The Perfect Landscape

by Ragna Sigurðardóttir

  What would the market value be of a newly found, prewar painting by Gudrun Johannsdottir? Hrafn calls the gallery in Reykjavik to get some information. The value is good. Would get him a very nice Jeep. He’s been thinking about changing. He looks at the painting again, at the back of the frame, no signature, nothing about the origins of the work. The frame hasn’t been changed; the painting looks completely authentic. He looks at the picture. He likes it a lot. It’s an impressive piece. After a moment’s hesitation, he calls his friend, Thor, the lawyer who specializes in copyright. A fellow student from high school days, a fishing buddy and a gym buddy when they’re both in Reykjavik. Thor doesn’t pick up right away, but Hrafn lets it ring. Thor is often out fishing in the summer, but Hrafn knows that he never goes out without his phone and Bluetooth.

  “Well, hello there,” says Thor.

  “Where are you?” asks Hrafn. “Have you caught anything?”

  “I just let one go,” replies Thor. “I’m in the Nordura River. Lovely day up here.”

  Hrafn tells him briefly about the painting. Thor listens carefully, and by the time he replies he’s standing on the bank of the river.

  “So this Russian woman is in contact with forgers who’ve done this for her?”

  Hrafn concurs and describes Masha’s private collection to Thor.

  “Do you think the paintings have been forged?” asks Thor, and Hrafn thinks of the rows of paintings on Masha’s walls in Moscow.

  “No,” he replies. “But possibly some of them.” He remembers the smell. When they went in he caught a whiff of turpentine and oils. Maybe some of the paintings were brand-new, barely dry.

  “I know that Gudrun Johannsdottir sold some paintings at an auction in Copenhagen around 1940,” says Thor. “If one of those matched this painting then we’d be sitting pretty. I’ll look into it for you when I’m back in town. Talk to my friend Baldur.”

  Hrafn agrees; he knows what Thor has in mind.

  Hrafn is no art forger. He has not made a habit of selling forged pieces. But he has followed the market for a good number of years. He knows that a certain percentage of the artworks in circulation are forgeries; with Thor’s help he has managed to get rid of a few paintings that he suspected could have been forged, to clean up his collection.

  Gudrun Johannsdottir is dead. In his view there’s nothing unduly criminal in profiting from a forgery attributed to her, a work that isn’t even signed. If he did sell the painting, it would be on the basis that in all probability the painting was by her. And if Thor managed to arrange it that a painting in the auctioneer’s list in Copenhagen from the time when the original painting was done was listed as exactly the same size as this painting, so much the better. Thor has good contacts and knows someone who is skilled at changing the odd number in an old record in such a way that no one will notice. In this way a painting that originally was sixty-by-eighty centimeters could easily become fifty-by-seventy, for example. Thor has easy access to the records of the gallery in Reykjavik; he simply has to borrow Baldur’s keys, no questions asked.

  Thor and Hrafn regularly give each other a helping hand. They are businessmen in their different ways. These business dealings are a gray area. Strictly speaking they are illegal of course. Unethical. And yet no one loses by them. Everyone gains. Hrafn, Thor, the auction house. In Hrafn’s eyes, such business dealings are all right from time to time but he wouldn’t engage in them on a regular basis. And whoever ends up buying this painting will undoubtedly be delighted with this handsome work of art.

  Hrafn hangs up and looks again at the painting; it’s undeniably beautiful and would be a credit to any living room. Give it some time, maybe two or three months, and he will put it back up for auction. In the autumn. As a painting by Gudrun Johannsdottir. The gallery’s database will then have documented a painting of this size from the auction list of around 1940.

  Hrafn’s thoughts then turn to the auction house where he bought the painting. They have a picture of the painting before it was altered. He wants to see it again, to make sure that no one can connect this new painting with the one he bought. People have been caught out by this kind of slipup. Hrafn hurriedly finds the auction house’s website, but it’s only possible to see sold items from the previous week. He calls them up and gets a picture of the painting he bought e-mailed to him. It is exactly the same as the painting lying on his bed.

