Twenty-three
It’s September, and as the cool breezes come off the water and the sunlight becomes more angular, I’m seized by that back-to-school exhilaration where anything is possible and no one knows what the new year may hold. I told Repro I needed to work on my own projects for a few months. Beverly Arms “granted” me a leave of absence pending further investigation. Rik’s in Paris, and I let it be known at Jake’s that I’m deep into a creative burst. Markel’s stopped by a couple of times, but the visits have been short and slightly awkward. When he leaves, I wish he were still here.
But I see the end. I can feel it, taste it. In a Herculean effort that puts my labors of the past weeks to shame, I sprint toward the finish line. There’s nothing to stop me except the time required to paint and bake. And if I do say so myself, Bath II is looking good.
There’s a marvelous interaction between the phenol formaldehyde and the baking that renders the colors with the depth and brightness of a finely cut jewel. They sparkle under the light, almost shimmer. Although I’m going to have to tone this down at the end with a wash of India ink to mimic the effects of time, it occurs to me that no such thing will be necessary on my windows.
When I accepted Markel’s offer, I thought I’d be learning at the feet of a master painter; instead, my most powerful lessons have come from a master forger. Markel has already agreed to let me keep the oven until the opening. As my excitement grows at the thought of working on my own paintings, I push myself even more.
I’ve taken to sleeping in multiple, short stretches during both night and day, upsetting my natural circadian rhythms and further cutting myself off from the cadence of the world. I do two, maybe three, glaze-and-bake cycles, then tumble onto my mattress for a few hours of rest. When I get up, I eat some cold pad Thai, drink a glass of orange juice, and get back to work. I often feel as if I’m observing myself from afar, from outside, while, in seeming contradiction, I remain in the zone for longer periods of time than I ever believed possible.
The downside is the dreams, recurring ones. Of Isaac, of Belle and Edgar Degas, of Markel. Usually I’m being held hostage by Isaac, pursuing Belle and Degas, being pursued by Markel. But sometimes it’s the other way around or all mixed together. A couple of times, Xavier’s been there, too. And in more than a few, Markel and I are making love. When I wake up, the dreams seem boringly predictable, but when I’m inside them, they are terrifyingly—or orgasmically—real.
I push myself harder and harder, paint faster and faster, hoping that by finishing the painting, I’ll also be finishing off my demons. That I’ll be able to climb out of this vortex and into my actual life.
Then, one day it’s done. With the sweep of the brush, I sign Degas’ name, making sure to leave the somewhat too large space between the “a” and the “s.” Adrenaline surges through my body as I step back and admire my handiwork.
I do an overall comparison between the two paintings. Except for the brilliance of the color in Bath II, they appear virtually identical. I come closer and inspect them inch by inch, stroke by stroke. Excellent. I check for the tiny spot of green I put on the back of the top-right corner of Bath II to make sure I’m always able to tell the difference, then carefully go over the painting. I close my eyes, open them, take it in. Do it again.
I open the closet door so the full-length mirror is facing out and position the two paintings so I can see both reflections simultaneously. I turn one upside down, then the other, lay them sideways on the couch.
My stomach twists. There’s something wrong with Bath II. Something Degas would never do. I try to find what I’m reacting to, sliding my eyes back and forth over the painting until something clicks. The shadows off to Françoise’s left don’t have enough depth. I turn back to Bath, study Françoise, compare her to mine. She and her shadows are identical in both paintings. Bath II may not be a Degas, but I’ve created an accurate forgery of the forgery.
There’s only one more thing left to do. I apply a thin layer of varnish over the entire canvas. When it’s dry and the craquelure has risen to the surface, I lay the painting flat on my work table, grab a wide brush and a bottle of India ink. Then I hesitate. I know I need to do this. Have to do this. But I balk at the idea of restraining the vivid tones I worked so hard to create.
