Although, as far as I am aware, Mr. Degas’ name has never been linked romantically to another’s, I was confident that, as the only woman at table, I would be able to pull the ropes and handle the ribbons sufficiently well to secure his attentions. I admit to only you, my dear niece, that both Mr. Whistler and Mr. Sargent have been quite easy prey in the past.
We, of course, discussed art and literature, particularly how much Henry dislikes Trollope’s Framley Parsonage and the rumor that George Eliot is a woman! The wines and punch made us gay, and to listen to James Whistler and Edgar (yes, he instructed me to call him Edgar!) in friendly dispute over Parisian versus Venetian light was a great joy and a unique privilege.
Then Edgar began to discuss his connection, both in art and in friendship, with those who call themselves “Impressionists.” I am so certain that a man of his talent should not waste it on such indulgences that I asked him why he would throw clumps of wet pigment on a canvas instead of wielding his fine eye and brush toward the delicate glazing he does so well? I wondered if Vermeer or Rembrandt would do such a thing, and I told him I thought not, and that neither should he.
Rather than being angry, as a lesser man might have been, Edgar began to laugh so loud and so hard that we all had to join in. He touched his wine glass to mine and said, “Touché, Mrs. Gardner. Touché.” (I had instructed him earlier in the evening to call me Isabella, but he seemed unable to do so.) I, of course, was charmed. Do I flatter myself in the thought that perhaps I’ll be able to help Edgar Degas see the error of his ways? Perhaps this is too scandalous an idea. Nonetheless, I shall try.
And then, to make this magical evening even more magical, Edgar and I discovered our mutual love of horses and horseracing, and he invited all of us at table to sit in his private box on opening day at Longchamps! This I shall not miss.
Though I was unable to get a guarantee from any of the three artists to part with a picture or accept a commission at a price I could afford, each of them (privately, of course) did promise to consider such a thing. Mr. Degas insisted that we visit his studio. Which, of course, we shall do.
When we rose to take our leave, Edgar raised my hand to his lips and told me it had been years since he had “spent such a charming evening with such a charming dinner partner.”
So, my dear girl, I must end here. Please write of all the adventures of your grand tour and all the details of your homemaking. Please don’t choose all your linens and draperies, as I would so love to assist in the decoration of your home and boudoir.
I am your loving,
Aunt Belle
Seven
I stare at After the Bath as if my eyes are tethered to the canvas. As a child, I sat on the floor of the Short Gallery in the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, pencil in hand, struggling to draw this very painting. The slope of a back, the shadow of a towel fold, the extension of an arm. After the Bath. I am awed. I am thrilled. I am horrified.
“I, it,” I sputter at Markel. “I can’t have this here. You’ve got to take it back.” Even as I say the words, part of me is screaming: No, leave it, please leave it right where it is. “It’s way too valuable, priceless. Not to mention stolen. I can’t take responsibility for—”
“Of course you can have it here,” Markel says. “It’s the perfect place. If anyone sees it, they’ll figure it’s one of your reproductions.” His calculation is as impressive as it is appalling.
I can’t take my eyes from the brushwork, the depth of the values, the saturation of the colors. How did Degas do it: rabbit-skin glue in his sizing? yellow ochre in his underpainting? egg temper in his medium? But these are only technical questions. The genius of this painting is much more than technique—and quite impossible to replicate. How could Markel ever think I would be able to create a credible forgery of this magnificent beast?
“Don’t worry, I’m going to give it back,” he says.
“But you just brought it.” I’m having trouble thinking clearly with the canvas so close to me.
“Back to the Gardner Museum.”
“Now?”
Markel’s eyes twinkle. “Later. After you’ve worked your magic. That’s the doing-good part. I sell your copy and give the original back to the museum.”
“If you sell it as the original, it’s a forgery not a copy.”
“Call it whatever you want. The important point is that a Degas masterpiece is returned to both the Gardner and the world. A pretty good thing, don’t you think?”