  Hrafn is relieved but also concerned. It would seem Masha is very well connected, even in Danish auctioneer circles. She has clearly had the image in the database switched and replaced with a picture of the painting as it is now. Obviously it’s no problem to find an employee who is willing to get involved in this sort of thing. Invite him to parties on an expensive yacht, to a luxury hotel on a private island, or offer him cocaine and a more beautiful woman than he could dream of legitimately having. Hrafn thinks about Larisa, her gentle movements, the sparkle in her eyes.

  It occurs to him that he has met his match in Masha. He has already accepted the painting. Thanked her for it. Expressed his delight. Without opening it. He is angry at himself. This would never have happened to him in another business deal. But how could he have foreseen it? And what would he have said if he had looked at the painting while they were talking? Probably the same. Now he owes Masha a favor and he doesn’t know what this favor will entail, only that he can’t say no to her.

  15

  OPENINGS REYKJAVIK, CURRENT DAY

  A shepherd stands under a tree with his crook and his knapsack, leaning up against the broad trunk, watching his flock graze on a broad plain. The morning light falls on a small pond—or is the day drawing to a close? In the distance a village nestles among leafy trees, smoke winds up from the chimneys, bluish like the mountains in the background that soar above the plain, and the clouds are tinged with pink. There is an air of tranquility about the shepherd and his flock; the only thing that brings to mind the transient nature of life is the tree under which he is standing, dominating the center of the canvas. Its crown is dark and leafless, the bare branches standing out against the sky as if in anguish. Man’s insignificance in the face of Nature and the Almighty is revealed through the shepherd.

  Der einsame Baum, The Solitary Tree, is the name Caspar David Friedrich, the nineteenth-century German painter, gave to his work, which is owned by the Alte Nationalgalerie in Berlin and has now come to Reykjavik for the Arts Festival.

  It isn’t a large painting, only fifty-five by seventy-one centimeters, and it looks lonely there on the second floor gracing the end wall of the exhibition room. Visitors have to peer at the picture to see the shepherd and the sheep or the smoke rising so calmly over the village. The painting has been roped off so they can’t get too close to it. Strict security was one of the conditions attached to the loan of this work. The gallery hardly meets such conditions, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Herbert Grunewald, patron and cocurator of the exhibition Landscapes: Past and Present is the ex-director of the Alte Nationalgalerie, the painting would never have entered the country. Let alone after only a few months to prepare for it.

  Much has been made of the painting’s debut in the country, and it’s not surprising that Baldur and Kristin are rather tense seeing the crowd building up and filling the square outside the gallery. The attendance is even better than they expected. The street artists from Paris who are performing on the square are a big draw. It’s the third Saturday in May; the sun is shining and the air is still. It’s not only as if spring has arrived, but also summer, on the same day.

  Hanna watches the gathering crowd with a slight feeling of surprise. The city has sprung to life today. Families with children and strollers fill the square to watch the artists juggling, fire-eating, and riding on unicycles just like abroad. The cafes on the square have set out tables and chairs and are doing brisk trade—people are drinking beer in the middle of the day as they do in Paris, Copenhagen, or Amsterdam. The square Hanna ran across in the rain and the storm on her way to the galle
ry on her first day is unrecognizable.

  After the incident the week before, Haraldur and Leifur have managed to keep the peace by ignoring each other. Hanna helped Haraldur get his pictures up in the Annexe. She made a point of singing their praises, and while they were hanging them she made out she didn’t notice Leifur’s installation ranged across the room. Haraldur and Hanna were both pleased with the result.

  Haraldur’s paintings show no traces of sentimentality, but they possess a poetic quality that appeals to Hanna. His paintings and Leifur’s sculpture installation are polar opposites, which is what the exhibition is all about. At first sight Leifur’s installation appeared too obtrusive in the room, but he has a keen sense of the overall balance required in the exhibition and was careful not to take over the space. Like most artists of his generation, collaborative working is uppermost in his mind. Moreover, the colors blend with Haraldur’s paintings. The rusty-red and iron-gray tones, colorful household paint on the roofing sheets, and discarded wood all reflecting in the panes of glass don’t go at all badly with the grassy slopes of Haraldur’s paintings.

