Dark Picasso

by Rick Homan

  “I ordered them,” she said. “They haven’t come yet.”

  As we walked to the drawing room, I had a momentary panic over whether that Picasso would still be there. When I last saw her, Tiffany was so upset when I pointed out the explicit depiction of sexual intercourse in the painting, I feared she may have put it somewhere out of sight. However, when we entered the room, it was still above the fireplace, looking stranger than ever.

  I chose the sofa that put my back to the fireplace so I wouldn’t stay focused on the Picasso. Tiffany sat across the coffee table from me. I let my eyes wander over the paintings on the adjacent wall. There was, as I had recalled, much to admire. “I notice you have two pieces that are not oil paintings,” I said. “Are you thinking about starting to collect drawings and watercolors?”

  “No. They don’t really cost enough, although this one did, because it’s by Matisse,” she said, pointing to the drawing in pencil of a reclining, nude woman. “And that one did because it’s by Chagall.”

  “Excuse me, do you mean you don’t want to buy less expensive works?”

  Tiffany gave out with a sigh that came from deep inside her. “Dale had some money set aside, and he told me to buy some art. I realized that, if I kept buying paintings like the ones in the reception room and dining room, it would take me forever to spend it all, and, by the time I had, we wouldn’t have enough wall space in the whole house for them. So, I went to some galleries and auctions and read about the artists who cost more and are supposed to be the best.” She scanned the wall next to us without glancing over at the Picasso. “I’ve still got a ways to go.”

  I didn’t ask how much she had to spend, though I was dying to know.

  So, these paintings were not so much a collection as a shopping spree. Abbie was right. Dale Milman was diversifying his portfolio by parking some money in art. Tiffany was his investment broker. Her interest in art was an afterthought.

  As I struggled to think of something else to say about the paintings, I remembered I had to come up with plan B for getting her out of the room so I could take a photo of that Picasso. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m feeling a little dehydrated from the drive over here. May I have a glass of water?”

  “Of course,” said Tiffany. “We can have tea if you like.”

  “Just water,” I said.

  She pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her hoodie, tapped on the screen, and put it back in her pocket. “So, if you hear of any good auctions or gallery shows, let me know. I try to keep up with them in the magazines, but half the time I can’t understand what they’re talking about.”

  A young woman in a maid’s uniform knocked, entered, and approached.

  “Water, please,” said Tiffany.

  The young woman curtsied and departed.

  Of course. Why would Tiffany get me a glass of water when she had staff for such things? So much for plan B.

  She looked at me and smiled, though her expression didn’t have much energy behind it. “Learning about art is harder than I thought it would be. I come from a family of doctors, so we never had a lot of art around the house. Not real art, I mean, just posters and some photos we picked up on vacations. I had an art course in college, and it was good, but we didn’t really do that much.”

  The young woman came back with a tray on which she carried a pitcher of ice water and two glasses. They were so beautiful, I thought they must be Waterford crystal.

  After the maid curtsied and left, Tiffany poured each of us a glass. “How about you?” she asked. “Was your family into art?”

  “Not so much,” I said. “My mom is a librarian. Dad works construction. But I grew up near an art museum. In the summers, when I was out of school, Mom and I would walk over to it and eat in the cafeteria and walk around and look at the paintings and sculptures.”

  “Really? There was a museum right in your neighborhood?”

  “Yes. We live a few blocks from Golden Gate Park, and the museum is in the park.”

  “Oh, so that’s how you got started in art. I didn’t follow in my parents’ footsteps either, although my brother and sister did. Dad, Tom, and Jen are all doctors. I took an education course in college and liked it, so I became a teacher, but I never taught. I had babies instead.”

  “How many children do you have?”

  “Two. A boy and a girl. Dale junior and Missy.”

  “They must keep you busy.”

  “Not so much anymore. They’re all grown up now. He’s in California and she’s in Virginia. When they moved out, I started playing tennis at the club, and I got pretty good at it. I was just getting so I enjoyed playing when my knee blew out. That ended my tennis career. I lost almost two years with the surgery and rehab. It would have taken me another two years to get back to where I was. It just wasn’t worth it.”

  I swallowed hard and breathed deep to shake off the sadness I was feeling from her story.

  She sat up straight and seemed to muster all her courage as she said, “So, really, this art thing came along at a good time for me. I was looking for something to do. It’s harder than I thought it would be. That’s why I’m so glad you’re willing to spend some time with me.”

  I put on a happy face and said, “The last time I was here, you mentioned you have Jansen’s art-history book. Why don’t we see what it says about Henri Martin?” I gestured toward the pointillist scene of boats in a harbor.

  “Oh, is that how you say his name? He’s French. Sure. I’d like that.”

  She pulled out her phone, and for a moment I thought plan C had failed, but she put it back in her pocket and said, “I’ll just run to the library and get it myself. Will you excuse me?”

  I smiled and nodded, and she left the room.

  I waited to hear her footsteps in the corridor before getting up, pulling out my own phone, and walking over to the Picasso. Opening the camera app seemed to take forever, but I got the painting centered in the viewfinder and tapped the button just as the door behind me opened.

