The Art Forger (11 page)

And then we started to fight. First over little things, then over bigger ones, but never over
4D
—the elephant that was driving him crazy and driving us apart. I loved him and wanted to help him. I alone understood his situation, knew the depths of his lies, appreciated what playing the imposter does to your psyche. Because, of course, I was living the mirror image. Not that Isaac ever acknowledged this. And not that I ever brought it up.

It wasn’t his fault. Any more than it was mine. We’d never thought about what would happen if
4D
became a phenomenon. And why would we? It was a one-in-a-million shot. So I decided that if I was patient, if I waited long enough, he would make peace with it. And maybe I would, too.

Instead, one day, he showed up at my studio in tears. He told me I was his soul mate, that he loved me more than he loved himself, more than life itself. Then he told me he was breaking up with me. Going back to Martha.

“You need someone younger, happier, healthier,” he said.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, figuring that one of his sulks was in control. “I don’t want someone younger. Not even happier and healthier, although that does have its appeal.” I reached over to hug him. “I want you. Just as you are.”

He jumped from the couch. “You deserve a man who’ll appreciate you, love you the way you should be loved.”

“You just told me you loved me more than life itself.” I was trying for levity, but there was something about the look in his eye, the slump in his shoulders, that told me this wasn’t an ordinary Isaac mood swing.

He took a few steps away from me. “I can’t, I won’t, be the one to stop you from finding true happiness.”

And then I understood what was happening. “Bullshit,” I yelled, standing and coming toward him. “That’s a load of grandiose crap.”

“No, no. I’m hurting you,” he said, backing even farther away. “Every day. And I don’t want—”

“This isn’t about hurting me,” I snapped, furious at his purposeful self-deception, his cowardice, his excuses. “This is about what hurts you. It hurts you every time you look at me because you know that I know the truth.”

Isaac stood silently, his head bowed, as I gathered up everything he’d ever given me, including
Orange Nude,
and threw it into the hallway. “Get out and take your shit with you, you asshole,” I ordered.

And he did.

Thirteen

As I walk home from Jake’s, I consider all the times the experts have been wrong: the earth is flat, women’s brains are inferior to men’s, a black man will never be elected president of the United States. The list is endless. It’s almost as if, in time, everything we’re convinced is true will be proven false. Like
Bath
? Could the experts have just gotten it wrong? I think about Danielle’s comment about MoMA. Of course they could have.

Maybe someone else painted
Bath
and Degas claimed it as his own, which seems hard to believe of such a talented artist. Although, this was actually pretty common during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when students copied the master’s work, and sometimes to make money, the master signed them. But the practice had largely died out by Degas’ time. But then, there’s Isaac Cullion.

When I get home, I once again review all the evidence, which overwhelmingly supports authenticity, but this doesn’t quiet the uncertainty in my gut. This is a gut that’s gotten me into trouble in the past. Like how I knew in my gut I was meant to live in Paris and then lasted barely three months. Like how I knew in my gut Isaac Cullion would never do anything to hurt me.

I stand and turn my back to
Bath,
then I whip around, trying to catch a precognitive impression. I do it in the other direction. I turn off the lights, turn them up again. I stare without blinking for as long as I can. I hang off the back of the couch to view it upside down.

I sit down in the chair and look some more. Mentally, I circle the Impressionist and European Galleries at the MFA, through the rotunda, and back again. Degas’ paintings whirl in my mind’s eye. I feel their psychological power, the commanding draw of their asymmetry, the light pulsing from both within and without. I pull out the notes I took when I was there, read them again.

I close my eyes. I see the well-defined shadows of the umbrella in
At the Races
falling on the mother and nanny, expressing the joy of high noon on a sunny, summer day. I feel the guilty pleasure of watching, as if through a keyhole, the family dynamics in
Duchesa di Montejasi with Her Daughters.
I step into the depth created by the foreshortened figures and the blocked-out furniture receding off the canvas in
Edmondo.

I open my eyes and stare at the painting in front of me. At Simone and Jacqueline and especially at Françoise. The symmetry bothers me. Françoise’s stiffness bothers me, as do the unremarkable shadows around her. As does the lack of interaction between the three women.

I remove the SD card from the camera and plug it into my computer. A couple of clicks of the mouse, and a few of the photographs I shot at the MFA drop into the tray. It’s clear that only the close-ups are going to be of any use. I print a few more brushstroke photos and sit down to compare them, but the individual brushstrokes in both
Bath
and the photographs are barely discernible.

A painter’s brushstrokes are as unique as a person’s handwriting, and this fact has been used to determine genuine versus fake for centuries. It seems that it’s the same with writers: Once an author has developed a style—use of language, sentence structure, a favorite verb or adjective—it remains amazingly constant over time. I reprint the photos with a tighter focus.

I rummage through a few drawers, find my jewelers’ magnifying loupe, and put it to my eye. Yes, at this magnification, some of the brushstrokes are visible, but not all that many. If I were dealing with almost any of Degas’ later paintings, or those of his buddies Manet, Pissarro, or Cassatt, there would be plenty to see, as these artists often put down broad, thick strokes of paint. But when ten or twenty layers of glazing are applied, the effect is one of smoothness and translucence. And that’s what I have here.

I sift through the photographs until I find one where the strokes are close in size to those in
Bath.
I hold it up against the painting, move it around, look for similarities and differences. There’s not much to compare.

Then I notice that in the center of the image a few brushstrokes are visible. I cut the photo in half and press the edge against a spot in the lower left-hand corner of
Bath
where Jacqueline’s upper arm also contains visible brushstrokes. I put the jewelers’ loupe to my eye and shift back and forth between the photo and the painting. Although I’d need two paintings side-by-side to be certain, the two do appear to be the work of the same man. Still, I’m not satisfied.