  Jon is showing black-and-white photos of Dutch landscapes, and Anselma has produced an audio piece that can be heard outside the building. The day before, Leifur had told Hanna that he intended to have a display at the opening, but he was reluctant to say what he was going to do. Hanna was doubtful; she would rather he didn’t do anything she didn’t know about. On the other hand, she didn’t want to censor his art. Having made him formally promise that his performance wouldn’t harm anyone or any work of art or the building, she gave him her consent, with reservations.

  “After the formal opening,” was all Leifur said when she asked him when he intended to put on this spectacle. “Won’t there be a speech and all that nonsense?”

  He smiled slightly as he said this, and Hanna knew he was winding her up. Playing the rebel. She smiled back. Yes, there would be a speech.

  Now she can only cross her fingers and trust him. She is waiting for the clock to turn four and is doing one final round of the Annexe when Steinn comes up to her.

  “We’re about to open.” She looks him straight in the eye; he shows no sign of stress. Hanna doesn’t understand how he can be so calm. She looks at her folder for the hundredth time; yes, it’s all there. She is ready, and, glancing over at Haraldur’s paintings as if to draw courage from them, she mentally straps on her mask and primes her foil.

  They go into the gallery together, where Kristin and the others are frantically making last-minute preparations for the opening. Edda rushes around with a mop, wiping the floor dry where a minute ago a trayful of sparkling wine went flying over the tiles. She dries it thoroughly because the tiles can be slippery when they’re wet. Finally she gives the thumbs-up and the doors are opened. People stream in, hundreds of them filling the airy entrance hall and lower level, but the stairs to the second floor and the painting The Solitary Tree is roped off. Everyone who is anyone in cultural and artistic circles in Iceland is there; politicians, bankers, and entrepreneurs all raise their glasses to cultural endeavor.

  Hrafn Arnason is chatting to a business colleague when Thor suddenly appears and greets him cheerily. Hanna walks past them, and Thor catches her arm.

  “Hanna! I’d like to introduce you to Hrafn here. Hrafn, this is Hanna Jonsdottir,” says Thor. “She is director of the Annexe. Hanna, this is Hrafn Arnason.”

  Hrafn looks at Hanna. They haven’t met since they were introduced at the exhibition in Copenhagen. Hrafn doesn’t forget a face and immediately remembers her. The mousy one who’s an expert in Gudrun Johannsdottir.

  Hanna holds out her hand.

  “Well, hello, nice to see you again.” She is going to say something further, but Hrafn shakes his head imperceptibly. Hanna nods; she understands that he wants to keep the announcement under wraps.

  Kristin has already told Hanna about Hrafn. For years she has regularly asked him for money because she knows he collects paintings. An art lover is bound to support the gallery. She finally got an answer out of him, but not the one she expected. In fact, it took her totally by surprise, but now is the moment. Hrafn is going to give the gallery a significant gift, and Kristin is going to announce it publicly at the opening. Hanna immediately realizes that he doesn’t want to talk about it in advance.

  “Excuse me,” she says and continues to thread her way through the crowd.

  Hrafn falls silent when she’s gone; he is clearly nervous, and Thor tries to change the subject. Hrafn nods absentmindedly. Up to now he hasn’t made his hobby public knowledge, and what Kristin is about to say will come as a surprise to many.

  Kristin is standing at the mic, which has been set up on the stairs leading to the second floor. To make herself more visible she steps up onto the bottom stair and delivers a short speech.

  Hrafn pushes his way through the crowd toward Kristin and stands near the front where he can be seen. He looks somewhat agitated and slides his hands up into his sleeves. At the end of the speech he modestly acknowledges Kristin’s thanks with a nod for the magnificent gift that he has donated to the gallery.