I force myself to put brush to canvas. Force myself to cover the entire image with the blue-black ink. Force myself to watch the canvas turn completely dark, obscuring every line and every bit of color. When the ink’s dry, I wipe it away with a soapy rag, then carefully remove the new varnish with a mixture of alcohol and turpentine.
Again, I’m awed by Han’s genius. The last bits of ink have adhered themselves to the ridges of craquelure, creating a network of fine lines that duplicate those of the original forgery. I cover the canvas with a final coat of varnish, tinted with a touch of brown to mirror aging, and the faux masterpiece is complete.
MARKEL STANDS IN front of the two paintings, his eyes roving from one to the other and then back again. He doesn’t say a word, and his face is inscrutable. For a moment, I’m back in Isaac’s studio waiting for Karen and Markel’s verdict on 4D. The nauseating anticipation is the same, as is the relief when he turns to me with a huge smile.
“Bravo.” He claps his hands in appreciation, and I see that he wants to hug me.
I step away and pull a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator. “You brought over the one that we drank to cement this project, so it’s my turn to provide the one to celebrate its conclusion.”
Markel is so riveted by the paintings that he doesn’t notice the awkwardness in my voice. “I don’t know what to say. I honestly don’t.” He turns to me, and his eyes are warm with admiration. “Which one is which?”
I grab a couple of glasses and walk back to him. “Guess.”
He steps in closer, inspects each carefully, then walks around and inspects the backs. “Would’ve thought I’d know it anywhere.”
“A good sign.”
He returns to the front and looks some more. “But I can’t tell. I really can’t tell.”
“Oh, go for it.”
He stabs at the painting on the right. “This one.”
I laugh, and he swivels his arm to the left one. “This one.”
I hesitate, toying with him.
“Claire …”
“Should’ve stuck with your original bet.”
“You’ve done phenomenal work here.” He takes the champagne bottle from me and pops it open. “To you,” he says, raising the bottle and allowing the foam to cascade down its side. “The most amazing woman ever.”
I hold the glasses out and watch the rims as he pours, avoiding his eyes. Half of me wants to throw myself into his arms, while the other half is all too aware of the lie I’ve told—or, at least, the lie I’ve allowed him to believe. And I’ve no idea how truthful he’s been with me. It’s difficult to own, given the pounding of my heart and the dampness between my legs, but I’m not sure I can trust him. Although I’ve never been particularly astute about relationships, as my rock-strewn romantic history attests, I’m astute enough to know this is not a good basis for one.
We sit on the couch, touch glasses, and toast our success. I snuggle myself into a corner cross-legged and smile, hoping not to look like I’m trying to avoid contact. “So what’s the next step?”
“Authentication.”
I take a sip of the champagne; it bubbles nervously down my throat. “You really think it’ll pass?”
“What are you the most worried about?”
An interesting question. “I think we’re relatively safe on all the standard measures. But the newer tests like atomic absorption or mass spectrometry might be able to pick up something I didn’t control for. It’s like you said, it’s all going to depend on the sophistication of the buyer.”
“My plan is to use the same authenticator I did for the original.”
“Is that the best idea?”
“You look concern
ed,” Markel says.
“Not really. Or not any more than I’d be about any expert going over it. But what are you going to tell him? How are you going to explain why you need to test it again?”
Markel finishes off his champagne and pours both of us another glass. “I’ll just tell him I’ve got some concerns. That I want him to go over it one more time.”
“And he’ll buy that?”
“Why not? In a situation like this, anyone might want to double-check.”
“Right. Sure. I guess.” I run my fingers through my hair. “Sorry, it’s been a long haul. I’m pretty wrung out. Exhausted actually. I can’t even remember what we were just talking about.”
He puts his glass on the table and stands, smiling indulgently down at me. “Of course you are.” He holds out his hands to help me up. “What you need is sleep, not a lot of talk.”
I let him pull me to a stand. We look at each other for a long quivering moment, then he puts his arm around my shoulder and turns me toward the door. I slip my arm around his waist.
