The Art Forger (2 page)

“It’s reminiscent of the light falling on the black-and-white tile floor in
The Concert.
” He walks closer to
Loft.
“The light bouncing off the building here. It’s almost as if it’s caressing the diamonds of the chain-link.”

He steps back, examines the paintings closely, just as I had earlier. “I love how you’re playing with classical style and contemporary subjects, with abstraction. But it’s the realistic pieces that grab me.” He waves dismissively at
Sidewalk.
“The abstracts aren’t nearly as strong.”

“Not too OTC?” I ask. OTC is “over the couch” in artist-speak, a derogatory term for paintings purchased by buyers who want their artwork to match their décor.

Markel laughs. “Not even close. I’ve been trying to tell people for years that realism isn’t dead. That nothing can touch a great talent in classical oil.”

A rush of warmth fills my body and races up to my face. It’s been a long time since anyone said anything like that about me.

“I have lots more,” I say, heading over to the three-tiered shelving I built to house my art books and canvases, although now it’s all canvases and my books are in semiorganized piles on the floor. The shelves are a mess, of course. But a mess I know intimately.

I begin pulling paintings before he says he wants to see them. I grab the stepladder. I need it so I can reach the highest shelf, which is where I store most of my more realistic paintings. The ones I figured no one would be interested in.

“These some of your reproductions?” Markel calls from the other side of the room.

I look over my shoulder. “Yeah. I don’t usually have any completed ones here. But the truck’s tied up all week, so the Degas isn’t getting picked up till Friday.”

“Reproductions.com. Got to love the name. Saw the article in the
Globe
last month. Nice exposure for you.” He hesitates. “I guess?”

“Not exactly the kind I’m looking for.” Just what I need: publicity for pretending to paint someone else’s masterpiece. “I tried to get out of the interview, but Repro wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Are they doing as well as their hype?”

“Probably better,” I say, although I’m not really listening and not at all interested in Repro. I’m too focused on pulling my best paintings, but not too many. Light. Interesting value is what he wants, deep and translucent. I grab one. Not strong enough. Then another.

“Now this is OTC,” he says, pointing to the Pissarro
,
which although incomplete is obviously filled with trees covered in masses of white blossoms.

I laugh. “For the pretentious.”

“But poor,” he adds.

I lumber down with three canvases under my arm. “Not all that poor. Those things go for thousands of dollars. Tens of thousands for the bigger ones. Unfortunately, I only get a fraction of that.”

I quickly remove my more abstract paintings from the wall. Replace them with the ones I’ve chosen. I turn to him, but he’s staring at the fake Degas.

“You’re damn good at this.”

“It beats waitressing.”

His eyes don’t leave my rendering. “I’ll say.”

“Degas’ later work isn’t all that hard to copy. Not like his early oils. They’re a real bitch,” I say, trying to be polite when every part of me wants to grab Markel and pull him to the other side of the studio. “What with all those layers. Painting and waiting. Painting and waiting. Could take months, maybe years.”

“And Reproductions.com has you do that?”

“No. Never. A piece like that would have to sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars.” I come to stand by him. “Degas is my specialty, his oils in particular. I’m actually certified—whatever that means—by Repro, after I took the requisite classes.” I wave to the piles of books in the corner. “I’m working on a book proposal about him. His relationship with other artists, dealers, collectors of his day. Cross-germination. That kind of stuff. But I’m not working on it as hard as I should be.”

Markel’s eyes remain glued to the Degas reproduction. “This seems like a better use of your time. Do they appreciate you?”

“Sometimes I get a bonus when people order a Degas with the stipulation that I’m the artist,” I shrug. “Although you can hardly call a person who copies a masterpiece an artist.”

He doesn’t contradict me, and I gesture him back to my real work. He steals a last glance at
Woman
Leaving Her Bath
before he follows.

We stand in silence, staring at my windows. I force myself to remain silent, to allow the work to speak for itself.

After two minutes that feel like twenty, Markel touches my arm. “Let’s sit down.”

We walk over to the couch and sit on opposite ends. He finishes off his wine and pours himself another. I decline his offer of a refill, wanting the wine, but fearing I’m too jittery to hold onto it.

Markel clears his throat, takes another sip. “Claire, I’ve just been given the opportunity of a lifetime. A chance to do good, real good for lots of people. And I hope you’ll feel the same way about the one I’m about to give you.” He pauses. “Although I suppose yours is really more like making a deal with the devil.”

I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about, but I catch the word “opportunity.” “And you’re the devil?”

He shakes his head vigorously. “The devil’s the one who gave me this opportunity. Although I’ve no idea who he is. He’s levels away from me.”

“Like Dante?”

Although I meant it as a joke, he ponders the question, a professor attempting to answer a precocious student. “No. I guess that’s wrong. Pawns are the better analogy. But clever pawns. Who can capture the queen. Either way, I’m mixing my metaphors.”

“I’ve got no problem with the devil. I’m one of those people who thinks heaven would be boring. But being a pawn has never suited me.”

This time he does laugh, but I can tell it’s forced. “Then we’ll stick with the devil.”

Enough of this. “Okay,” I say. “What are we talking about here?”

He locks his eyes on mine. “Something not quite on the up-and-up.”

I don’t break the stare. “I thought you said it was an opportunity to do good?”

“The end is good. It’s just the means that are a bit iffy.”

“Illegal?”

“There’s illegal and there’s illegal.”

“And which one is this?”

Markel looks across the room at the Degas and Pissarro.

