Dark Picasso

by Rick Homan

  It was surprising to see a pencil drawing among all these paintings, but the powerful depiction of a voluptuous nude woman was clearly the work of a master. I guessed it was by Matisse. It might easily have cost as much as any of the paintings.

  Overall, I guessed there was at least a million dollars’ worth of art in front of me, probably more.

  One painting hung above the fireplace and might have been worth more than all the rest combined. It was a depiction by Picasso of a couple embracing, about five feet by four feet. Their bodies were twisted into impossible positions; their limbs wildly distorted to suggest movement and energy rather than literal shape. The clash of lines and shapes gave the work an overall sense of desperation that recalled Picasso’s landmark work, Guernica, but which seemed strange in a picture of an erotic subject.

  There was one detail I had never seen in a painting by Picasso. Among the twisted limbs was a penis reaching out from the man’s body and parting the woman’s labia. Picasso showed genitals on both male and female figures throughout his career, as do many artists, but I had never seen a painting in which he explicitly portrayed the sex act. Because of the almost violent tone of this painting, Picasso seemed to ridicule his subject.

  “Nicole? Your coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, and took a seat.

  “This is by Theodore Rousseau,” Tiffany said to Maria, apparently answering a question about one of the landscapes. “He painted en plein air. That means in the open air. He and some others did that to get closer to nature.”

  Maria nodded as if suitably impressed.

  “I bought it at Greenbrae’s auction,” said Tiffany, smiling at Curtis.

  “When was that?” asked Maria.

  “January of last year,” said Curtis. Turning to me, he explained, “We selected thirty-seven works for de-acquisition and sold them through Christie’s.”

  “I’m glad you got it,” Sandra said to Tiffany. “You kept it in the neighborhood, so to speak, and it’s a nice one. It looks good in here.”

  “Have you ever seen a painting you didn’t like?” Anne Ghent sounded like she was demanding an answer.

  Sandra thought for a moment. “I’m sure I have.”

  “Tell us about it,” said Anne.

  “None comes to mind at the moment. Why do you ask?”

  “I wonder,” said Anne. “Do you really have opinions about these things or is it your job at Greenbrae to flatter the taste of people who make donations.”

  “I’m the registrar at Greenbrae,” said Sandra. Her voice sounded just as steely as Anne’s. “It’s my job to maintain an accurate, detailed inventory of the museum’s holdings.”

  I wasn’t sure about anyone else, but I was ready to call this a draw. “Your Picasso is spectacular, Tiffany,” I said, doing my best to signal a new topic of conversation.

  She smiled at me. “Thank you. It’s one of his later works. Toward the end of his life he went into seclusion and produced many works that build on his earlier styles.”

  No one else picked up the topic, and with Anne in the room I feared exposing the painting to further comment. So, I set my coffee cup on an end table, and said, “I must excuse myself. We have a long drive back to campus.”

  Once Pat and I were on the freeway heading south, I said, “I didn’t know Tiffany was going to split us up after dinner. What did the guys talk about?”

  “It was just more of the same, golf and business deals.”

  “That must have been boring for you.”

  “Not entirely. I played enough golf in my early years to hold up my end of the conversation.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “Where I come from, boys are expected to play some kind of sport. I noticed guys playing football, basketball, and baseball seemed to get injured a lot, so I took golf lessons. I quit when I went to college.”

  After passing a slow-moving truck, Pat asked, “What did the women talk about?”

  “Tiffany’s art collection. She has more than a dozen paintings. One of them is by Picasso. It must have cost her a bundle. It’s odd, too. I’ve never seen anything like it. It looks like a Picasso, but it has elements that aren’t typical of his work. I’d like to find out more about it.”

  “That must have been fun for you.”

  “Not entirely. The way she talked about these paintings, it was as if she had memorized her comments from a catalogue or textbook. Do you remember when we arrived, and she was talking about those two landscapes in the reception room?”

  “Yeah. She was really enthused about them.”

  “Right. But she doesn’t get excited about these expensive paintings. It’s more as if she respects them.”

  “Maybe she was feeling worn down by then. It was a long evening and, in some ways, a difficult one.”

  “It didn’t get any easier when we moved into the drawing room. Anne Ghent practically accused Sandra of flattering Tiffany in order to attract a donation for the art museum.”

  “You may have noticed she said things like that all evening. She told Dale he didn’t really win at golf. She implied Ernst’s law firm was going out of business. She called Curtis ‘one of the girls.’ She humiliated her husband and Tiffany by flirting with Dale when he flirted with her.”

  “She flirted with you too.”

  “Yes, and that had nothing to do with me. She said those things to make you squirm.”

  Recalling all the obnoxious things Anne had done during the evening was making my skin crawl. “This is crazy. What kind of person goes to a dinner party and spends the evening thinking of ways to make people uncomfortable?”

  “They’re called sadists. They don’t all inflict physical pain for sexual gratification. Some get pleasure from embarrassing people or provoking them to anger.”

