I study his drawings, study Bath, do it again. I go to my Degas book piles and find more of his bathers, all of whom are hefty, not a single waist among them. And as before, there are quite a few drawings and paintings of Simone and Jacqueline but no sign of Françoise.
BOSTON’S MUSEUM OF Fine Arts couldn’t be more different from the Gardner. From its grand entrances flanked by Corinthian columns to its ultramodern additions, there’s an overwhelming sense of brightness, openness, awe. Towering ceilings and wide sweeping spaces filled with both artificial and natural light flatter the artworks and allow the visitor to experience them to their fullest. There’s no clutter, lots of comfortable benches, and you’re allowed to use pens. Cameras even.
The MFA owns over seventy Degas paintings, drawings, prints, and sculptures. About a dozen works are oil on canvas, but only five of these are on display when I go over. The rest are on loan or in storage.
My favorite of the five is At the Races in the Countryside. It’s a portrait of a young husband and wife sitting in a carriage with their infant and wet nurse under a luminous blue sky, which takes up the entire top half of the painting. A few tiny horses and tents are scattered in the far background, giving the image both depth and a cheerful attitude. Although considered part of his horseracing series, there’s barely any racing imagery in the painting. Degas was a well-known jokester, and I’m sure he was goofing on someone when he gave it its title.
In contrast to the airy, bucolic feel of Races, the other four paintings—two portraits of Degas’ father, one of his sister and brother-in-law, and one of an aunt with her daughters—are all darkly painted with rich, emotional undertones of sadness and separateness. While he never married and rumor has it that he had few dates, either male or female, Degas was supposedly a very faithful and loving member of his large, extended family. Yet, looking at the grimness of these portraits, one has to wonder.
But I’m not here to enjoy the paintings or to psychoanalyze Degas. I’m here to study Degas’ composition, his brushstrokes and painting techniques, his use of line, shadow, light, and movement. Although I have the original at home, my painting will be better if I immerse myself in as much Degas as I can.
Three of the paintings are hung in the Impressionist Gallery, one in the Nineteenth-Century European Gallery, and the last in the rotunda connecting to Old Masters. The galleries are adjacent, and I walk from one painting to the next, then back around again, and then again. I want to get a sense of the five as a whole, as the work of a single master, before I start studying their details.
As always, when I’m surrounded by Degas’ work, I’m filled with admiration for the man, with an overwhelming joy at being in this moment, in the presence of such greatness. A visual orgasm. I once heard an interview with a musician who said he didn’t get art museums, that they left him cold. He claimed he was too auditory and museums didn’t make any noise. I’d rather be dead than feel like that.
I’m touched by Degas’ artful use of asymmetry to catch the viewer off guard, to bring her in, then to reveal so much. In Edmondo and Thérèse Morbilli, his solemn brother-in-law dominates the image while Degas’ sister is smaller, slighter, sadder. Yet the way she touches her husband’s shoulder, the way she leans into him, shows that she’s not saddened by him, but along with him. In Duchesa di Montejasi, his homely aunt is alone in the right two-thirds of the painting, while her two daughters are pushed closely together—whispering? sharing confidences their mother has no part of?—in a narrow slice at the left.
His work is astounding. The way he creates light from within and without, faces glowing with life where there is only canvas and paint. The way he captures movement with the tilt of a head or the hem of a dress drifting off the edge of the canvas. His use of dark and light values to create texture, depth, and shadow. How he seizes an unselfconscious moment of everyday life, like the mother and wet nurse in Races pressed together as they proudly gaze at the infant, then sends it galloping away.
I settle in with the paintings, taking notes on Degas’ brushstrokes, the thickness of his paints, his juxtapositions, his signatures, his well-drawn lines, and the saturation of his colors. Anything I can find that will help me better understand Bath. I pull my trusty Nikon from my backpack and shoot a dozen photographs of each of the five paintings: from across the room, from medium distance, from as close as I can get without setting off an alarm.
