The year was 1966 and I was 17 years old. I was going home to my family in Germany for Christmas, and I was excited to see them and show my mother and Dad the oils I had painted during my first semester at college in Paris. The train trip was a four hour voyage from Paris to Frankfurt, and I settled in my compartment with suitcase, gifts for my little sisters, a snack and several paintings I hand-carried. I can’t remember if the artwork was wrapped.
I was enrolled at the American University in Paris and the course work for art studies required studio classes in the artsy Latin Quarter, where we were encouraged “to paint what we felt,” spoken in French of course. (Looking back, I believe I remember feeling I didn’t know HOW to paint and at 17 certainly didn’t know HOW I felt.) I had finished several oil paintings, searching for a style, for my “voice” – and two of them I deemed worthy of sharing with my patron parents. My studio art instructor had commented that my pieces were reminiscent of Pierre Bonnard – a compliment, I think.
As I sat on the crowded train, hurtling through a dark winter evening, the steam from the huge locomotive billowed past my window with drama and mystery. I felt my excitement grow as I anticipated seeing my family waiting for me at the Frankfurt train station. I particularly missed my two young sisters, Sarah and Elizabeth who were 7 and 4, and I had purchased (with the meager funds at my disposal – at the expense of fewer art materials and food), two French dolls beautifully dressed and coiffed. I also felt very grateful to my parents for sending me to college in cosmopolitan “gay Paree.” I was wearing the nice wool coat and boots my mother had outfitted me in before setting off to the fashion capitol of the world.
I was two hours into the journey, and felt the need to use the WC, so arranged my belongings and shyly made eye contact with some of my cabin mates, implying a request to watch my things. “Vous pouvez regarder mes valises, s’il vous plait?” I believe I had an assent, and left the cabin in search of the nearest bathroom. After some minutes stretching my legs and getting a little air (these were the days of strong Gitane and Gauloise smoke permeating every train cabin), I made my way back.
After a few minutes of settling back in to read my book, I noticed the two paintings were gone – vanished from the compartment! My suitcase with the Christmas gifts was there and in tact, but the artwork was gone. I looked imploringly at my cabin mates, and received (very French) expressive, whole body shrugs in response. I got up and made a thorough search of the cabin and the corridor, but to no avail. The paintings were gone, and the cabin had lost several occupants.
Two thoughts occurred to me, almost simultaneously: I was very distressed that I would not be able to show my parents the results of their kind patronage. I also felt unreasonably flattered that someone thought the paintings were worthy of grand theft!
Wouldn’t it be a gas if, now with international access to names and such via the Internet, someone found the stolen paintings in some cob-webbed attic of Great Uncle Francois. They could Google my signed name Nancy Dunlop, contact me and the mystery would be solved after 45 years. Such is the stuff of legend.
- Nancy