  Hrafn has decided to stop collecting paintings. The collection he already owns is a reasonable size and is stored in his basement, and the paintings have maintained their value. Of course, he’s fortunate the paintings haven’t dropped in value, but they haven’t increased much either, not compared to the shares in some of the companies he has invested, which have a habit of shooting up overnight. Compared with the stock market there’s not much excitement in the art market, and having seen Mariya Kovaleva’s collection in Moscow his interest diminished still further. Hrafn realized he was just a small-time collector; he owned nothing really significant by international standards. No Shishkin valued at tens of millions. No Picasso, Matisse, or Rothko. He owned works by Jon Stefansson, Asgrimur Jonsson, and Kjarval. Of the contemporary painters he only has three works by Eggert Petursson.

  He decided to let his collection go. Keep the Kjarvals and Eggerts but other than that to turn to his other interest, his horses. Initially, he was going to put all the paintings up for auction, but then he changed his mind. Instead of giving the gallery the funding that Kristin, the director, had harped on him about for a number of years and would enable the gallery to drop the entrance fee, he decided to give them his art collection. This way he would kill two birds with one stone. He would free himself of one aspect of his life that was linked to his father—he is still incapable of looking at a painting without imagining his father’s comments or picturing him in his mind’s eye, puffing on his cigar. And he will be remembered as an aficionado of art and culture.

  Kristin mentions that in America extensions to galleries are often named after their patron, and she promises an exhibition of Hrafn’s collection toward the autumn. “Who knows, maybe we’ll even get a Hrafn’s wing here,” she says, smiling broadly at this prospect. Hrafn’s mouth puckers slightly at the corners, and he downs his glass of water.

  When Kristin has finished her speech, Herbert Grunewald takes over and gives a long talk about his passion for the Icelandic landscape in his rather German-accented English. Then Baldur talks about how the exhibition came about and speaks at length about the value and rarity of The Solitary Tree; about the generosity and energy of Herbert Grunewald, who managed to bring the work here; and, not least, he thanks the wealthy benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous and who paid a vast insurance premium for the painting.

  “Without him, this would not have been possible,” says Baldur, pausing to allow a round of applause.

  People are beginning to get restless as he draws his speech to a close, and just at the end Baldur reminds the visitors that there is also an exhibition opening here today in the Annexe under the same theme, Landscapes: Past and Present, curated by Hanna Jonsdottir. Finally, Kristin ceremoniously opens the stairs to the second floor. The crowd heads straight up with members of the press and photographers in the lead although no shots of the
painting are allowed.

  Now the opening of the exhibition in the Annexe begins, and even there it is packed with people. Hanna calls for quiet as she begins her own speech. She isn’t accustomed to public speaking and keeps it brief; she thanks the artists who are displaying their work and the gallery for its support of the Annexe. Just as she finishes her speech and there is a round of applause, a crashing sound reverberates around the room, and Hanna gives a start. Everyone looks around uneasily.

  Leifur has carried out his display; he has taken a brick and thrown it at the glass pane separating the internal and external halves of his art installation and smashed the pane into pieces, leaving an opening out onto the street. Three police officers are already standing out on the street in front of the glass wall. Steinn appears at the same time, and Hanna turns to him for advice.

  “It’s time,” he says slowly, calmly. Hanna nods. This wasn’t how she’d imagined this moment, but she’s ready. The pane can wait, and the broken glass is now part of Leifur’s artwork, which extends out onto the sidewalk.

  Hanna and Steinn have been preparing for the past few weeks. The press are all here and this is the ideal opportunity to draw attention to what has been going on. This is the course they’ve agreed to take. Neither of them is willing to wait until Kristin gives the green light to go public about the forgeries, nor does she know what they’ve done. As things stand, neither Steinn nor Hanna expects charges to be brought. The experience of the big forgery case showed that it’s not worth it. And who would bring charges? It’s better than nothing then to make the matter public.

  Agusta is on the landing of the staircase, where Steinn has put up both the paintings. They now hang side by side, similar but not entirely the same.