And now it all makes sense. “Oh” is all I can say.

He takes a sip of wine, relaxes into the lumpy couch. The most uncomfortable part of this conversation is clearly over for him.

I cross my arms over my chest. “I can’t believe that after everything that’s happened, you, of all people, would even consider asking me to forge a painting.”

“How much does Reproductions.com pay you?”

“They pay me to copy, not to forge.”

“So you said a fraction. A few thousand a picture? A little more?”

Often it’s less, but I nod.

“I’ll pay you $50,000. Plus expenses, of course. A third up front, a third on completion to my satisfaction, and the final third on authentication.”

“Is this because of what happened with Isaac?”

“It’s despite what happened with Isaac.”

I’m stupefied by this answer, and it must have showed on my face, because he says, “You’re the best for the project.”

“Out of all the thousands of artists you know?”

Again, he looks across the room at the Degas reproduction. “You’re the only one I’d trust with it.”

“How do you know I won’t talk?”

“It’s not your style,” he says, which is true. People who have been on the wrong side of rumor know when to keep their mouths shut.

“What about turning you in? I could always go to the police.”

“Not when you understand what’s at stake,” he says.

“So tell me.”

“I meant what I said about your paintings, Claire. You have a unique talent. You always did. Just because you’ve been blackballed doesn’t mean you can’t paint.” He pauses. “I’d also like to give you a one-woman show at the gallery.”

I barely conceal a gasp.

“In six, nine months,” he says. “After you’ve finished this project. Do you think you could have twenty paintings ready by then? Of the realistic highly glazed?”

I turn away to hide my longing. My own show at Markel G. An impossible dream.

“I’m pretty sure I can get the same
Times
reporter who covered Jocelyn Gamp to cover you,” he says.

The
New York Times.
Sales. Commissions. Studio visits from the Met. My heart actually hurts.

“Claire, please look at me.” When I do, he says, “I’ll protect you. Like I said, I’m levels away from anyone with any knowledge, and you’ll be a level away from me.”

“What’s the part where we get to do something good?”

“I’ll tell you all the details when you’re on board.”

“There’s no way I can agree to something this mysterious.”

Markel stands. “Just give it some thought.” He touches my shoulder. “I’ll check in with you next week.”

“You really are the devil, aren’t you?”

“If you believe in the devil.”

Which, of course, I don’t.

Two

When Markel leaves, I flop down on the couch and stare at the pipes and vents chasing each other across the ceiling, trying to process the strangest studio visit ever. Markel G. My own show. The sweet possibility of reclaiming all that’s been lost, everything I’ve ever wanted. But a forger? A pretender? The absolute last thing I want to be.

You’re damn good at this.

I climb out of the couch, walk over to the front windows, and stare down on Harrison Avenue
.
I look over the chain-linked parking lot to the elevated highway in the distance, then to my window paintings lined up along the walls.

You have a unique talent. You always did.

Damn him. Damn him and his compliments and his offers and his strings.

I grab my backpack and head to Jake’s, the bar where everyone knows my name. Unfortunately, not only does everyone know my name, they also know about Markel’s visit.

There’s illegal and there’s illegal.

When I reach the bar, I square my shoulders and push open the door. Jake’s is clearly and proudly old neighborhood, nothing like the ritzy places drifting south from Back Bay. Here, there are no blue martinis, and the tables are scarred from years of use, not purposely distressed to look chic. There’s no valet because the clientele walk from their tiny apartments or studios. A neon
BUDWEISER
sign hangs in the narrow window to scare the hip away.

Most of my buds are already here; it’s six, after all, the drinking hour. To be followed by the eating hour—hot dogs, burgers, and BLTs comprise the menu—followed by another drinking hour. Or hours. Right arms shoot straight into the air as each person catches sight of me. Our gang sign.

Mike points to the open bar stool next to him. “Here” is all he says as he turns back to his conversation with Small. Small’s name is Small because she’s very small, maybe five feet, and that’s generous. She says she named herself Small to confront the issue head-on and because her real name is so ethnic it labeled her. Mike’s only half a foot taller than she is, but far too unsure of himself—not to mention he’s a man—for that kind of piercing self-deprecation.

I slip onto the stool. Maureen, owner and bartender, opens a bottle of Sam Adams and puts it down in front of me. She knows I don’t want a glass.

Rik, buff, handsome, and with kangaroo eyelashes every woman I know covets, leans from behind to give me a kiss. “Do tell,” he demands. Rik’s the one graduate-school friend who stuck by me after the “Cullion Affair” slithered its way into the MFA Museum School as well as the art scenes in Boston and New York. I love him for it.

I return the kiss. “And hello to you, too.”

“I want to hear every last delicious detail.” Rik always wants to hear every last delicious detail.

“Well, he seemed to like some of my stuff, especially the paintings where I applied . . .” I lower my voice in imitation of Markel’s tenor, “ ‘. . . classical realism to contemporary subject matter.’ He said he’d give me a call, but I’m thinking he was blowing me off.”

“Did the great man tell you why he suddenly decided to grace you with his oh-so-fabulous presence?”

“Just what he said before. That he wanted to see what I was up to.”

“Nothing about Sir Isaac Cullion?” When I don’t answer, Rik adds, “Not even one teeny-tiny single solitary word?”

I’ve known Rik long enough to know that if I don’t give him something, he won’t let go until he’s got the truth. I heave a dramatic sigh. “He did tell me he sold Isaac’s
Orange Nude.
That it made him think of me.”