The Art Forger (6 page)

I shoot one last glance at the envelope sitting on the table, then join him. With more than a few grunts and a good deal of sweat, we manage to wrestle the paintings from their enclosure. As I guessed, there are only two. But both are encased in so many layers of bubble wrap that, to my disappointment, they’re hidden in plain view. The canvases are unframed and of identical size, large, but not as large as I expected, probably four foot by five foot. I wonder which is the valuable one.

“This isn’t going to be like your Reproductions.com gig.”

“I’m guessing you chose me for this project because you know I know that.”

For a moment he looks taken aback, then he visibly relaxes. “Sorry,” he says. “Sorry for being such an asshole, but this whole adventure is out of my league.”

“So why are you doing it?”

“You’ll see.” He flashes me a mischievous smile. “Got scissors?”

He cuts the tape, and I pull back the bubble wrap. Within minutes, the painting is standing naked and revealed. I immediately recognize the artist, if not the specific work.

“Meissonier,” I say. It makes sense. Ernest Meissonier was a second- or third-tier late-nineteenth-century painter. His specialty was military subjects rendered with meticulous realism. He painted in oil in the classical style and, if I remember correctly, considered himself the second coming of Rembrandt, even though no one else did. But what about Meissonier’s painting could make a million people happy?

“They say,” Markel tells me, “that Degas claimed that everything Meissonier painted looked like metal except the armor.”

I laugh and step closer to inspect the painting. “There are tons of layers here. An unimpeachable forgery is going to take a long time,” I say. “Are you sure it’s worth the effort?”

“No,” Markel says. “It wouldn’t be.”

I stare at him. “This is the one that’s going to be painted over?”

“Removed, actually.”

Obviously, I know there can be no painting under the one I’m to create, as this would be easily detectable with a simple X-ray. But still, to destroy a Meissonier . . .

“It’s a very minor work, despite its size, and there are some, ah, questions of provenance.”

Any interest I had in Meissonier immediately evaporates, and I turn to the other, still bubble-wrapped canvas. “Who?”

Markel looks positively impish. “Don’t you want to wait and be surprised?”

“No.”

Markel laughs. “No delayed gratification here.”

“Never my strong suit.”

Markel hesitates.

“Who?”

“Degas, of course.”

I can hardly breathe. I cut my teeth on Degas as a kid in museum drawing classes. And now, here’s one of his original works, touched by the great man himself, right in my very own studio, only a couple of feet away. And if Markel chose me as the forger, it’s got to be one of Degas’ oils.

My heart races. I’m going to have the incredible good fortune of living with a work by Degas, touching it, breathing it in, studying its every last detail, ferreting out the master’s secrets. It’s a great gift. Perhaps the greatest. One that will inform my painting forever. Sweet. Incredibly sweet. Now I really can’t breathe.

Markel begins to carefully cut the tape holding the bubble wrap together. There are many more layers of wrap on this one.

I stand speechless, mesmerized, unable to move to help him, unable even to think.
Degas, Degas, Degas
is the only refrain my brain can dole out.

He works painstakingly, much more slowly than when he unwrapped the Meissonier.

It’s nudes. I think three, maybe four. Part of Degas’ bathers series. A time when, in contrast to most of his contemporaries, he focused on the moments of ordinary life. A flash of blue, green, coral. Even under a full layer of bubble wrap, the brilliance of Degas’ colors surge. Which painting is it? He was so prolific during this period. But my brain freezes. I can’t think of a single one.

As Markel strips away the final layer and the painting is uncovered, I’m momentarily confused. My first thought is that it’s not a real Degas. That it can’t be. Then I gasp. Not only is this a real Degas, it’s a Degas I’ve seen before. Many times.

“No,” I cry, and it sounds like a moan.

I should have guessed from the size of the canvas. This is no ordinary Degas. It’s one of his great masterworks.
After the Bath,
the last of five he gave the same name, but by far the most famous.

And that’s the least of it. This painting was torn from the walls of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, ripped from its frame. It and all the other works taken that rainy night by a couple of bumbling thieves have never been recovered.

In front of me stands one of the most valuable paintings stolen in the greatest unsolved art theft in history.

From the pen of

I
SABELLA
S
TEWART
G
ARDNER

June 10, 1886

Paris, France

My dearest Amelia,

I cannot tell you how distressed I am that we missed you and your bridegroom. And by only two days! The waters between London and Paris were so treacherous that the ships did not sail, and your Uncle Jack and I were forced to spend two damp and miserable nights in a horrid guesthouse in Brighton. I trust your trip home went better.

We were so looking forward to seeing you in your honeymoon finery, beautiful and blushing on Sumner’s arm. I console myself that we will return to Boston soon, and that I may be received at the apartments of Mr. and Mrs. Sumner T. Prescott Jr. immediately upon our arrival. If only your dear departed parents and your sweet brother Joe could do the same.

London was almost as foggy and dreary as Brighton, and all the parties were dreadfully dull. But now that we are in Paris, this city of such wondrous beauty and light, all is well in the world. It is marvelous to be once again surrounded by people of wit and gaiety.

We have been to plays and soirees, and this past week we ventured into one of the new café-concerts, and oh, what a splendid spectacle. We were entertained by dancers in costumes so tight and shiny they might have been dancing in their own painted skin! Your uncle, as you might guess, was a bit put off, but I loved every minute, as I do so love the French!

And then there was last night! Oh, last night! Last night, your Uncle Jack and I dined at the home of our dear friend Mr. Henry James. (Do you remember meeting him at Green Hill on his long ago trip to America? Likely not, as you were so young, but he was charmed by you and your boisterous brothers.) To my great pleasure, Henry had included James Whistler and John Sargent in his invitation, both of whom I know you remember well. Then, just one week ago, Henry informed me that Edgar Degas would also be joining us.

While I am very familiar with Degas’ work, I have never had the privilege of meeting the great man. (It is my opinion that his layering and luminosity rival many of the old masters, particularly
Portrait of René de Gas
and
The Young Spartans.
) I am determined to return from this trip with at least the promise, if not the purchase, of three major pictures at a reasonable price, and so the addition of Mr. Degas to the table was most welcome.

I have heard that Mr. Degas has an appreciation not only for a woman’s shoulders and neck (which given my plain face are my best features to put forward) but also for her clothes. I immediately visited the salon of Charles Frederick Worth, who dressed both the Princess Pauline de Metternich and the Empress Eugénie. To my amazement, in only one week, he designed a magnificent silk gown that flows smoothly over my hips and chastely over my bosom but leaves my shoulders bare. It reveals in a way that is not too revealing, and your Uncle Jack was pleased.

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.”