...The story of Syd the Painter illustrates how you, too, can pull off the Van Gogh Scam. I learned about Syd from Elizabeth, a San Francisco filmmaker. Our meeting took place in a quintessential North beach hangout; noisy, airy, redolent with the scent of fair trade coffee and wet cashmere. Thirtyish, with prematurely silver hair and the nervous habit of toying with an unlit cigarette, Elizabeth was eager to talk about Syd.
“I’d heard fantastic tales about Syd and thought he’d make a great subject for a documentary, like that eccentric bird lover in Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill. So I introduced myself to Syd. He usually spends mornings over there with his sketch pad,” Elizabeth said, nodding at a wobbly table near the window. “He was thrilled at first, but quickly got cold feet. I think he was afraid his wife would learn too much about his daily movements.”
“Which are?”
Elizabeth laughed and pulled the cigarette to her lips, drawing the ire of a lone man at the next table. After arguing loudly with him about the propriety of flourishing an unlit cigarette in a non-smoking establishment, she gathered herself and returned to the subject of Syd. “Nan, his wife, is a banker and keeps banker’s hours, so Syd essentially knows where she is at any given moment. By the way, Syd started finger painting at age three and his work has remained at that level of technical skill and emotional maturity. But Nan adores it. Go figure.
“At any rate, Syd starts painting in his studio at 7 a.m. while Nan gets ready for work. Fifteen minutes after she leaves, he strolls down here for coffee and Danish, and a period of gathering his wits about him. An hour or so later, he orders a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon and pancakes. While he eats, he scours the Wall Street Journal for ‘ideas,’ which is weird because he’s an Abstract Expressionist.
“At noon he walks over to this Mexican bistro where he has two chicken tacos, beans, rice and ice tea, no chips or cheese. He then walks off lunch for an hour, afterwards returning to his apartment for a power nap and shower. Refreshed, he returns here for espresso and chess, quitting at precisely 6 p.m., win or lose.
“Hurrying back home, Syd opens his studio and begins working in earnest. Nan arrives about ten minutes later, showers, makes dinner and calls Syd to the table. With a great show of reluctance, Syd quits for the day, locking the door to his studio—which Nan is not allowed to enter—and joins his loving wife for supper.”
I ordered the check. “What’s in it for her?” “I’ve asked myself that. After all, Syd has never sold a painting. Gallery owners throw fits when they see him. He’s like a pestilence. One art critic told me that Syd’s work threatened to send the art world back to the Stone Age, when Neanderthals worked in campfire charcoal. All I can figure is that while Nan seems traditional on the surface, inside she’s a rebel and takes vicarious pleasure in what Syd alleges is his battle against an obtuse establishment.”
Standing on the street, Elizabeth fired up her Galouise. “And what about Syd? What’s he get from it?” I asked
Inhaling greedily, Elizabeth paused before answering, “I think he married Nan thirty-four years ago. The only job he’s had since is keeping her happy. Unbelievably, she is. Obviously, they were made for each other.”
So there you have it, guys. With easel, palette and brushes—and a carefully selected female patron—you too can reap the long-term benefits of the Van Gogh Scam. Precocious kids, cats, and even elephants earn a comfortable lifestyle with art. Why not you?
Gus