The Masterpiece

by Fiona Davis

  “Mr. Lorette,” said Virginia, “I’m here with dozens of family members of alumni of the Grand Central School of Art, all of whom accuse you of theft.”

  People in the three rows around them also stood, many clutching large posters in their hands, which they raised high above their heads, just as Virginia had done. Clara glanced about. They portrayed images of artworks with the artist’s name in block letters at the top. Several press photographers snapped photos as the crowd rumbled with unease.

  Virginia’s voice rang out. Louder now, clearer. “These twelve paintings were stolen from students at the Grand Central School of Art during the 1920s, thirties, and forties. After the artists’ deaths, they were all put up for auction by an anonymous seller. Irving and Hazel Lorette.”

  Clara looked back at the auctioneer, who glanced down at the Lorettes with a raised eyebrow, his face ashen. Virginia had called it correctly.

  “The Lorettes pilfered the work of the top students over the twenty years the school was in session and have been living off the proceeds ever since.” Virginia yanked Clara to her feet. The flashes from the cameras blinded her. “This is ‘Clyde.’ The artist of The Siren was not Levon Zakarian but Clara Darden, the famed illustrator and industrial designer. She’s alive and well, which is the only reason this fraudulent scheme was discovered.”

  Clara looked around, stunned. The Grand Central School of Art had a long list of distinguished students. How had Virginia tracked these people down?

  The woman with braids stepped into the aisle. “My name is Janice Russo, the curator of the Art Students League. The past several weeks, we’ve been accumulating the proof to show that these allegations are true and should be taken seriously. We are asking for the opportunity to present our documentation to the auction house before this work is sold.”

  Reporters hurried forward, notebooks and pens in hand. The auctioneer banged his gavel a few times to try to restore order, as if they were in a courtroom, but gave up as the noise level rose. “We’ll stop the bidding and reconvene at a later time.” He rushed off quickly, trailed by several assistants carrying The Siren out of harm’s way, and disappeared out a side door. The Lorettes weren’t far behind, with reporters giving chase.

  “What just happened?” Clara turned to Virginia, who was hugging her daughter close. The people in the crowd behind them were shaking hands and hugging, too.

  “Jackie O said that it’s never too late, that even at the eleventh hour, you could change the course of events.” Virginia glowed with triumph. “That day we looked out the clock and over the rally, I realized she knew the secret: There’s power in numbers. I figured if the Lorettes had done this to you, they’d probably done it to others. I went back up to the school and searched through the crates to find anything that was administrative, including names of former students, listed by year. Janice helped out, going through the class lists and highlighting any alumni who had made it big but were no longer alive.”

  Ruby piped up. “Then we went through old Sotheby Parke Bernet auction catalogs and cross-checked our list of names against any lots by anonymous sellers.”

  Clara remembered the random thefts while she’d been a teacher at the school, usually blamed on the cleaning staff or jealous students. The Lorettes had total access, of course, and the most promising students were easy enough to spot. An insurance policy for their later years.

  “So then,” said Virginia, “along with Janice, we contacted the living relatives of the artists. None of them had even seen the paintings before, because the Lorettes always waited until the artist died to bring it to auction.”

  Clara nodded. “They’d assumed that I probably died by now, or disappeared into the ether. How did you get all this done so fast, in time for the auction?”

  “It wasn’t easy. All hands on deck. Janice even enlisted some of the students from the Art Students League to help out.”

  “In the end, you didn’t even need the watercolor.” Clara’s single-mindedness had prevented her from seeing the bigger picture. She had to hand it to them. “You’ve pulled off quite a stunt.”

  Virginia smiled broadly. “We figured out an end run around it. The Lorettes were never going to let the watercolor go once they had their hands on it, because by questioning the painter’s identity, it would have attracted a lot of attention.”

  “And press.”

  “Right. That was the key. I figured I’d use the press the same way Jackie did. To make a splash.”

  Three reporters appeared in the aisle. “Miss Darden? We’d like to speak with you. Do you have a moment?”

  Clara looked at Virginia.

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” Virginia gave her a hug. “Now, go and take your place in the spotlight.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  December 1975

  Virginia’s legs shook as she maneuvered her way through the revolving door of the Museum of Modern Art. She gave her name to the woman at the desk, who directed her to a third-floor gallery where a sign outside read CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC. She pushed through and stood still, unsure of where to begin.

