“I THOUGHT YOUR book was going to focus on Degas’ European connections,” Rik says the next day.
We’re in his cramped office on the fourth floor of the museum. His feet are up on the desk, and I’m perched on its edge. The first three floors of the Gardner hold exhibition space, and the fourth is used for administrative offices. In Belle’s day, this was where she lived. It doesn’t look much like a home now.
“Belle made so many trips to Europe during Degas’ heyday and spent so much time with artists and dealers,” I explain, “that I figured there might be something in their relationship worth writing about.”
Rik drops his feet to the floor and turns his chair to his computer. “She did own a number of his works. Unfortunately, most were stolen during the heist.” Rik looks off beyond my shoulder. “There was a rumor just last week that some of the art was stashed in a house in Maine.”
“And?”
“Came to nothing.” He shrugs. “Just like everything else that has to do with the heist.”
“So Belle and Degas?” I prompt.
He taps a few keys and frowns. “Did you realize that five of the thirteen stolen artworks were Degas’?”
I hadn’t known there were so many. “Wonder if there’s an angle in that for me.”
“Three Mounted Jockeys, black ink on paper. La Sortie du Pelage, pencil and watercolor on paper. Cortege aux Environs de Florence, pencil and wash on paper.” His fingers fly over the keys. “Program for an Artistic Soiree, charcoal on paper. And, of course, After the Bath.”
The last thing I want him to think I’m interested in is After the Bath. “Does it say anything about Berenson or maybe another dealer? I’m really more concerned with those kind of relationships.”
“Berenson was pretty much her man.” Rik rotates in his chair. “You seen Markel lately?”
“Markel?”
Rik smirks. “You know, Markel G, the guy who came to your studio a few weeks ago?”
“What’s Markel got to do with this?”
“Nothing. Sorry. Mind jump. Talking about dealers. I saw him going into your building the other day and meant to ask you if something was up.”
I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. “I doubt he was there to see me.”
“Does he have clients in the building?”
I pretend to be seriously considering this. “Not that I know of. But Roberta Paul and Beth Weinhaus both have studios on the second floor. Maybe he was on a studio visit. Beth’s been doing some fabulous multimedia with old-fashioned corsets.”
Rik wrinkles his nose. “Since when are you into that conceptual crap? Or Markel for that matter?”
“Maybe Roberta, then,” I say.
Rik turns back to the computer. “Just hoping it was you, Claire Bear.”
IT’S A BEAUTIFUL afternoon, or at least beautiful to those who like it on the steamy side, which I do, so I decide to walk home from the Gardner. I turn at the MFA and head down Huntington Avenue. It’s odd how little Rik and I were able to find on any relationship between Degas and Belle. There were hundreds of pages on his works and the robbery and plenty of reviews and critiques of both Degas and Bath but nothing about Belle and Degas ever meeting. When I asked about Belle’s personal letters, Rik told me she burned all her correspondence before she died and demanded that those she wrote to do the same. Unfortunately, almost all complied.
“It makes you wonder what she was hiding,” I said.
“With Belle,” Rik replied, “it could be just about anything.”
This surprising dearth of information deepens my curiosity. And Rik’s. He promised to do more research through the museum and continue his investigation when he gets to Paris. Which is all good. I need to put my energy into finishing Bath II and getting it the hell out of my studio. I’ve got a lot of windows to paint.
With this in mind, I head to Al’s. The underpainting should be almost dry, and I need more paints and brushes for the next phase. Bath II must be made only from materials that were obtainable in the nineteenth century. Fortunately, Degas’ taste in brushes is well known, and he worked in the late 1800s, when paint became available in premixed tubes. Before this, artists ground their own pigments using only natural compounds such as raw umber, terre verte, and arsenic trisulfide. Still, every ingredient must be pure and devoid of any chemical discovered after the 1880s. I’m also fortunate to have Al, who’s painstakingly careful about what she buys and from whom she buys it.