  I turned and saw the maid frozen in place, watching what I was doing. As soon as I looked at her, she pulled her eyes away from me, fetched the pitcher from the coffee table and departed. No curtsey, this time.

  I breathed deep to still my beating heart, sat, and took a long drink of the water left in my glass before tucking my phone back into my purse. I focused my eyes on one of the landscapes and tried to look like someone who was appreciating art, while my mind tried to figure out whether there was any reason for that maid to tell her mistress I had taken a picture of the Picasso. Based on movies about what goes on in stately homes, I guessed servants never mix with their masters or the guests. On the other hand, perhaps there was some code among the servants about protecting the interests of the family.

  What was done was done. I could only await the repercussions.

  Chapter 16

  Tiffany came back carrying the book clasped to her chest with both arms. As she laid it on the coffee table, she asked, “Would he be in the chapter on impressionism?”

  “Let’s just look up his name in the index,” I said.

  I came around and sat next to her so we could both look. We read about Martin and compared him to Seurat. We looked at the photos of other great French paintings of the late 1800s. When I told her the gardens Monet painted were still there in Giverny, and open for the public to visit, she said she had to get Dale to take her there.

  The maid brought back the pitcher re-filled with ice water. She never even glanced at me.

  After half an hour, it seemed Tiffany was tired, so I thanked her and excused myself. I left her sitting back, looking at her paintings with renewed interest.

  As I drove back to campus, I thought of the students I had known at Fuchs College, now Cardinal University, over the past three years, and of those I’d encountered as a teaching assistant in graduate school. Some remained uninterested in art, satisfied with a passing grade; others made a game of recognizing styles and guessing the artist’s
name, which can be fun; a few recognized the age-old struggle of artists to communicate their experience of life in visual symbols and responded with appreciation.

  Among all of them, I’d never had a student other than Tiffany who had taken an interest in art because she’d been told to spend millions buying it. This was, I supposed, as good a way as any of getting started.

  As the past half hour showed, she was a bright and curious student. Since service to the university was part of my job, and Tiffany was a potential donor, I was indirectly being paid to teach her. But teaching her surely involved telling her if one of her paintings was fake. That made me feel a little better about taking a picture of her Picasso without asking her permission.

  When I got home, I emailed my pictures of Tiffany’s Picasso and John Ghent’s Picasso to Professor Rosenberg, asking if they were consistent with what he knew of Picasso’s late work.

  Wednesday’s meeting of the Gallery Advisory Committee was to be brutal in its efficiency and breathtaking in its brevity if I had anything to say about it. Since the committee had previously approved a list of artists we wanted to exhibit, agreeing on a replacement for Mira Robillard shouldn’t have needed much discussion.

  As I approached the door of the small seminar room on the second floor of the Arts and Humanities Building, I heard nothing going on. Stepping inside, I found Shirley and Greta sitting in silence, each in her own world of thought. When I dropped my folder on the table and greeted them, they nodded to me and ignored each other.

  As I sat, Bert came in the door. Such a well-timed entrance could only have been achieved by lurking in the hallway watching for me to enter first. “Sorry I’m late,” he muttered, as he came to the table.

  “Let’s begin with your report, Shirley,” I said. I was glad to see that surprised her. When she looked at me wide-eyed, I explained. “I haven’t received an email from you, so I assume no one else has either. Why don’t you tell us your thoughts on the gallery’s emerging brand and save yourself the trouble of writing to us?”

  Her look hardened a few degrees before she replied. “I thought the purpose of this meeting was to approve a replacement for Mira Robillard, so I have not prepared that report.”

  I wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily. “I recall you felt pretty strongly about the branding issue at our last meeting. Since you’re familiar with the other three artists we’re considering, surely one of them strikes you as more relevant than the other others to what you perceive our emerging brand to be.”

  Through clenched teeth, she said, “No.”

  “Alright then, we’ll set aside all discussion of branding and marketing until a later meeting.”

  Shirley glanced at Bert and sat back in her chair with folded arms. If she was going to use our meeting time to flirt, she’d have to come up with a new angle. I glanced at Bert to see if he recognized the situation, but his eyes were on the papers on the table in front of him.

  “The next artist on our list is Hassan Shebib, sculptor.” I passed out copies of a page with photos of four of his works. “As you may remember, he works in stainless steel wire, creating dynamic human and animal figures. They look powerful and massive, but are, in fact, lightweight. This would be our first sculpture exhibit. I think this could get a lot of attention from the campus community and in the area.”

  “How big are these?” asked Greta. “How many could we fit in the gallery?”

  “That’s a good question,” I said, even though the dimensions were noted on the sheet. “These are all table-top size, so we’ll have to install some pedestals. I think we can borrow from other programs on campus.”

  Greta gave a guttural groan. “That’s so complicated and it sounds expensive.”

  “Every exhibit has its challenges, Greta,” I said. “I’m sure it can all be worked out.”

  “I’m just thinking of you,” she said. “This gallery demands so much of you. I don’t know where you find the time.”

  “No need to worry. I enjoy it. It supports my teaching.”

  Greta seemed not to have heard me when she said, “I vote we should keep it simple.”