Actually, I do set off an alarm, but only once. A guard gives me an annoyed, reprimanding look, and I hold up my hands. “Sorry,” I mouth. This does nothing to appease her, and she begins to follow me through the galleries, daring me to put my foot across the line again.
My camera’s got a powerful macro setting, and the close-ups of Degas’ brushstrokes are almost works of art in and of themselves. Unfortunately, one of the characteristics of his earlier classical painting style is a lack of visible brushstrokes, but not even Degas can hide every stroke.
I take a few steps forward, as close to Edmondo and Thérèse as I can get without tripping the alarm. The guard stands right behind me. I lean even closer to the painting, making sure to keep my feet behind the red line, and snap a photo.
Isn’t there someone in here more worthy of stalking than me? A kid with greasy fingers? A purse snatcher? A dangerous criminal plotting a robbery? Then it occurs to me that the guard is probably doing her job a hell of a lot better than I’m giving her credit for. In all likelihood, I am the most dangerous criminal in the building.
Eleven
As soon as I get home from the MFA, I whip the sheet off Bath, wanting to see it immediately after studying the others. As my eyes fall on the painting, though, my stomach clenches. It takes my mind a moment to catch up with my body, and I realize I’m feeling dread.
I drop to the chair in front of her. What the hell am I dreading? I remember my very first reaction to Bath: This is not a real Degas. But that’s ridiculous. There’s no way this painting is a forgery. Or is there? I think about John Myatt and Han van Meegeren and Ely Sakhai. It’s not as if it hasn’t been done before. And then there’s the missing Françoise sketches.
I stare at Bath, then close my eyes and envision the five Degas I just studied. I lean close and examine the paint. It’s fractured with craquelure, as it should be. Over decades, liquids evaporate and paint shrinks, while humidity and temperature changes cause the wooden stretchers to expand and contract. These phenomena cause tiny webs of cracks to form. And this looks to me to be roughly a hundred years worth of cracks, which is about right.
I turn the painting over and study the back of the canvas. It appears to have been made in the late nineteenth century. There are signs of oxidation along the edge of the stretchers that hold the linen taut, and in places, the fibers have become brittle and slightly rotten. Generally, any oil-on-canvas work over two hundred years old has to be transferred to new stretchers because of this type of deterioration. My guess is Bath’s got another seventy-five or so years to go. Again, just about right.
The stretchers themselves are soft in places from decay. The tacks are rusty, as are the small leather squares that have protected the canvas from this rust for all those years. And there’s quite a bit of dust between the stretchers and canvas. I pull out the Meissonier and turn it over. It looks very similar.
Although oil paint dries enough in a couple of weeks to take another layer of glazing, it can be fifty to seventy-five years before all the liquid has evaporated and the surface is completely dry and hard. In Ellen Bonanno’s fanatical Repro classes, she showed us a test to ascertain if a painting is younger than fifty. I grab a piece of cotton wool and soak it in alcohol. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I approach Bath, still turned to its back side. I find a spot where paint has leaked over and hold the alcohol swab just above the surface: if the paint is new, the alcohol fumes will cause it to soften, to desaponify. I position the swab about a half inch from the canvas, hold my breath. The paint remains unchanged. I press a finger t
o the spot. Hard as a rock.
I hesitate, then tap the swab directly on the paint. I look at the cotton wool. Completely clean. I do the same with the Meissonier. Same results. I return the painting to the easel and once again take my seat in front of it. It passed all my tests: craquelure, oxidation, soft stretchers, brittle linen fibers, rusted nails, dust, and now the alcohol test. It appears to be the real thing.
But, as I’ve learned from my research, a painting can be stripped down to its sizing, a glue mixture brushed directly onto the bare canvas, which roughens the canvas and keeps the layers of paint from detaching themselves. When the old paint is removed, the fractures created over time remain. And when the forger applies new paint over this fissured sizing, the bumpy skeleton necessary to create the craquelure is retained. Tacks can be rusted by spending a couple of weeks in water. Old wood to make stretchers isn’t difficult to come by. Lavender oil can be substituted for linseed oil, which will allow the paint to harden in about twenty years. Or high-tech ovens based on van Meegeren’s techniques can set it in hours.