My cell rings. “Hey,” Rik says, “I’ve got something for you. Don’t know how I could have forgotten about her. She’s such a complete pain in the ass. Sandra Stoneham. Belle’s only living relative. And she’s not even a real blood relative.” He sniffs. “Granddaughter of Jack Gardner’s niece. Lives in Brookline.”
“You think she might know something about Belle and Degas?”
“If there’s anything to be known, she’s the one who’ll know it.”
“Would she talk to me?”
“If you suck up to her and ooze all over about Belle, I’m guessing she’ll give you whatever she’s got. Just don’t tell her you have anything to do with the museum. Or, better yet, bad mouth the museum, and she’ll fall at your feet.”
From the pen of
ISABELLA STEWART GARDNER
September 1, 1890
Paris, France
My dearest Amelia,
I haven’t heard from you since we were at my Palazzo Barbaro, my heart of hearts. I pray that all is well at home. Ah, Venice. It would take a true literary genius to describe the effect that city has on my soul! And now we are in Paris, which is at its best in September, full of warm, rosy light. Although I hated to leave Italy, I am not unhappy with the change of scene.
It is just a few years since I last walked the wide boulevards of Paris, and I cannot believe that in that time you have metamorphosed from a blushing young bride into a mother! My congratulations to you and Sumner and to all the family as well. Indeed, I must be very old to be a great-aunt. A title not at all attuned with my own view of myself!
How is my dear baby Jackie? It touches my heart every day when I think of him, and I thank you every day for naming him Jack in honor of my own dear departed little boy. Clutch his plump body to your breast and press your nose into the creases of his sweet-smelling neck, for there is nothing greater in this world than to hold your own babe, warm and breathing, in your arms.
I am so sorry for not being a better correspondent, but this trip has been a whirlwind, filled with grand purchases and even grander disappointments. The prices for artwork are terrible! The trouble is I cannot have all the pictures I desire and must pick and choose so some money will remain to expand my collection on our next trip. Your Uncle Jack is always reining me in with accusations that I shall break us. But you know about eating and having the cake. And I want all the cake!
But now to your questions about Mr. Edgar Degas. As you know, my dear Amelia, you are my closest female relation and truly my dearest friend as well. Being of young age and a progressive attitude not found among the ladies of Boston, you are the only one in whom I can confide.
And even had you not asked, confide I must, as it is impossible to keep this delicious tale to myself! I trust that this, and all future discussion of said subject, shall be kept in the strictest of confidence.
Where to begin? I will simplify, but shall stay as true as I am able to the actual discourse so you can fully appreciate what transpired. Again, Edgar invited us to his studio, but your uncle could not come as he had a meeting at his bank. I admit to you, I dressed with great care and arrived at the appointed hour in a blue tulle dress that was appropriate for the occasion, although perhaps the neckline was a bit more revealing than those Boston ladies might prefer for afternoon.
Edgar poured us each a glass of the most wonderful wine, recently procured on a tour of Burgundy. He then launched into a number of humorous tales of his trip, including a very funny one about drinking too much of this very wine at a v
ineyard in Aignay-le-Duc. We laughed gaily, and he brought out a picture he crafted from his Burgundy sketches. It was lovely to behold, but sadly, painted in pastels using the Impressionist style. He knew quite well that I would disapprove, and I daresay that was his intent.
He then directed my attention to a new painting he had added to the bathers’ series he was working on at my last visit, Woman Leaving Her Bath. To my horror, the paint appeared to have been applied with a palette knife, and the images were virtually out of focus. I knew then that he was indeed trying to get a rise out of me, and I pretended to take no offense by complimenting him on his use of such vivid colors.
He thanked me, but his eyes twinkled in that way I now recognize as the predecessor to an Edgar prank. “I have a proposition for you, my dear Mrs. Gardner,” he said. “One I think you will find extremely interesting, if perhaps to some extent indiscreet.”
Assuming any proposition from Edgar must involve a picture, I didn’t want to appear too eager and clung to my light manner. “If you are going to offer me an indiscreet proposition, sir, don’t you think you should call me Isabella?”