I speak as if coming out of a drug-induced fog. “But some innocent collector is going to be out millions.”
“Not so innocent. Remember, whoever buys it believes he’s buying a stolen masterpiece.”
“Like that guy? What’s-his-name?” My mind refuses to work. “You know, that dealer in New York who had duplicates of paintings forged then sold both as the original? Starts with E … Ely Sakhai.”
“Claire,” Markel says. “You’re not listening. Not even to yourself. Yes, Ely Sakhai did forge paintings and sell them both as originals. But that’s not what we’re going to do. We’re going to give the original back to its rightful owner. It’s a completely different thing.”
“Then the buyer will find out about it,” I protest. “He’ll go to the police.”
Again the twinkle. “And what will he tell them? That his stolen masterpiece turned out to be a fake? And anyway, he’ll have no idea who sold him the painting. I know how to protect myself.”
I need him to slow down. His fast answers are coming too fast. Yet my questions won’t stop either. “What about the sellers? Won’t they be pissed?”
“They get their money, what do they care?” Markel shrugs.
Then I realize what’s really bothering me. “The other paintings. The other ones stolen from the Gardner. You know where they are.”
He looks me straight in the eye. “I have no idea.”
I hold his gaze. “You know where you got this one.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“But—”
“I was contacted by someone who asked if I had a high-end client who might be interested in a ‘significant’ piece of art. I said that, of course, it depended on the piece, but yes, I probably did. To make a long story short, I had a number of conversations with a number of people, who used what I can only assume were false names—which is exactly how I intend to handle the sale from my end. And finally, one told me what they wanted to sell.
“At first I said no, that I had no interest. But then I started to think about returning it to the Gardner and came up with this plan. I called them back and said I thought I had just the right person.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Think about it,” Markel says, warming to the subject. “After the Bath, back in its rightful place in the Gardner Museum. Millions of people are thrilled. The seller gets his money, and the collector gets what he believes is a Degas, at least until he finds out the truth in the press, and then it will be too late. You and I get to feel really good about ourselves. Not to mention, your own work gets the exposure it deserves.”
“It can’t be that simple.”
“The alternative is that some other broker sells it to some crook who most likely keeps the painting underground, moving it through the black market as collateral for weapons or drugs. Not taking care of it. Never to be seen. This will save After the Bath from that fate.”
I don’t really understand what he’s talking about, and I’m not sure it makes sense. “Why don’t you just give it back to the Gardner now? Why do you need the rest of it?”
“I have to cover my back. And my expenses.”
“You need money?”
“Don’t be naive, Claire. It doesn’t suit you.”
“But the gallery? All your artwork?” I’m honestly puzzled.
Markel hesitates, then says, “The last few years have been tough. Business is way down, as is the value of art. And those alimony payments never change.”
“B
ut you could collect the reward.”
“Not if it’s returned anonymously. And I can’t get my name or the gallery involved. Even if there’s no chance of prosecution.”
Markel has clearly thought this through, and I can’t find any glaring holes in his logic. Which might be the problem. There’s something too pat, too convenient, about the explanation. But I figure that’s the least of my difficulties.
I turn back to the painting. It’s a depiction of three nudes toweling themselves dry, not an unusual subject for Degas in the later part of his career, but it’s rendered in his early classical style, dense layers of vibrant color set on top of one another, expressing the inexpressible with a luminosity that indeed makes Meissonier’s work look like dull metal. I want to touch it so badly that I have to clench my fists to keep my arms by my sides.
“This is the opportunity of a lifetime for you in many ways,” Markel says. “Not to mention the adrenaline rush of the century. You strike me as the adventurous type. Why not give it a shot?”
“For the obvious reasons,” I mumble.
“They don’t seem all that obvious to me.”
I shake my head.
“Claire?”
Finally, I whisper, “I’m not good enough.”
