returned to Rijksmuseum two days later.
So, what provoked Roymans to take on this Robin Hood role? The genocide in Bangladesh. Roymans, an idealistic lad, was outraged after witnessing the atrocities of the Pakistani army and their local collaborators on television. He was horrified by the plight of East Pakistani refugees. The news of rape, indiscriminate killing, and arson enraged him.
He thought he needed to do something to alleviate the suffering of East Pakistanis. His idealism intersected with a most unlikely subject: a Vermeer painting. It was ironic that the painting at the centre of this high-intensity international drama would be called The Love Letter. I have long wondered whether Roymans consciously chose this particular painting from the Brussels exhibition that night for its intriguing title? Did his choice of this Vermeer somehow reveal his love, if twisted, for humanity?
It was also ironic that Roymans was brought to trial four days after East Pakistan—the country to which he sought to bring humanitarian assistance—was liberated and emerged as the new nation of Bangladesh. And on January 12, two days after Bangabandhu returned to Dhaka from Pakistani jail via London and New Delhi, Roymans was sentenced to a fine and two years in jail.
However, he served only six months. Roymans wished for a normal life after his release and married. He had a child but battled with depression. His marriage collapsed and a desperate life of poverty ensued. It was reported that he had been living in a car until tragedy struck.
Seven years after he went to jail for an unusual art heist, Roymans died in abject poverty and misery at the age of 29. The day was January 5, 1979. By then Bangabandhu's entire family, except his two daughters, was killed in an unprecedented act of ideological vengeance.
A well-researched global history of the 1971 liberation war of Bangladesh is still to be written. In this to-be-written history, the improbable Roymans saga could demonstrate how the tragic events of 1971 were not just local. They also stirred many unsung heroes in distant lands to do greater good. While we couldn't support Roymans' extreme act of love, we must understand how he felt inspired to do something for the distressed people of East Pakistan.
As I inspected The Love Letter up close at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC, I felt that I gazed at not merely a famous painting, but an intertwined history of 1971, Bangladesh, Belgium, Holland, and the complicated life of a brave young man named Mario Pierre Roymans.
Adnan Morshed teaches architecture, architectural history, and urbanism in Washington, DC, and serves as Executive Director of the Centre for Inclusive Architecture and Urbanism at BRAC University, Dhaka. His most recent book is DAC/Dhaka in 25 Buildings (Barcelona, 2017). He can be reached at morshed@cua.edu.
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