He exploded into his hearty laugh. “Right you are, Isabella.” Then he paused. “Do they ever call you Belle?”
“Some,” I replied. “Those who are particularly close.”
His eyes found mine, and for a moment I felt as if all the air in the room had retreated. “May I be considered to be part of that group?” he asked.
I could barely contain myself and quickly agreed. “Now what is your proposal?”
“It’s simple. I will paint an oil painting using the multilayered technique you so admire, if you agree to be my model.”
Well, Amelia, I cannot tell you how my heart leapt. A portrait of me by Edgar Degas in the classical style! Could I wish for anything more? And perhaps he would be willing to sell it to me at a lowered cost. “Do you really mean it?” I cried.
“I wish you to model nude,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “To add to my bather series. It will confound everyone that I’ve returned to the style of my youth. The critics will drive themselves mad trying to ascertain why. But it will be our secret, Belle. Just yours and mine.”
“But, sir, you are mad. I am far too old for such a thing.”
“Is that the only reason?” he asked with a sly smile.
I was so overwhelmed by his proposition that I did not understand the meaning of his words or his smile, so I continued, “I am not a young woman, and even then, I was never a beauty, so this is completely out of the question.”
Now he laughed uproariously, and it finally dawned on me that I had not mentioned the impropriety of his suggestion. I began to gather my things, feverish heat climbing my face. “And your proposal is most indecorous.”
“Oh, my dear Belle,” Edgar said when he finally caught his breath, “with your grace and fine figure, your extraordinary complexion and those lovely shoulders and arms, you radiate a beauty that defies age.”
I wrapped my shawl tightly over the scoop neckline of my dress. “I could never, sir.”
“It won’t be as you imagine, I promise you that. There is no shame. I am offering you a job that is actually quite boring and tedious.”
“I don’t need a job,” I declared, as I moved toward the door. “I am a married woman.”
Again, the mischievous eyes. “Then not a job. The painting will be my gift to you for doing me this great honor.”
A gift. I stood motionless, facing the door as my thoughts whirled. Edgar Degas was offering to make me a gift of one of his paintings. A gem for my collection, perhaps the crown, at no cost. Or at a cost that, between you and I, I would be both willing and honored to pay. The scandal would be delicious but, alas, your poor dear uncle would die of shame.
“It is impossible,” I said, and closed the door behind me.
Please kiss baby Jackie a hundred times for me and give my best to your Sumner. We shall be together soon and will be able to talk to our hearts’ delight. I so look forward to a big bustling family Christmas at Green Hill with a new precious baby to spoil.
I am your loving,
Aunt Belle
Twenty
I called Sandra Stoneham and told her I was working on a book proposal about Isabella Stewart Gardner’s personal relationships with artists of her day, a switch that seemed best given the whole stolen-masterpiece-in-my-studio thing. She was curious but insisted she wouldn’t be able to tell me anything useful as the museum controlled everything about her aunt. When I complained that the Gardner had been less than helpful in my pursuit, she immediately invited me over. “Oh, those people are so difficult,” she grumbled. “Everything has to be done their way.”
I pick up some hydrangeas—I’m thinking older ladies like hydrangeas, though I’m not sure why—at Copley Station, and I contemplate the lush blue orbs as the summer’s late dusk wraps itself around the trolley windows.
The directions are excellent, and I find the house easily, although the final leg is quite steep. She explained on the phone that the estate had belonged to her great-grandfather, Sumner T. Prescott, but in 2000, she sold the whole “kit and caboodle” to a developer, who carved her a “lovely apartment” out of the first floor, broke the rest of the house into condominiums and, built two dozen free-standing “cottages” on the property—if you can call these McMansions cottages. I see a swimming pool and tennis courts as I climb the front steps.
I figure Mrs. Stoneham has to be somewhere between eighty and ninety, but when she opens the door, I see I’m wrong. This handsome woman wearing a tennis outfit and sporting a full head of stylish hair can’t be any more than seventy. If that.