T
HE NEXT DAY,
the bus—that wonderful Silver Line—gets stuck in traffic, and I’m late for juvy. This is really bad, as the boys, youths, will be kept in their cells until I arrive, which will not make them happy. When I finally get there, Kimberly, the way-too-pretty social worker, brings them all into GE 107.

GE 107 is in the basement. The ceiling is low, and huge steam pipes hug it, hissing dampness. Anyone over five-foot-seven, which is a good percentage of the boys, has to be on constant guard to avoid being scalded by the hot metal; at least one forehead is stamped with a red burn at the end of every class. There aren’t any windows, often not enough chairs, and both of the tables are wobbly. Still, the kids have an amazing ability to block out their surroundings and surrender to their inner artist. I suppose blocking out their surroundings is something most of them have been doing since day one.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Reggie whines. “It’s been, like, an hour.” I’m fifteen minutes late.

Johan turns to Kimberly. “Does that mean we get an extra hour to paint?”

Kimberly claps her hands. “Okay, Ms. Roth’s going to pass out the paints and brushes.” She points to the three guards standing in the corners of the room. “We’re triple-staffed today.” It’s unnecessary for her to explain why.

I look over at a table holding brushes and about thirty small cans of paint. I can’t see what colors they are. “Did the silver paint clear screening?”

“We really need for you to be here on time,” Kimberly says in a low voice. “The youths get edgy when there are unexpected changes.” She looks over at the guards. “As you can imagine, that isn’t a good thing.”

“Sorry.” I feel terrible. “The traffic on Washington Street was stopped dead. The bus couldn’t get through.” I’m surprised that she’s calling me out on this. I hadn’t expected her to last a week in here, let alone get stern with me. “Sorry,” I say again, warming to her. “I’ll leave even earlier in the future.”

“Good,” she says, and turns to the boys. “Everyone stand in front of your own drawing. Anyone who knows that he wants to start with red, yellow, or blue, raise your hand.”

The boys shuffle for position, and two of the guards step closer.

“No physical contact,” Kimberly orders.

Last week, after the boys finished their drawings, we projected all the images on the wall, and the boys traced them in charcoal. I worked with them to fit the images together to make an appealing whole, backing off when they resisted, trying to let them work it out. Kimberly had to step in a couple of times, and Manuel, who didn’t have a completed drawing, got kicked out for swearing at Christian. After the boys went back to their cells, I stayed to outline their figures in black permanent marker and wash the charcoal away. They did a damn good job.

Ten are here today. Nine with drawings to paint and Manuel, whom I’m surprised to see. He stands to the side of the mural, arms crossed, looking tough. It’s clear from his shifting gaze that he needs a task.

I pull Kimberly aside. “Manuel’s going to have to work with somebody,” I say. “Who should, or shouldn’t, it be?” There are lots of factions at Beverly Arms, mostly based on which gang the boys are in on the outside—or aspiring to be a member of. The wrong pairing can create a high-tension situation.

“He’s not from the area,” Kimberly says. “Doesn’t hang with anyone. He’s had training as a fighter, an uncle who’s a heavy-weight or something. After he put a youth twice his size in the hospital, everyone stays out of his way.”

“Anyone he gets along with?”

Kimberly grins. “I’d say he’s an equal-opportunity hater. But don’t put him with Christian or Johan.”

I look at the nine boys lined up in front of the mural. All but Xavier have their hands up. I had Al send the bulk of the paints and brushes a few weeks ago so that the materials would clear contraband screening before we needed them. But because I sent the cans of silver later, they had to go through a separate testing. The guard, Rodney, one of the few nice ones, couldn’t promise me that the screening would be finished by today, but he said he’d try to push it through.

I smile when I see the cans of silver on the table. Thanks, Rodney. I turn and give Xavier, who’s watching me solemnly—these kids are always expecting to get screwed—a thumbs up. He grins and starts fooling around with Reggie.

“Xavier and Reggie,” Kimberly calls. “Shut it down.”

“How many blues?” I ask, as Kimberly hands the cans out to the boys. “Yellows? Reds?” I give Xavier two cans of silver paint. “You’ve got a lot of Buds there.”

He doesn’t answer, just ducks his head shyly.

There are three sizes of brushes—all with square, rather than pointed ends—but I only hand out the smallest, instructing the kids first to outline the inside of the permanent marker before starting on the larger spaces. Within minutes, the room is silent. The concentration is palpable.

I walk over to Xavier. “Is it okay if Manuel helps you with all your cans? You could be at this for months without him.”

Xavier shrugs without turning from his painting.

I hand Manuel a brush. He takes it but doesn’t move. Xavier, who’s already completed outlining three cans, points to the cans farthest away from the ones he’s working on. I turn to Kimberly, and she nods her approval.

Kimberly and I walk up and down the line, helping where it’s needed: handing out other paint, different brushes, offering suggestions. The guards watch the boys closely.

I mix up a couple of cans of purple, orange, and green and open up a white. This is going amazingly well. I’d been discouraged from doing a group project, told it would be a set-up for hostility, but so far so good. Not that I’m complacent. I’ve been coming to Beverly long enough to know that it takes only a second for things to blow.

Which is exactly what happens. Suddenly, Manuel punches Xavier in the stomach. Xavier, a foot taller than Manuel, stumbles backward, hits the wall, and crumples to the ground. With lightning speed, two guards have each boy’s arms twisted behind his back, his hands cuffed. The third grabs Reggie as he starts to come to Xavier’s rescue and does the same.