There’s no doubt that Bath is a marvelous work, rich and true. The idea that even the most expert of forgers could have produced it is hard to believe. Markel didn’t notice anything wrong with it, and he has a much finer eye than I do. Although, as I know all too well, people see what they expect to see. Including the so-called experts.
I decide it doesn’t hurt to play devil’s advocate. What if, for argument’s sake, some incredibly talented forger did produce the Bath sitting in front of me? Someone like John Myatt or Han van Meegeren? Thousands of forged paintings have been purchased for millions of dollars and hung on museum walls. Many of them still are. Couldn’t something like that have happened here?
Or maybe Bath is a high-quality contemporary forgery. Unlikely, if it’s been hanging in the Gardner Museum for over a hundred years. On the other hand, what if the original was stolen at some earlier time and this one hung in its place? But someone would have noticed the change—curators, historians, guards, patrons.
It could be a forgery made after the painting was stolen in the heist. Someone could be doing to Markel what Markel is doing to his unscrupulous collector. But I have to assume that Markel had the smarts and the resources to determine its authenticity before he agreed to broker it.
That leaves a nineteenth-century forgery. But Degas was alive when Isabella Gardner purchased the painting, and she most likely bought it directly from him. According to the little I know of her, she was a woman who would not have been easily fooled. Nor would her dealer, Bernard Berenson, considered in his day to be America’s leading expert on European painters.
So, again, the only possible conclusion is that the painting in front of me is a real Degas, painted by the master in the 1890s, sold to Isabella Stewart Gardner soon after it was finished. Bath met the standards of every analysis I did and countered every point against authenticity I could come up with.
Relieved, I cover it with the sheet and head over to Jake’s.
AT THE BAR, I order a shot of tequila. Despite all my tests, arguments, and counterarguments, there’s something itching at the back of my brain, unpleasantly so, and I want to stop scratching at it.
Maureen raises an eyebrow as she pulls out the bottle. “Bad day?”
I shrug. “Same old.”
Mike, Rik, and Small look at me sympathetically.
“I’ve got some news that’ll make you feel even worse,” Danielle says.
All five of us roll our eyes.
But Danielle doesn’t get it. “It’s fucking Crystal Mack again.”
“No,” Small moans.
“The Danforth.” Danielle.
“Christ. She’s going to be insufferable.” Rik.
“How does the Danforth even know about her?” Mike.
“I’m guessing ArtWorld,” I say. “They just had that big contest. Trans. Remember? One of the Danforth curators was a judge. Also the Whitney.”
“I wouldn’t mind so much if she were any good.” Small.
“How long before she’s down here?” Danielle looks at her watch. “An hour? Maybe half that. Wouldn’t want to let too much time go by without using us to shine herself up.”
Rik throws his arm around me. “Nothing for you, Bear?”
“The Whitney owns three Cullions,” I say, trying not to sound bitter and probably not succeeding.
Mike turns to Rik. “Let’s hear the rest on that trip to Paris.”
“You didn’t tell me you were going to Paris,” I cry, with mock annoyance, more than happy to piggyback on Mike’s thoughtful change of subject. “What’s up with that?”
“Just found out, but it’s for work, not pleasure. I started to tell Mike and Small. We’re doing an exhibit on Belle’s acquisitions from her travels to Europe. My boss took Italy. Sheryl’s going to London, and I got stuck with Paris.” He grins.
Danielle holds her thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart. “Can you hear my teeny, tiny violin weeping?”
“Didn’t you tell me Isabella Gardner was a Venice freak?” I ask.
“Paris was her second favorite.”
“That stuff about her walking lions down Tremont Street?” Small asks. “And about wearing a GO RED SOX hat to the symphony. Are those true?”
Rik crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s really annoying that that’s the extent of what most people know about Belle. She was the first great American art collector, man or woman, and she’s remembered because of a couple of lion cubs and a headband.”
