Hendrik van Loon

Yesterday, I stood in front of the van Gogh that had haunted me for two decades. I’ve seen it countless times before, but this was different. As the director of a renowned art museum in Amsterdam, Netherlands, I never thought I'd see it again, finally back home where it belongs.

The museum was quiet, early before opening hours, the only sounds being the hum of the climate control and the distant footsteps of the cleaning staff. For 20 years, there had been an empty space in my heart—and on our walls. It was stolen in broad daylight, with no leads, no clues, and for years, I carried the weight of its loss. Every time I passed by the empty spot where it once hung, I felt a sharp pang of guilt, wondering if we would ever find it again.

When the call came from the authorities in Italy, I could hardly believe it. They found it locked in a safe, hidden away in some dingy basement, used as currency among criminals. When it arrived back at the museum, I barely slept, anticipating the moment it would be unveiled once more. Seeing it back where it belonged felt like welcoming a long-lost friend home after an ordeal. If Vincent could see this, he’d probably laugh at the absurdity. In his lifetime, he managed to sell only one painting, and now they’re worth more than anyone could have imagined.

I’m retiring next year, at 65, after a life surrounded by beauty and the genius of others. Yet, the return of this painting feels like the closing of a chapter I never wanted to leave unfinished. I lingered in the gallery for a while, watching the first beams of sunlight filter through the high windows, touching the canvas with a warmth it hadn’t felt in years. It was as if the painting itself was breathing again, alive with the energy of those who came to admire it. I’ll miss this place, but I’m ready to go now, knowing that everything is as it should be, with this painting back where it belongs. It feels like a final gift, a reassurance that my work here is complete, and I can step away with a sense of peace.