Markel’s laugh bellows out of him and bounces around the studio. “I misunderstood your reluctance. I thought it was some kind of misplaced morality.”
I jut my chin forward. “Well, it’s that, too.”
He winks and says, “Let me know what you need.” Then he walks across the room and closes the door behind him.
THE ROOM IS dark, and I’m lying on my mattress. I’ve been up most of the night. I feel After the Bath like a human presence: massive, breathing, haunting, yet also comforting. As if Degas himself is with me, risen from the dead. His genius, his brushstrokes, his heart.
I think about the Gardner Museum, about the frames that hang empty on the walls of the Blue Room, the Dutch Room, and the Short Gallery. The frames hold nothing where the stolen artwork used to be, marking the loss, waiting stoically for the return of their raison d’être. I’ve been to the museum many times since the robbery, and I always stop in front of these frames to ponder the fate of their missing centers.
Much has been written about the Gardner heist, but very little is known. Or, more correctly, those who know aren’t talking. A $5 million reward, no questions asked, no chance of prosecution for the return of the thirteen works, and nary a nibble. The statute of limitations has run out, and still no one’s come forward with even a reasonable rumor. In this global Internet village we live in, it doesn’t seem possible, yet there it is. I climb out of bed, flick on the light, and stand in front of the painting.
It’s such a magnificent being. So alive, yet more like the sensation of life, rather than how life actually is. Color and emotion pulse from the canvas. Once again, tears fill my eyes, and this time I let them run down my cheeks. I should return it to the Gardner right now. It isn’t fair to keep such a masterpiece hidden away.
But I don’t want to give it back. I want to live with it, spend time with it, paint it. I know I shouldn’t, but I reach out and tenderly run my finger over the hand of the bather on the right. She’s seated, one leg raised as she towels her ankle dry. I decide her name is Françoise. The other two are Jacqueline and Simone.
Eight
The exterior of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is underwhelming, to say the least. The façade is plain, almost unbroken by windows or decoration, an unwelcoming fortress. The first time I saw it—I must have been about seven—I cried when my mother told me this was the museum she had been raving about. But when I went inside, my tears quickly dried.
The museum is essentially an ornate Venetian palace turned in on itself, a seven-year-old girl’s delight. Instead of canals, a magical four-story central courtyard faces the interior walls. A greenhouse of sorts. The roof is glass and the floor is a sensuous garden filled with freestanding columns, whimsical twelfth-century lion stylobates, and all manner of statuary. A Roman mosaic sits at the center, surrounded by an ever-changing installation of flowers and shrubs. A pair of towering palm trees reach up to the sunlight, climbing beyond the third floor.
All four walls, which rise at least sixty feet, are cut by tiers of stone-fronted arches, notched doorways and windows, marble balustrades, and exposed stairways overflowing with flowers and greenery. The rooms at the perimeter of this courtyard form the bulk of the museum. Isabella Gardner built this monument to live in, to house her art collection, and to leave to the public upon her death.
Although I’m here to meet Rik for lunch, I climb the stairs to the second floor and walk through the Early Italian Room and the Raphael Room and into the Short Gallery. I need to see Bath’s empty frame. The gallery is only about ten feet wide and has to be just about the worst place to hang a painting as large as After the Bath. But Isabella, who was eccentric, to say the least, personally determined the placement of each of her 2,500 pieces of art and then decreed in her will that nothing was to be changed, removed, or added. Ever.
It is this conceit that created the hodgepodge that is the Gardner. In contrast to the openness and brilliance of the courtyard, the shadowy galleries are filled with mismatched groupings of furniture, fine art, and random trinkets. Priceless paintings are hung over doorways, and 3,000-year-old sculptures are hidden in corners.
Poor lighting and cramped spaces render this clutter even more claustrophobic, and there’s barely a piece of artwork that’s shown to its best advantage. But since 1924, the year Isabella died, the museum has stayed as its mistress wished, as charming and capricious as she was herself. Only the thieves were able to best the old girl.
