The Art Forger (12 page)

“Everyone up against the wall with your hands up,” Kimberly orders, pulling out her walkie-talkie. “Now!” The other boys turn and face the wall, hands raised.

“Fuck you,” Manuel screams at Xavier, as he’s being pulled across the room by the guard. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“They’re my cans, asshole,” Xavier retorts, “and you’re fucking them up. You’re going the wrong way.”

I watch as Manuel, Xavier, and Reggie are removed from the dayroom. Two new guards race into the room. Kimberly motions that she’s got it under control. They look dubious and post themselves on opposite ends of the line.

“Okay,” Kimberly says. “Starting at the front of the line. Christian. Close your paint cans and put them on the table. Brushes, too. In that tray Ms. Roth has there. Then go stand on the other side of the room, hands up. Johan, you’re next. Then Sean.”

The boys do as she says. When they’re all on the other side of the room, the guards march them out single file. Everyone stares straight ahead. No one says anything.

I drop into a chair and run my fingers through my hair.

Kimberly sits down next to me. “You okay?”

“I’ve seen it before.”

“It’s so close to the surface.”

“Do you know why Manuel hit him? Were they arguing?”

“I just heard Xavier tell him that he wanted him to paint in the other direction so that it would match his own cans.”

I walk over to Xavier’s cans and squat down to look. “Was he angry?”

“You know Xavier, he’s usually pretty low confrontation.”

I think about asking her why Xavier’s in here, then remind myself that I don’t want to know. “So Manuel just belted him?”

“He’s got some anger issues.”

“You think?” I compare Xavier’s cans to Manuel’s. Both boys did a pretty good job of outlining, and although the inside of Xavier’s cans are a bit neater than Manuel’s, there isn’t all that much difference. Then I look closer and see that Xavier’s brushstrokes go from right to left, and Manuel’s from left to right.

“Is one of the boys left-handed?” I ask Kimberly.

She thinks. “You know, now that you mention it, I’m pretty sure Manuel is. Yeah, yeah, he is. He was bragging that being left-handed made him a better boxer. Why? Does it make a difference?”

I don’t answer. I just stare at the beer cans.

W
HEN
I
GET
home, I print every close-up photograph I have and cut them wherever there’s a discernible brushstroke. I take
Bath
from the easel and lay her on the floor, move the little photo pieces around her surface, looking for matches. I find a few, some better than others. I move them around some more. When I’m satisfied, I lean back on my haunches and survey my work.

Almost everywhere, the paint’s too smooth to make any determination, but there are a few places, mostly in or around Françoise, where a difference can be seen. In each of the MFA Degas photos, all the brushstrokes go right to left. But in
Bath,
a number of them go left to right.

I lean closer to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. There is no doubt, and a low whistle escapes my lips. I knew it the first minute Markel unwrapped the painting. Knew it, but refused to believe it. My gut was right. This
Bath
is not Degas’
Bath.
It was painted by someone else. A left-handed someone else.

From the pen of

I
SABELLA
S
TEWART
G
ARDNER

July 1, 1886

Paris, France

My dearest Amelia,

Only six more weeks and we shall be together again! I cannot wait to see my very own grown-up married girl! You must indulge me in my sentimentality, as you are as dear to me as any daughter could be. In fact, as far as I am concerned, you
are
my daughter, even if I am not old enough to have actually given birth to you.

But you have been very naughty to have purchased so many furnishings without me. I shall be bringing a few items from our travels that I hope will find happy homes in your apartments. I’m glad to hear that Sumner allows you full reign over the household. I only wish your uncle would do the same as he is always fretting that I spend too much money.

And please, please, please, do not pay any attention to “Town Topics” unless it is to laugh at their overblown prose. I am not sorry that men desire my company nor that I enjoy the company of the most talented of them. And I have seen none of their wives “scolding and stomping their feet” when the men pay me attention. Far from it, Maud Elliott and Julia Ward Howe are just as pleased to attend my soirees and dinners as are their “giddy and wayward husbands”!

And the piece about my secret rendezvous with Frank Crawford, well, he is almost young enough to be my son! But I shall not be the one to spoil such a good story with the truth. Do not distress yourself over the words of this silly rag, especially not on my behalf. I say if people like to believe such things, please don’t deny them their pleasure.

You ask if I have had any further adventures with Mr. Edgar Degas, and indeed I have. I told you in my last letter that he had invited me to his studio. Well, my dear, I went to that wonderfully bohemian Montmartre, to 21 rue Pigalle (where he both works and lives) to be exact, and it was indeed an experience.

Edgar is such a complex and interesting man. Everything about him is a contradiction. His pictures are selling well and his name is everywhere, yet his apartment is so small that he must use his studio for his dressing room! His face is rather homely, but his posture and his clothes are so fine that one hardly takes notice. His eyes are dark and hooded, but in them one can see the wondrous and tortured soul of a true artist. And when he throws back his head and laughs (the gentleman is quite the card), he is most attractive.

He is the most meticulous of painters, and yet his studio is a jumble of confusion. Aside from his clothes strewn hither and yon and the usual artists’ paraphernalia, the floor is loaded with the most unusual things: printing presses, bathtubs, cellos, wax figurines, and even a broken-down piano. He claims he is unable to discard any object as he never knows what might be useful to him. Another contradiction is that although he remains a bachelor at fifty years of age, he is quite a flirt! I was charmed.