  I reached over and squeezed the muscles on top of his shoulder. “How did I ever get through life without a psychologist to explain these things to me?”

  He smiled. “I can’t imagine.”

  I sat back and sighed. “I hope I did my duty for good old Cardinal University tonight. What do you think? Did I develop a donor?”

  “Do you feel like you’re on speaking terms with Tiffany?”

  “Sure. In fact, I might give her a call to find out more about that Picasso.”

  “Okay, then,” he said. “She has a relationship with the university. Mission accomplished.”

  “I hope so,” I replied. “I didn’t even mention the gallery on campus. With everything else going on, I forgot.”

  “I’m sorry it was such a stressful evening for you. If you’re tired, I can drop you off at your place.”

  “No! It’s our night.”

  After we’d been seeing each other for about three months and had gotten serious, Pat and I found it awkward to keep asking one another if and when we should spend the night together. So, we declared Saturday our night. It could be cancelled only under the most dire circumstances. Of course, we also left ourselves free to spend other nights together during the week, morning classes allowing.

  “If you’re sure you feel up to it . . .” said Pat.

  “You just drive the car,” I replied as I lowered the back of my seat. “I’m going to take a little nap so I’m rested and ready when we get to your place.”

  Chapter 4

  On Sunday afternoon following the dinner party from hell, knowing I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on my regular academic chores until I understood the odd characteristics in Tiffany’s Picasso, I walked over to the library, found a biography and catalogues from two major exhibitions in the 1980s and 90s, and downloaded a recent article about his late work.

  A few hours’ reading confirmed what Tiffany said about the great artist living in seclusion during his last years and continuing to invent new ways to communicate with visual images. By one estimate, he averaged more than ten paintings per month for most of a year. There is no way of knowing exactly how much he accomplished in these years because he gav
e away many of these paintings to private collectors and kept no records of the gifts. Judging by the work he donated to museums, his innovations during these last years were as important as those that made him famous early in his career, such as Cubism.

  I also learned that critics and historians have struggled with the bizarre tone of many of these late paintings—the sense of desperation, the air of ridicule, the sexually explicit images—just as I had when I looked at Tiffany’s Picasso. Initially these works were dismissed as the scribblings of a great mind that had become demented, but eventually the money to be made by selling them overcame these criticisms and they began to appear in galleries.

  Far from satisfying my curiosity about Tiffany’s Picasso, this information set my mind spinning. I had to see that painting again.

  I sent Tiffany an email thanking her on behalf of Pat and myself for the wonderful evening and saying that seeing her painting had prompted me to read up on Picasso’s last years. I suggested we meet some time to talk about it.

  While I was at it, I wrote to Sandra Carlini, asking if Thursday afternoon would be a good time for me to visit the Greenbrae Art Museum.

  Within half an hour Tiffany wrote back, saying she was eager to know what I had learned about Picasso’s late work and asking if I could come for tea Tuesday afternoon at three. I was glad to accept, hoping I could satisfy my curiosity. If, while I was at it, I helped my university develop a donor, so much the better.

  The approach to Fairhaven was no less astonishing the second time. When I got to the door, a woman in her fifties, dressed as if she worked in a corporate office, introduced herself as Tiffany’s secretary, and showed me into the drawing room. She said Mrs. Milman would be with me in a moment and left.

  I stood back to study the Picasso. It was, as I remembered it, a study of two bodies caught up in a frenzy of motions, full of cartoonish exaggerations, but somehow it lacked energy.

  A great work by a master is more than the sum of its parts. A work by a student may look very similar, but will feel like he labors to achieve his effects. A masterpiece seems effortless. This painting did not have that star quality.

  Of course, not every painting from the hand of a master is a masterpiece. Picasso painted his share of failures, more so probably in his last years when he turned out so many paintings.

  Tiffany came in from the corridor with a big smile on her face. “Tea will be here in a moment.”

  As we sat, I thanked her for inviting me back.

  “I was happy to get your email,” she replied. “I have so much to learn about art. I bought an art history book, but I haven’t read very much of it.”

  “Which one?” I asked. “Do you remember the author’s name?”

  “Something like ‘Jensen.’”

  “Janson?”

  “I think so.”

  “Great book, but it’s practically an encyclopedia.”

  “Yeah, it’s really big. I looked up the names of these painters in the index,” she said, waving at her collection, “and then read about them, but there was so much in there I got lost.”

  “That can happen. Since you’re interested in modern painters,” I said, scanning the dozen-and-a-half works on the wall, “you might do better with some books on specific styles and maybe some biographies. Exhibition catalogues are good too because their essays aren’t too long and they provide context.”

  “Okay. I’ll have to get some of those.”

  “If you like, I’ll write down a few titles and email them to you.”

  “Would you? That would be such a big help.”

  “Sure,” I said. It was nice to see her smile again.

  A maid brought in the tea tray, set it on the table in front of us, and left. Tiffany poured the tea.

  “Cream and sugar, please,” I said in response to her gesture.