“Please excuse me,” she says, as she grabs her tennis bag and leads me into a vast soaring space with twelve-foot ceilings and dozens of tall windows, which is the living room, kitchen, and dining room. “My game ran late, and I didn’t have a chance to change.”
“It’s fine, Mrs. Stoneham. Not a problem, though I’d be happy to wait if you want to change. I really appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”
“No, let’s talk. And it’s Sandra, please.” She points to a chair in the living room. “I was married for almost sixty years and still think of Mrs. Stoneham as my mother-in-law. That’s what she made me call her.”
“Sandra then,” I say as I sit. Guess that makes her older than seventy.
Her artwork also surprises me: mostly high-quality cubist lithographs by Picasso, Le Fauconnier, and Gris mixed with work by abstract expressionists such as Pollock, Rothko, and de Kooning. I squint at the Gris. It appears to be an original. There are a number of mixed-media pieces and some extraordinary metal and ceramic sculptures. Everything is unexpectedly contemporary: the kitchen with its granite breakfast bar and high-end appliances, the art, the furniture, Sandra herself. It’s clear I need to reevaluate my conception of eighty. Although her eyes did light up at the sight of the hydrangeas.
Sandra presses a glass to the water dispenser in the refrigerator. “Can I get you something? Water? Tea? Soda?”
When I tell her water is fine, she hands me the glass she just filled and gets another for herself. She downs her water, refills it, and sits across from me.
“You’ve got some fabulous pieces here,” I say. “That Gris is awesome.”
Her eyes twinkle. “But not what you’d expect from an old lady?”
“No, no. I wasn’t thinking that. I, uh, I’m just a bit awed by the collection.”
She laughs, and I question Rik’s description of her as a pain in the ass. “I have some traditional works also.” She sighs. “Although nothing from my Aunt Belle. Every piece she ever owned is in the museum.”
“She was your great-aunt?”
“Actually, great-great. My grandmother, Amelia Prescott, was her niece. Her favorite niece, I might add. My mother, Fanny, was Grandma’s only surviving child, and I’m the only one left, Belle Gardner’s only living relative.” Sandra pu
rses her lips. “Something you might think the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum would appreciate. But no, they have no interest in maintaining Aunt Belle’s legacy, of upholding her preeminent place in history. It’s all about their artist-in-residence program and lectures by people who know nothing about my aunt or her work. Not to mention those people trying to dig up dirt. All of this about her having affairs or being friends with homosexuals. What does it matter? What matters is what she accomplished. Her museum. Her collection.”
I fear I’ve come to the pain-in-the-ass Sandra and search for a topic that will reestablish her good mood. “So, is this your contemporary art area? Do you have your older paintings in other rooms?”
Her stern expression disappears. “Yes, yes, that’s exactly right. Because this area has been renovated and modernized, I thought that would be appropriate. In the more formal areas of the apartment, I have my more traditional pieces. We collectors are a fanatical bunch, even down to the type of interior design that’s appropriate for our artworks. And that’s just the beginning of it. Once a piece of art crawls into your heart, you’ll never let it go.” She stands. “Come, let me show you a wonderful nineteenth-century painting of my grandmother.”
I follow her back toward the entryway. Directly across from the front door is a portrait of a beautiful young woman whose skin glows in a way that only the most talented painters are able to achieve. I must have missed it in my surprise at Sandra’s youthful appearance.
“This is Grandma Amelia. Lovely, Isn’t she?”
I lean closer and try to make out the signature. “Rudell? Never heard of him.”
“Rendell,” Sandra corrects. “Virgil Rendell. Not very well known.”
“He’s good,” I say. “Really good. And yes, your grandmother was quite a beauty.” But it’s more than Amelia’s beauty that makes the painting so powerful. It’s the light in her eyes, the warmth Rendell managed to capture, her inner happiness flowing outward, passing through time to touch the present.
The Art Forger Page 11