Edgar is in the last stages of preparation for an exhibition this Fall with the Misters Bracquemond, Forain, Monet, Gauguin, Pissarro, and Rouart, artists for whom I have little appreciation. And I am sorry to say, my dear Amelia, that their influence is apparent. The drawing in Edgar’s latest work is impeccable, his asymmetrical composition beyond perfection. And such bold and unusual viewpoints of female nudes engaged in their toilette. From above even! But I cannot say the same for his actual painting. For, to my great disappointment, he is working in pastels and appears to be leaning toward that horrid Impressionist style that makes me want to put on a pair of glasses.

Although I had taken him to task for turning his back on oil at Henry’s table just a fortnight ago, I could not refrain from again expressing my feelings. I asked if he couldn’t see what masterpieces the paintings would be if he had painted them in the style of the Old Masters, in his own style of only a decade ago.

He told me he had far too much work to do to wait weeks between each glazing layer, that this was the business of a young man with an inheritance, not an old one without. When I protested, his eyes twinkled and he asked which did I think was an untruth: that he was an old man or that he had no money? Although I was vexed that he would make a joke over such an issue, it was difficult to remain serious when he refused to be. And so we laughed.

He then hustled me out of the studio to the Café Guerbois, where there was so much gay conversation that we were unable to finish our discussion. I, however, shall continue to pursue my efforts to discourage him in this folly in the future.

Your Uncle Jack and I leave Paris tomorrow for Venice. And although I am, as always, thrilled to be headed to my most beloved city, I yearn for home, for the cool breezes of Green Hill, and for your company. My warm remembrance to your dear brothers.

I am your loving,

Aunt Belle

Fifteen

I’m not sure how long I’ve been squatting here, but my quadriceps are crying for mercy.
Bath
lies on the floor, cut-up photos sprawled on the canvas. Gingerly, I stand, stretch, then lift the painting, ignoring the triangles and squares of brushstrokes that float to the floor. Once it’s back on the easel, I drop into the chair in front of it.

Now that I’ve admitted the truth to myself, I see evidence of forgery everywhere. The brushstrokes aren’t as refined as Degas’ always are, and there’s a tentativeness to them. Depth doesn’t flow from the focal point of the painting out to the edges and then beyond; it feels narrow, constricted.

And Françoise, how could I have been so blind? Too stiff, with an aura of self-consciousness, as if she’s aware of being watched, rather than caught in an unobserved moment. Even the signature is off. There’s too much space between the “a” and “s”.

I’m astonished I was able to fool myself for as long as I did. That I, a self-proclaimed Degas expert, could be so taken in. I felt the truth the first moment I set eyes on the painting, yet I convinced myself otherwise. And I’m not alone. If my assumption that this is the painting that hung at the Gardner is true—and what else could it be?—then the art historians, the critics, and the public were equally gullible. This is why there are so many successful forgers, plagiarizers, con men.

Although the Repro instructors were tasked with teaching us how to make an effective copy, almost all shared a fascination with actual forgery. One quoted Theodore Rousseau, an expert from the Met, as saying, “We can only talk about the bad forgeries, the ones that have been detected. The good ones are still hanging on museum walls.” The instructor backed this up with a
New York Times
estimate that 40 percent of all the artworks presented for sale in any given year are forgeries. I assumed this was completely overblown. I don’t now.

Poor
Bath.
She’s a fake, but I’m a fool.

I have to tell Markel. I grab my cell and hit his number. Then I cancel the call. Maybe he already knows. Maybe that’s why his explanation sounded too convenient: He wasn’t telling me the truth. I toss the phone from one hand to the other. Could he be testing me, giving me a fake to see if I can tell the difference? But that would be a lot of effort for little purpose. Or maybe he’s the one who’s being tested. Or set up. In that case, I owe him the truth.

I hit his number again, and when he answers, I say, “We need to talk ovens.” The cautious route seems best.

He chuckles. “You make it sound so exciting.”

“Are you free to get together sometime soon? I’d like to get moving on this.”

“How about in half an hour?” he says. “Say six? The Oak Room?”

I hesitate. Even though I made the call, I need more time to think this through.

“Or I could do it early next week,” he offers. “I’m off to New York tomorrow.”

“No, no, tonight’s cool,” I tell him. “I’ll see you there at six.”

The Oak Room is in the Fairmont Copley Plaza, a grand hotel that resembles a Renaissance palace. It should be tacky with its soaring marble columns, painted ceilings, and overdone gold filigree, but somehow it isn’t. Although I’ve been in the hotel’s lobby, I’ve never been to the Oak Room—it’s a little rich for my pocketbook—but I’ve heard they serve the best lemondrop martinis in the city.

There’s not much hanging in my closet that’s appropriate for the Oak Room, but I do have a longish blue skirt I bought for an anniversary dinner with Isaac. I put it on. It’s a bit big, but it’ll do. I throw on a little white T-shirt to dress it down and sex it up.

I leave my studio and head north on Dartmouth Street. It’s only six or seven blocks to Copley Square, but whenever I make this trip, I’m always struck by how these blocks span the urban socioeconomic spectrum. I walk by a row of warehouses with graffiti-laden loading docks abutting housing projects. Then past the old Cathedral church with its lopsided swing set sitting amid the amber sparkle of broken beer bottles.