We all laugh at his pomposity. He gives us the finger, along with a wink.
“So, how’d she get to be the first great American collector?” I jump in before the conversation can turn. “Man or woman.”
Rik scowls at me. “She studied and had a great eye. And, of course, she had Bernard Berenson.”
“Not to mention tons of money,” Danielle says.
“And what about all those forgeries that were all over the place back then?” I ask. “Before they had all these high-tech ways of figuring it out?”
“I heard Michelangelo used to borrow paintings from his friends,” Small pipes in, “copy them, then return the copies and keep the originals for himself.”
“Well, that would have worked out great for his friends,” Mike says. “They’d own a Michelangelo.”
“They may not have had all the technology we have now,” Rik says, irritated that we’re not taking his Belle seriously enough. “But they still had plenty of smart and talented experts. Art historians, critics, dealers, authenticators. They got it right most of the time.”
“Must’ve been what happened at MoMA. All those smart and talented Isaac Cullion experts,” Danielle says.
Twelve
THREE YEARS EARLIER
I didn’t go to the MoMA opening. I had an exam the next morning. Initially, I was so bummed to miss the opening that Isaac tried to get me out of the test, but when he couldn’t, I found I didn’t mind all that much. I wanted to be with Isaac, share in his moment of glory, hobnob with the rich and famous. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to listen to everyone raving about 4D, about Isaac’s great talent. Of course, it would be quite the rush to see one of my paintings in MoMA. And it wouldn’t be.
So I stayed home and studied. But I had trouble concentrating. I kept picturing what Isaac must be doing at every moment. Here he was, pacing the empty gallery, scoping out everyone else’s work. Waiting. Then the crowds. From silence to pandemonium. The beautiful people strutting. The critics clucking. Then the congratulations, the glad-handing, the cooing, the fussing, the sucking up. And, if all went as Markel expected, Isaac being feted as the new of-the-moment man.
Isaac called a bit after midnight, and I could hear the drinks he’d had. “The museum arranged for a fabulous suite. Views of the park. Full minibar.” The rattle of ice. “I’m exhausted, but I had to talk to you.”
“Was it wonderful? How’d it go?”
“Only thing that
could’ve made it better was you. Oh, babe, I thought about you all evening. Wanted to share it with you. A victory for both of us.”
“This is your time, Saac. I’ll get mine soon enough.”
“Very soon. Very, very soon. Breakfast with Karen tomorrow. We’ll talk.”
I was filled with a warm rush of gratification. This was the type of relationship I’d always dreamed of. Mutual respect. Mutual support. Great love. “Tell me about the show. Any indication on the reviews? Any noise on a sale?”
He mumbled something I didn’t understand, followed by, “—meeting with the committee next week.”
“Committee? What committee?”
“Acquisitions.”
“At MoMA?”
“Karen said there’s interest in buying it.”
I was stunned. “MoMA wants to buy 4D?”
“For their permanent collection.”
“Isaac, that’s wonderful, astonishing. It’s—”
“Don’t want to talk about it. Jinx it.”
I was well aware of Isaac’s many superstitions and laughed. “Okay, okay, we’ll wait until it happens.”
“Wouldn’t even have a chance of happening without you.”
ONE OF MY paintings was hanging in the Museum of Modern Art. In New York City. Part of the permanent collection. The pinnacle of any artist’s career, a peak few live to see. And here I was: twenty-eight, alive, and bursting with work, full of hope for my future.
I admit, sometimes it was tough to watch Isaac get all the acclaim. But mostly, I was just so thrilled for him, thrilled with his improving mood, thrilled with our plans for our life together, that it didn’t really matter. And he’d managed to get Karen Sinsheimer to promise to review my slides the day they arrived. As I’d told him, it was his moment, and I was willing to wait for mine.
It was all so mindboggling. Dizzying actually. 4D was a hit. A huge hit. It had somehow touched a nerve—and not just in the art world, in the general public as well—and was streaking toward iconic. Like Andy Warhol’s soup cans. Or maybe it was just the Internet. Viral marketing and all that.
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