  There was no way of knowing whether she meant that as an alternative to the sculpture exhibit or as a general statement of policy. “At the moment, Greta, there is nothing to vote on. Your concerns about the sculpture exhibit are duly noted. Does anyone else have any thoughts about exhibiting the work of Hassan Shebib?”

  Bert kept his eyes on the page of photos I had passed out. He seemed determined not to look up until the meeting was over and it was time to leave the room.

  Shirley startled me by speaking in a loud voice. “I agree with Greta. This is much too ambitious. Stainless steel sculptures must weigh tons. Who is going to handle them? Will we have to hire a crew of movers? Do we have the budget?”

  “As I said, Shirley, they are in fact lightweight. As you can see in these photos, they are made of stainless steel wire that outlines the subject. Weight will not be an issue.”

  Shirley shivered as she said, “We haven’t had time to think about this. I’d like to do some research. I move we postpone this decision.”

  I turned to Bert who was still studying those four photos. “Bert, what are your thoughts on exhibiting the work of this artist?”

  Without looking up, he said, “Interesting work. This sheet gives dimensions but not weight.”

  “That’s because weight is not an issue,” I said. “Some of these are less than a foot tall. The largest is eighteen inches high and less than two feet long. They are made of bent wire. They are mostly air.”

  “Still it wouldn’t be difficult to find out,” said Bert. “Just ask the artist.”

  “Obviously we don’t have enough information,” said Shirley. “I move we adjourn until Nicole can give us a report from the artist.”

  “Seconded,” said Greta.

  “Fine,” I said, startling myself. It came out louder than I intended. “I will report to the committee by email, and, if—as I suspect—weight will not be a problem, I will go ahead with sending a contract to this artist.”

  “That might be premature,” said Shirley. “Perhaps we should meet to discuss this when we have all the information.”

  “Absolutely,” said Greta.

  Bert glanced at his watch. “I need to leave the meeting early. My department is getting together and I have to be there. I’m sorry.” He slipped the papers on Habib into his portfolio.

  “I think we’re done here,” said Greta.

  “Unless Nicole has something else for us to discuss,” said Shirley, staring at me with arms folded.

  “That’s all for today,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”

  I fiddled with my papers and file folders while they left the room and made sure to hear their footsteps fade away before getting up and walking back to my office on the third floor.

  I had called Shirley’s bluff by insisting she give us her thoughts on the gallery’s brand, and it had become apparent she had none. I had taken away her strategy for flirting with Bert during the meetings, but this was a strategic error. She retaliated by siding with Greta against me.

  Worse, Bert seemed to be sulking all through the meeting, and he did not back me up when it came to contacting the next artist. I couldn’t imagine why his attitude toward me and the committee had changed. When we met at the coffee bar on the previous Friday, he thanked me for intervening when Shirley flirted with him at the last meeting. Had he changed his mind about that? That seemed unlikely.

  I made a note to call him before sending out my next email to the committee. I wanted to get us back on the same page.

  In the meantime, I would find out the weight of Habib’s sculptures, though I felt silly about asking such a question. What difference could it make whether they weighed ten ounces or two pounds? Nonetheless I would inform the committee and would seriously consider going ahead without having another meeting.

  All through my class and office hours Thursday m
orning, I felt a strange mixture of excitement and anxiety. It started when I got a text from Pat saying he couldn’t go with me to the memorial service for Anne Ghent because he was behind on a research deadline and needed to work through the afternoon. I assumed he also wanted to spend some time in the weight room. He didn’t have a rigid schedule for his workouts, but, when he needed one, everything else could wait.

  If we’d shown up at the service as a couple, it would have been obvious we were following a social convention—we’d met the Ghents at a dinner party almost two weeks ago and were paying our respects and supporting the grieving husband—but I felt awkward about showing up on my own and wondered if I should apologize for Pat’s absence when I talked to John and the others or just let them make their own assumptions.

  While trying to calm myself by nibbling on a PB&J and flipping through emails, I saw a reply from Dr. Sidney Rosenberg to my question about the authenticity of Tiffany and Anne’s Picassos. He began by saying, “What you ask is impossible,” partly because Picasso produced so many paintings in his last years. He ended by saying, “No critic or historian would attempt to give a valid opinion based on pictures taken with a cell phone.”

  Guys like him really annoyed me. He could have just said he couldn’t tell by looking at the photos. He didn’t have to imply that I was stupid for asking.

  I shut down my computer, tidied up my office, and loaded my backpack before heading back to my Rabbit Hutch so I could get in my car and make the ninety-minute drive to Shawville, where the service was being held at two o’clock. While doing so, I considered the possibility that my project to authenticate both Picassos was now dead in the water.

  As I walked down Ohio Avenue and turned on to Montgomery, a new possibility occurred to me. I might see Sandra Carlini at the memorial service. As registrar of Greenbrae, she surely knew how Greenbrae authenticated paintings when they were added to the museum’s collection. I might call upon her.

  Since John Ghent had given me access to Anne’s paintings, she might be willing to look at Anne’s Picasso. If she saw no reason to call in a curator, I would feel more confident about advising him to sell it, and would be relieved of any duty to tell Tiffany her painting might be questionable.