Read Online The Art Forger by B A Shapiro - Free Book Online
Authors: B A Shapiro
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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imprisoned comrades.”
Markel alluded to this, too. “No James Bond and Dr. No?”
“This works out better for the thieves. It’s tough to sell the paintings outright because everyone knows they’re stolen, so they use them on the black market. Say, for example, that you want to buy a load of cocaine for $1 million, which you know you can turn into $4 million in a week. You don’t have $1 million, but you do have a Rembrandt worth at least $30 million. So you offer a moneyman the painting as collateral for the mil and another million when the deal’s done. If the deal falls through, moneyman’s got something worth much more than he gave you, and if it works, he gets double his investment and returns the painting to you. Ergo, you end up with $2 million tax-free and a $30 million painting to run through the same scheme when the next opportunity comes around.”
“Great for the thieves, lousy for the paintings.”
“You’ve got that right,” Rik says. “It’s awful what happens to them. They get stashed in places that are too wet or too hot or too cold. They’re cut from their frames. Ripped. Destroyed.” He presses a hand to his stomach. “I get sick just talking about it.”
I, too, am nauseated by the image, the ravaging, the waste. “Blood paintings.”
“Like blood diamonds?” Rik laughs without humor. “But instead of slave labor, it’s art that’s exploited, sometimes massacred.”
This is a fate I refuse to imagine for Bath.
W HEN I LEAVE the museum, I rush home to be with Bath. It feels as if I’m hurrying to meet a new lover: the excitement, the desire, the seemingly endless drenching of serotonin. I whip the sheet off the canvas, and there she is. Alive and intact. Even more beautiful than I remember. I’ve set her on a large easel and pulled up a folding chair so I can sit in front of her, drink her in.
Every time I look, I see something new. Now I notice how much green there is. The blues and the oranges are so vibrant, the women’s skin so pale and luminescent, that I was distracted. Green fills the entire painting, gently stretching out behind all the sharper colors, but very much there.
Then I’m struck by the women’s faces, all in profile, yet each her own. Most of Degas’ bathers are either painted from behind, have an arm thrown over their faces, or are loosely sketched, but these women are clearly individuals. Françoise, with reddish hair and a sharp nose, sits to the right, her leg outstretched; Jacqueline, at the center, tall and powerful, looks over her shoulder at the raised knee Françoise is toweling; Simone, introverted, her features too small for her round face, dries her hair crouched at Jacqueline’s feet.
There’s been an argument going on for decades among art historians with too much time on their hands: Was Degas really an Impressionist? Those who say no point out that Degas didn’t paint outdoors, plein air, as did most of the Impressionists, and that he didn’t boldly splash thick pigments on canvas to capture the moment in front of him. Instead, he did multitudes of sketches and detailed drawings and then worked on the piece slowly in his studio.
But to me, the argument is just semantics, an exercise in mental masturbation. True, Degas painted neither plein air nor spontaneously, but he had his own way of bringing his impressions into the heart of the viewer: his focus on the movement of racehorses and ballet dancers, his depiction of the ordinary milliner or washer woman or bather, caught in a complete lack of self-consciousness.
I turn from Bath and squat before the piles of books flanking the north wall. I have a couple of Degas piles: biographies and criticism; books of his drawings, prints, and paintings; diaries and collections of his letters; notebooks of scribbled lecture notes. I also have two books devoted to only his preliminary sketches. Not to mention all the library books, many overdue, on his contemporaries that I’ve been using
Markel alluded to this, too. “No James Bond and Dr. No?”
“This works out better for the thieves. It’s tough to sell the paintings outright because everyone knows they’re stolen, so they use them on the black market. Say, for example, that you want to buy a load of cocaine for $1 million, which you know you can turn into $4 million in a week. You don’t have $1 million, but you do have a Rembrandt worth at least $30 million. So you offer a moneyman the painting as collateral for the mil and another million when the deal’s done. If the deal falls through, moneyman’s got something worth much more than he gave you, and if it works, he gets double his investment and returns the painting to you. Ergo, you end up with $2 million tax-free and a $30 million painting to run through the same scheme when the next opportunity comes around.”
“Great for the thieves, lousy for the paintings.”
“You’ve got that right,” Rik says. “It’s awful what happens to them. They get stashed in places that are too wet or too hot or too cold. They’re cut from their frames. Ripped. Destroyed.” He presses a hand to his stomach. “I get sick just talking about it.”
I, too, am nauseated by the image, the ravaging, the waste. “Blood paintings.”
“Like blood diamonds?” Rik laughs without humor. “But instead of slave labor, it’s art that’s exploited, sometimes massacred.”
This is a fate I refuse to imagine for Bath.
W HEN I LEAVE the museum, I rush home to be with Bath. It feels as if I’m hurrying to meet a new lover: the excitement, the desire, the seemingly endless drenching of serotonin. I whip the sheet off the canvas, and there she is. Alive and intact. Even more beautiful than I remember. I’ve set her on a large easel and pulled up a folding chair so I can sit in front of her, drink her in.
Every time I look, I see something new. Now I notice how much green there is. The blues and the oranges are so vibrant, the women’s skin so pale and luminescent, that I was distracted. Green fills the entire painting, gently stretching out behind all the sharper colors, but very much there.
Then I’m struck by the women’s faces, all in profile, yet each her own. Most of Degas’ bathers are either painted from behind, have an arm thrown over their faces, or are loosely sketched, but these women are clearly individuals. Françoise, with reddish hair and a sharp nose, sits to the right, her leg outstretched; Jacqueline, at the center, tall and powerful, looks over her shoulder at the raised knee Françoise is toweling; Simone, introverted, her features too small for her round face, dries her hair crouched at Jacqueline’s feet.
There’s been an argument going on for decades among art historians with too much time on their hands: Was Degas really an Impressionist? Those who say no point out that Degas didn’t paint outdoors, plein air, as did most of the Impressionists, and that he didn’t boldly splash thick pigments on canvas to capture the moment in front of him. Instead, he did multitudes of sketches and detailed drawings and then worked on the piece slowly in his studio.
But to me, the argument is just semantics, an exercise in mental masturbation. True, Degas painted neither plein air nor spontaneously, but he had his own way of bringing his impressions into the heart of the viewer: his focus on the movement of racehorses and ballet dancers, his depiction of the ordinary milliner or washer woman or bather, caught in a complete lack of self-consciousness.
I turn from Bath and squat before the piles of books flanking the north wall. I have a couple of Degas piles: biographies and criticism; books of his drawings, prints, and paintings; diaries and collections of his letters; notebooks of scribbled lecture notes. I also have two books devoted to only his preliminary sketches. Not to mention all the library books, many overdue, on his contemporaries that I’ve been using
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