I walk up to the empty frame, the hollow enclosure where After the Bath once lived, and I’m overwhelmed by shame. I press myself into a corner, try to make myself small, hoping no one will notice me, recognize my culpability. And nobody does. As I relax and pull to a stand, to both my surprise and consternation, a surge of adrenaline nearly knocks me over. I am suddenly jubilant. I have After the Bath. It’s in my very own studio, where I sleep and paint. Degas’ masterpiece, to look at whenever I want. To smell, to even touch, that most forbidden act within museum walls. And, I remind myself, I’ll be partially responsible for its return home.
I watch the people filing past, looking sadly at the vacant spot, wondering as I’ve always wondered. I have an overpowering urge to tell them, to shout to the world that it’s mine, all mine. I turn abruptly and leave the room, calming as I wend my way to the small café hidden behind the tiny bookstore on the first floor.
Rik and I kiss, hug, exchange pleasantries and a bit of gossip, order our food, and then I ask him a few questions about the robbery.
“Why this sudden interest in the heist?” he asks.
I shrug. “I’ve always been interested. Isn’t everyone?”
Rik takes a bite of his burger. “Guess the rumor that Whitey Bulger had them with him in Argentina was as false as all the rest.”
“Couldn’t he have had them there anyway? Before he was arrested? Maybe they’re still there now.”
“Nah. I never believed Whitey or any of the Boston mob were involved. If it was organized crime, they’d have sold most of the cache pretty fast, and at least a few would’ve surfaced by now.”
“Then who did it?”
“I’m thinking some European. The robbery involved planning, disguises, and deception. That’s how art thieves work in Europe.”
“Not here?”
“Hardly ever.”
“You think the paintings are in Europe?”
“After all these years, they could be anywhere,” Rik says. “Although lots of people assume they have to be hidden away in some greedy collector’s attic, my guess is that they’re being used as collateral for weapons and drug running. Sometimes terrorist groups swap stolen paintings for their imprisoned comrades.”
Markel alluded to this, too. “No James Bond
and Dr. No?”
“This works out better for the thieves. It’s tough to sell the paintings outright because everyone knows they’re stolen, so they use them on the black market. Say, for example, that you want to buy a load of cocaine for $1 million, which you know you can turn into $4 million in a week. You don’t have $1 million, but you do have a Rembrandt worth at least $30 million. So you offer a moneyman the painting as collateral for the mil and another million when the deal’s done. If the deal falls through, moneyman’s got something worth much more than he gave you, and if it works, he gets double his investment and returns the painting to you. Ergo, you end up with $2 million tax-free and a $30 million painting to run through the same scheme when the next opportunity comes around.”
“Great for the thieves, lousy for the paintings.”
“You’ve got that right,” Rik says. “It’s awful what happens to them. They get stashed in places that are too wet or too hot or too cold. They’re cut from their frames. Ripped. Destroyed.” He presses a hand to his stomach. “I get sick just talking about it.”
I, too, am nauseated by the image, the ravaging, the waste. “Blood paintings.”
“Like blood diamonds?” Rik laughs without humor. “But instead of slave labor, it’s art that’s exploited, sometimes massacred.”
This is a fate I refuse to imagine for Bath.
WHEN I LEAVE the museum, I rush home to be with Bath. It feels as if I’m hurrying to meet a new lover: the excitement, the desire, the seemingly endless drenching of serotonin. I whip the sheet off the canvas, and there she is. Alive and intact. Even more beautiful than I remember. I’ve set her on a large easel and pulled up a folding chair so I can sit in front of her, drink her in.
Every time I look, I see something new. Now I notice how much green there is. The blues and the oranges are so vibrant, the women’s skin so pale and luminescent, that I was distracted. Green fills the entire painting, gently stretching out behind all the sharper colors, but very much there.
The Art Forger Page 5
