Most people got along with Theo providing they did not try to read meaning into his life. One could never ask him why he reacted in a certain way. One could never question him about such matters. Never ask him why he hadn’t gone home again. His self-styled philosophy was simple enough-he came East, found a life for himself and had made the best of it ever since, without regrets. He had succeeded as a painter. Celebrities and people in the know made tracks to his door. His paintings and sketches hang in private collections and art galleries around the world. His murals adorn a hospital, hotels and many government buildings in America and on the Continent. He had what any aspiring artist would like to have. Theo led a life that gave him freedom of choice, and he was one of the few men I knew living in Asia who was completely at ease in his environment. He did not have the guilty compunction that he should be somewhere else, nor did he have that regretful feeling that one day he must return home and dose the ledger, as many foreigners do who live for a long time in distant lands. Theo had not “gone native” as many white men do, nor he did alienate the people where he lived. He never cut himself off from the world. He was very much part of both worlds, East and West.
Theo had enjoyed every minute of his life.
- Photo caption on page 292 of the book: Prince Sandith seen here at his home in Chiang Mai with two of his collection of Theo Meier’s oil paintings. Prince Sandith and Theo were lasting friends.