  Clara stood at the far end of the room, towering above the art handlers and gallerists in her dark suit and shock of gray hair. Even from far away, Virginia could see Clara’s face was animated, her words coming out in a rapid clip.

  In the eight months since they’d stormed the auction house, Clara had garnered lots of press, about her history, her legacy, and her artwork. The museum had offered up a show of not only her work but also Levon’s and some other artists from the period’s. But Clara was the only woman, and had the starring role, as she deserved. She’d invited Virginia to stop by in the afternoon before the official opening, a chance to see the show before the public swarmed in.

  Virginia worked her way around the room, unnoticed and unobserved. The exhibit began with some of Clara’s early illustrations and, of course, The Siren. Nearby, in a display case that allowed both sides to be exhibited, hung the watercolor for The Siren, the link between Clara’s early work and her turn to oils. The piece had been recovered from the Lorettes’ possession after a police investigation into the sale of stolen paintings that electrified the art world.

  Soon after being arrested, Mrs. Lorette admitted she’d discovered The Siren in the attic of the Maine cottage while putting away bed linens at the end of the summer term. The cleaning lady had told her it was by the “tall, skinny lady painter,” and she and Mr. Lorette had held on to it in case the value rose, just as they’d done with the other works of art that had “disappeared” at the school over the years.

  Due to their advanced ages, they were each sentenced to only twenty-six months in prison.

  Virginia, emboldened, had applied to the part-time master’s degree program in art history at New York University and, to her shock, was awarded a full scholarship. She still worked a few days a week at the information booth and was even more involved with the Municipal Art Society.

  In fact, just before coming to the MoMA, she’d presented some of the raw materials for her thesis to Adelaide and the board of the Municipal Art Society, a slide show she called “Grand Central Terminal: Past, Present, and Future.” It began with photos of the interior and exteriors when it was first built, followed by Ruby’s powerful shots to show what it was like now. For the big finish, Clara had created renderings of what it might become with a little TLC. Or a lot, to be honest: a new roof that wouldn’t leak, windows scraped of paint and dirt, the marble walls cleaned, and, most spectacularly, the celestial ceiling restored to its original turquoise. The board had gasped out loud at the renderings, exactly the effect Virginia had hoped to achieve.

  Now, though, her elation was ebbing fast. Virginia stiffened her spine before moving deeper into the exhibit, knowing what lay ahead.

  Clara’s exhibit included three nudes Clara had painted of Virginia, including t
he one begun in the Grand Central School of Art. Together, they formed a fleshy, bold triptych. The figure in the paintings was definitely her, with her pixie haircut and wide eyes, but the look on her face was otherworldly, as though she were a seraph. The scar was just that. A scar. To think that her big secret, the one she’d been ashamed of these past five years, was out in the world for everyone to see. Fine. It was a part of her body, and she wasn’t going to pretend anymore. She’d been sliced open and put back together in a different way, and it had made her wise. A woman who’d fought her own wars and survived.

  “Virginia!” Adelaide came careening toward her, holding the afternoon paper in her hand, her face flushed.

  “Adelaide, what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

  “I remember you said you were coming here. I had to find you. Have you heard the news?”

  “No. What news? Is it about the presentation?”

  “No. Well, yes, in a way. It’s been saved!”

  Adelaide had attracted the attention of several people nearby. “What has?” asked one of the gallerists.

  “Grand Central!”

  Adelaide read aloud. “The landmark status of Grand Central Terminal was reinstated earlier today when the Appellate Division voted three to two to reverse the trial court’s decision. In his ruling, the judge challenged Penn Central’s accounting methods, saying the company wrongly assigned railroad expenses to the terminal operating costs, instead of the railway business, in an attempt to demonstrate economic hardship. Specifically, Penn Central’s claim that it was losing millions of dollars a year was found to be unsubstantiated. The decision is sure to advance to the New York Court of Appeals and perhaps the Supreme Court, but is a victory for the Municipal Art Society in its crusade to stop the construction of a 55-story tower atop the terminal.”

  As a cheer broke out around the room, Adelaide mouthed thank you to Virginia, and they exchanged knowing smiles.

  An arm wrapped around Virginia’s shoulders. She looked up to see Clara beaming down at her. “Congratulations.”