  I took a macaroon from the serving plate and bit into it. Bliss! I had to find out where she got these. Or perhaps I shouldn’t know.

  Tiffany set down her tea cup, and asked, “So what have you found out about Picasso?”

  “Oh, I just read a few things Sunday afternoon. I hadn’t realized how controversial the late paintings are.”

  “Are they really?”

  “Yes, they are, partly because he painted so many, gave a lot of them away, and didn’t keep records. What is the provenance of this one?”

  “The province? You mean like where he painted it?”

  “No. The provenance is the history of this particular painting, a list of all the people who have owned it and all the times it’s been sold. Ideally it traces ownership all the way back to the artist.”

  Tiffany looked worried. “I bought it from the Redburn Gallery in New York. They didn’t give me a list.”

  “That’s alright,” I said. “This painting is less than fifty years old. It may have had only one owner. It would be nice to think you bought it from the person who got it from Picasso.”

  “I guess so. Still, I think I should check. I’m going to call them.”

  The conversation wasn’t going the way I’d hoped. I hadn’t wished to cast doubt on her purchases.

  “So, are Picasso’s late paintings controversial for other reasons?” asked Tiffany.

  I glanced at the painting and said, “Many of them are more sexually explicit than the earlier work.”

  Her eyes widened. She looked at the painting, then looked back at me. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “If you look just below center and to the right . . .” I said.

  Tiffany looked for a few seconds and then gasped. She stood and walked across the room to stare at the painting. When she turned back to me she was scowling. “They’re actually doing it.”

  “I didn’t notice right away when I looked at it Saturday evening,” I said. “There’s so much going in in this picture, I don’t think it’s obvious.”

  I wasn’t sure Tiffany heard what I was saying because she had turned away and was staring through the French windows out to the garden.

  I waited for perhaps a minute, wanting to break the silence, but afraid to say anything else.

  When she turned back to me, her face was expressionless. “Would you excuse me, please?” She left the room.

  I helped myself to a partial refill on the tea. While I sipped it, I reviewed our conversation, trying to understand where I had gone wrong, but I didn’t see how I could have played it any differently.

  The secretary who had answered the front door came in and said, “Mrs. Milman isn’t feeling well and won’t be able to rejoin you. Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, thank you,” I said, putting my tea cup down. “I should be on my way back to campus.”

  As I drove, I wondered why Tiffany was so upset. Had I been in her situation, I might have decided to move the painting to a bedroom or some other private place, or I might have sold it, but I don’t think I’d have been so embarrassed that I had to run and hide. Of course, I may have upset her by raising the question of provenance, though I’d tried to explain that shouldn’t be a problem.

  When I got home, I sent Tiffany that list of books about modern painters, thanked her for the tea and the opportunity to look over her collection, and offered to help her learn more about her paintings. I hoped I hadn’t done any damage that couldn’t be undone.

  On Wednesday evening, I had dinner at Pat’s house. As we ate, I filled him in on my visit with Tiffany the day before. “Obviously she was upset about having such a sexually explicit image hanging on the wall of her drawing room.”

  “She really hadn’t noticed?”

  “No. I’m sure she hadn’t. She just stood there, staring out at the garden, as if she was trying to figure out where she had gone wrong.”

  “What do you think she’ll do?” he asked.

  “Probably go to the dealer and get her money back.”

  Pat smiled. It was a nice smile. “That’s not the only shocking story to come out of our Saturday-night dinner party,�
� he said. “Have you been following the local news?”

  I shook my head.

  “You remember Anne Ghent?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Dead? How? What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. I had the TV on in the living room when I was getting ready for bed last night, and I heard her name mentioned. By the time I came out of the bedroom and looked at the screen, they were showing footage of a crime scene in the parking lot of one of those big shopping malls south of Columbus. They said she had been shot and there were no suspects.”

  “Shot? Oh my God! Do you suppose someone jumped her in the parking lot and robbed her?”

  “I don’t know. I checked online this morning and the police aren’t saying.”

  “This was just last night?”

  He nodded.

  “Wow. That is really scary. You just never know when something like that is going to happen.”

  Pat stared out the dining room window and suppressed a smile.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said, trying harder not to smile.

  “Oh, come on! What are you thinking?”

  He finished chewing a bite of his burger and swallowed. “You said, ‘you just never know,’ but I was thinking that with some people it’s almost predictable.”

  I had no idea where he was going with this. “What are you talking about?”

  “When we were driving home Saturday night, we talked about all the ways she had tried to ruin the evening for everyone present.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “So, I was just thinking it’s not hard to imagine someone wanting to get rid of her.”

  “Pat! That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “You’re right. Is a country-club lawyer like Ernst going to blow someone away just for suggesting his business was failing?”

  “Of course not,” I said, but then I was the one trying not to smile. “But I bet his mousey little wife would.”

  “Oooh, listen to you.”

  We got, up stacked the plates, and took everything out to the kitchen to wash.

  “What about the folks from the art museum, Sandra and Curtis?” asked Pat.