When we reach the door, he drops his arm and lifts my chin with a finger. “Is it okay if I come by tomorrow afternoon so we can pack them both up? I’d like to get your version to the authenticator and the original into safe storage as soon as possible. And I’ll bring you your money.”
I nod, thrilled. And not about the money, although that’s nice, too. It’s about having them gone. About regaining my studio, about coming out from under the shadow. A fall cleaning to make room for my own work to thrive.
WITH THE TWO forgeries gone, the studio feels open, alive, truthful. And I feel that way, too. I have both my home and myself back. Not to mention another $17,000, which hopefully will be followed by the last installment of $16,000 when Bath II is authenticated. If it’s authenticated. What will Markel do if I don’t pass the test? Will he give up his Gardner idea and tell the owner he can’t find a buyer? Will he take back the money he paid me? Cancel my show? The truth is, I’ve no idea what he might do. I try to push these thoughts away. Just as I try to push away the memories of painting Bath II.
I don’t always succeed. At times, the past months come rushing back at me in flashes I can’t control. Bits and pieces interspersed with the continuing nightmares of chasing and being chased. Sometimes it seems as if none of it ever happened, and other times it’s as if there’s an indelible stain that will never go away. If I catch myself washing my hands twenty times a day, I’ll know I’ve gone over the edge.
But there are gifts from my walk on the dark side: the oven and phenol formaldehyde. I’ve always been proud of my window series, viewing it as my best work, as the culmination of everything I’ve learned thus far. But adding in the phenol formaldehyde to achieve these otherworldly jeweled tones is raising my hopes.
A dangerous thing, hope, as I know all too well, but also a powerful motivator. Where my drive to finish Bath II was frenzied and hallucinogenic, preliminary work on my windows is surprisingly soothing. Like scuba diving off a coral reef. A slow-motion immersion into the exotically foreign, compelling, and breathtaking, heightened by the hint of peril.
And van Meegeren’s gift isn’t only the colors, it’s the time that baking will buy me. I need twenty paintings for my show, all realistic and all highly glazed with layer upon layer of diaphanous paint. I look at the dozen window paintings still hanging from Markel’s first visit. My original plan was to use six or seven in the show, but now that I’ve seen the range of color I can produce à la Han, I’m afraid they’ll pale in comparison to my new work. But they’re good, they’re why Markel offered me the show, and unless I’m willing to wait until spring, they’re in. So, thirteen new paintings.
I have enough preliminary drawings for at least thirty, although there are a number of new ideas, like one I’ve already named Pink Medium, I want to include. I’ll make the canvases and apply the sizing and underpainting assembly-line style, which will cut down on time. I glance around the studio. It’ll be tight to work on thirteen canvases at once, but there should be just enough space to pull it off. I’ll sketch out each of the new paintings in advance, then move quickly from one canvas to the next to render the underdrawings. And when I start in on the actual painting, I’ll have my oven to move things along. A daunting project. An incredible opportunity.
Twenty-four
I walk up the granite steps of Markel’s house with trepidation. I probably shouldn’t be here. Nonetheless, I am, standing before a nineteenth-century mansion facing the broad, tree-lined mall that sets Commonwealth Avenue apart from—and above—all the other tony streets of Back Bay. Plus, I’m on the Arlington/Berkeley block, which is set apart from and above all the other tony blocks of Comm Ave. There’s never been any gentrification in this part of Boston because it’s never fallen out of favor with the gentry.
Markel called early in the week and invited me to dinner. “Did you know I can cook?” he asked, when I answered the phone.
“You do?”
“Probably better than you.”
“That would mean you can make something other than mac and cheese.”
“Is that what you’d like for your surprise dinner?”
“Surprise?”
“Yup. Two actually.”
“Can you tell me more?”
“Nope.”
“Well then, if you’re going to all the trouble of cooking,” I told him, “I’ll take something a bit more gourmet than mac and cheese.”
“Done,” he said. “Does seven o’clock Saturday night work for you?”
I hesitate. “Sure. I guess.”
“See you Saturday.” Then he was gone.
