Read Online The Art Forger by B A Shapiro - Free Book Online Page A

for my book proposal.
    I pull out his sketchbooks and bring them back to the chair. I open the first one and flip through the bather sketches. Degas often used the same models in a number of different paintings. I’m searching for Simone, Jacqueline, and Françoise.
    I find a couple of Simone and turn back to the painting for a closer look at Jacqueline. Again, the power of Bath assaults me. Although I’m sure I can master the technical aspects needed to avoid detection—stripping the old Meissonier canvas down to the sizing, mixing the correct nineteenth-century paints and mediums, using the proper period brushes—I have no idea how I’ll master reproducing the commanding gestalt of Degas’ masterwork. But Bath reaches out to me, touches my heart, and I know I have to try.
    I ’M WORKING DILIGENTLY on the Pissarro for Repro, but all I want to do is go through the Degas sketches and find my three French ladies, maybe even a compositional drawing for the whole painting. I make a deal with myself: one more hour on the Pissarro and then I can take a quick break with the books. Whatever else I’ve decided to do, Repro pays the rent. It also, as Markel so accurately pointed out, gives me a cover.
    I’m just settling back into the Pissarro when Markel shows up with a very expensive-looking bottle of champagne and a pair of crystal flutes. Obviously, he remembers the juice glasses from his first visit. We toast to our arrangement and the Gardner regaining its treasure. I pull the sheet from Bath.
    He takes a small step backward as the force of the painting hits him. It’s clear he feels the same way about her as I do. I motion him into the folding chair and pull the rocking chair over for myself. We sit in silence, sipping our champagne and looking at her.
    “Like two old folks watching a sunset,” he says.
    “Sometimes I cry when I look at it.”
    A pause, then, “Me, too.”
    “I was at the Gardner yesterday,” I tell him.
    “Looking at the empty frame?”
    I nod my head but don’t take my eyes from the painting.
    “Didn’t feel as guilty as you thought you were going to, did you?”
    I whip around. “Why do you say that?”
    “It’s true, isn’t it?”
    “Of course not,” I say with conviction. “I did feel guilty. I even thought about bringing it back.”
    “But you didn’t.”
    I shrug.
    Markel’s laugh is warm and rich, without a touch of condescension. “You’ve fallen in love with her.”
    “Is it that obvious?”
    He touches his flute to mine, and our eyes lock. “Takes one to know one.”
    “The faces are so specific, so individual, not like most of his nudes.”
    Markel looks at the two books of sketches on the floor in front of him. “Find any of them?”
    “I just started looking, and although there are hardly any faces in the sketches, I think I’ve found a few of Simone.”
    “Simone?”
    “Françoise, Jacqueline, and Simone,” I say pointing to each in turn. “Hard to be in love with someone whose name you don’t know.”

Nine
    THREE YEARS EARLIER
    Markel and Karen Sinsheimer, a senior curator at the Museum of Modern Art, stood in front of 4D, which rested on an easel in Isaac’s studio. Isaac and I hung back.
    Tall and sleek, wearing an outfit that probably cost more than my monthly rent, Karen moved closer to the painting. She took a few photos with her phone, typed in a few notes. The slick, white-blond hair against her youthful face and the taut, lean body came together to create the message she clearly worked hard to send: the no-nonsense, powerful New York professional woman.
    No one said anything. We just stared at the canvas. Wine and nuts sat untouched on the coffee table. Isaac shifted from foot to foot. I tried to look only marginally interested, as if 4D were just another one of Isaac’s paintings, this studio visit no more important than any other.
    This was the first time anyone beside the two of us had seen 4D . Karen was here to decide whether it would be