  Virginia slid her arm around her friend’s waist. “It’s a huge win, for now. But who knows what kind of fight is looming down the pike. It might go right up to the Supreme Court.”

  “I know that your side will prevail, most certainly.”

  Virginia’s life up until last year had been about mitigating risk, doing nothing out of the ordinary, all while holding the people and things she loved as close to her as possible. Too close, it turned out. She’d learned the hard way that growth and change were unavoidable. Only once she’d undertaken her own crusades had everything fallen into place.

  Most important, Clara Darden was finally recognized as a seminal artist of the twentieth century. She’d gotten the respect she’d deserved, almost too late. Using Clara’s life as her template, Virginia was now able to see a future unfold before her, one that didn’t involve loneliness or fear. She’d work in a gallery or teach art history, have mad affairs of her own—she’d already embarked on a burgeoning romance with a witty NYU linguistics professor—as well as deep friendships to see her through the difficult times.

  Clara motioned across the room. “What do you think? Are you okay with this? I’ll take the triptych down if you’re not.”

  “No. I love it.”

  Clara smiled. “I wonder what Levon would have thought of all this.”

  Together they surveyed the room. “I bet he’d have eaten it up,” said Virginia.

  “He’d tell me I have goats on my roof. And he’d probably be right.” She barked out a laugh, and everyone in the room turned and smiled, acutely mindful of the celebrated artist in their midst.

  But only Virginia could see the tears in her eyes.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  On June 26, 1978, the Supreme Court of the United States ruled 6–3 in favor of Grand Central Terminal’s landmark status, guaranteeing that it would never be demolished nor dwarfed by Penn Central’s proposed skyscraper. The splendid building we see today was restored and rededicated on October 1, 1998, after a renovation led by the New York architecture firm Beyer Blinder Belle. A plaque dedicated to Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis for her role in the preservation hangs in the main entrance of the terminal.

  The Grand Central School of Art, founded by the painters Edmund Greacen, Walter Leighton Clark, and John Singer Sargent, opened in 1924 and enrolled as many as nine hundred students a year before closing in 1944. While this is a work of fiction, I was inspired by two former faculty members at the Grand Central School of Art—Arshile Gorky and Helen Dryden—and by the real-life fight to save Grand Central Terminal in the 1970s. Penn Central did incorrectly allocate their expenses to try to show economic hardship, but the stolen balance sheet and scenes involving the Municipal Art Society are fiction. Several books were incredibly helpful during my research, including Arshile Gorky: His Life and Work by Hayden Herrera; Rethinking Arshile Gorky by Kim S. Theriault; Lee Krasner: A Biography by Gail Levin; Women of Abstract Expressionism, edited by Joan Marter; An Evening in the Classroom by Harvey Dunn; Grand Central Terminal: 100 Years of a New York Landmark by the New York Transit Museum and Anthony W. Robins; Grand Central: How a Train Station Transformed America by Sam Roberts; Grand Central Terminal: City within the City by the Municipal Art Society of New York, edited by Deborah Nevins; and Grand Central by David Marshall. I’d especially like to thank Sarah Marie Horne, who provided me with research from her groundbreaking dissertation on Helen Dryden.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m incredibly grateful to everyone who helped bring this story to life, especially Stephanie Kelly and Stefanie Lieberman, who were by my side every step of the way.

  Thank you to everyone at Dutton, including Ivan Held, Christine Ball, John Parsley, Amanda Walker, Carrie Swetonic, Alice Dalrymple, Liza Cassity, Becky Odell, Elina Vaysbeyn, and Christopher Lin. The team of all-stars also includes Kathleen Carter, Molly Steinblatt, Nikki Terry, and Julie Miesionczek. In terms of research, I am indebted to Francis Morrone, Wendy Felton, Karen Spencer, Erin Butler, Don Morris, Sarah Marie Horne, Jillian Russo, Stephanie Cassidy, Alfred G. Vanderbilt, Frank J. Prial Jr., the Art Students League of New York, the Avery Architectural and Fine Arts Library at Columbia University, and the Municipal Art Society of New York. Finally, I’d like to thank Brian and Dilys Davis, Tom O’Brien, Cynthia Besteman, and Linda Powell for your support and love.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Fiona Davis is the nationally bestselling author of The Dollhouse and The Address. She lives in New York City and is a graduate of the College of William and Mary in Virginia and the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism.

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