I didn’t really have a chance to say no. Yet, I probably wouldn’t have said it anyway. I’m a fool for surprises. Has the painting been authenticated? Is it something about my show? Is he going to poison me with his soufflé because now he’s got the finished painting? A lesser woman would run. But not me. I want to see his artwork.
I press the doorbell next to his name, and when it buzzes, I step into a wainscoted, marble anteroom separating street and house. I push through a pair of etched-glass doors into a soaring, elegant space. In the late 1800s, well-dressed gentlemen and their ladies would have been received here. It’s quite likely Belle Gardner was, at some time or another, one of them.
A wide mahogany staircase dominates the foyer, turning two times before it meets the second-floor landing. I hesitate, not sure where to go, when Markel comes down the stairs.
“Welcome,” he calls. “We’re up here.” The lighting emphasizes his high cheekbones and square chin. He looks relaxed, boyish, comfortable in his own skin, pleased to see me. It’s a tough package to resist.
I walk up the stairs toward him, curtsy, and hold out my hand. “Charmed, sir.”
He takes it, turns it over, and kisses my palm. “Handsome lady.”
When we enter the apartment, I don’t know what to look at first: the exquisitely preserved architectural elements, the eclectic furnishings, or the artworks sprinkled liberally, but flawlessly, about. He shows me around. John Baldessari’s spider, Tony Feher’s sculpture of four jars with red tops, Sharon Core’s photograph of a coconut cake. There’s one from Zeng Fanzhi’s Mask Series and my favorite David Park, Four Nudes, a Koons, a Cottingham, a Warhol, a Lichtenstein, and, of course, a Cullion.
“Amazing,” I keep murmuring. “Wow. Great.” I don’t know what else to say. His collection rivals that of a small museum. Then he shows me his “Impressionist nook”: a Manet, a Cézanne and a tiny, perfect Matisse.
“No Degas?” I ask.
“An unfortunate hole in my collection.” He waves his hand to encompass all the works. “This is the advantage of owning a gallery. I get to buy what I love. At a much lower price than I would charge.”
His portion of the house is three stories. The living room, dining room, and kitchen form the first floor, with seventeen-foot ceilings, three fireplaces, original crown moldings and medallions. The second fl
oor is a huge master suite with a separate office, clean and masculine, but not overly so. Everything is updated, yet it all fits perfectly within its nineteenth-century frame. We climb to the third floor, which has three bedrooms, one perfectly appointed guest room and two others for his children.
“Children?”
“Robin’s six and Scott’s four. They mostly live with their mother in Weston, but I get to see them a lot.”
“Oh” is all I can manage. I knew he’d married fairly young and had been divorced for a few years, but how could I not have known about the children? Why hadn’t Isaac ever mentioned it? Why hadn’t Markel?
We head back downstairs, and I catch artwork I missed on the way up: a Louise Bourgeois statue in a niche in the stairway, a William Kentridge drawing, a Calder mobile. He takes my hand and leads me back into the living room. We sit on the couch, in front of a low table on which a bottle of champagne chills.
“Seems like we’ve been drinking a lot of champagne.” I’m in such awe of his art collection I can barely get the words out.
He pours two glasses and hands me one. “We’ve had a lot to celebrate.” A dramatic pause. “And now we have even more.”
I hold my breath.
“Your Bath II has been authenticated. As far as anyone’s going to be concerned, she’s the real thing.”
A flood of relief washes over me. “Wow.” I knock back the glass of champagne, hold out the empty for a refill. “I can’t believe it.” But, of course, I know all too well that experts can be fooled.
“Were you that worried?”
“Of course I was that worried. I told you I was.”
“I’d have been shocked if it turned out any other way.”
“Then you’re made of sterner stuff than I am.”
He pulls an envelope from a drawer in the coffee table and hands it to me. “There’s a bonus included.”
“Thanks.” I quickly put the envelope in my purse. It feels thicker than the others.
“That’s not the real surprise,” he says.
The Art Forger Page 14