the canvas. He told the story truthfully, and was lucky enough to have arrived just as the art market was hitting its peak. Houses couldn’t afford to be too thorough in checking provenances. The house verified the painting’s age through forensic testing and
Febrer
was put up for auction in a group of minor Impressionists, under “École des Hiverains, artist unknown.” It still sold for more money than Gabriel had expected. He sent his mother all of it, telling her he’d sold one of his paintings. In a sense, he had. The more he thought about it, the more he believed it himself, until it became as much a fundamental truth as the bitterness of coffee or the hot stink of the Parisian
métro
. He had sold his first Connois.
Elm
Mrs. Schmidt’s drawings returned authenticated. Several times, minor copies (or forgeries, it was impossible to know) crossed Elm’s desk. She could always tell—the lines lacked the natural progression, the logic of the artistic mind. Where an artist’s charcoal would fly across the paper, gathering speed in the weave and bumps of the pulp, the copyist’s was hesitant, looking back to check on its progress. The artist’s work was freer; those who followed in his footsteps were always a step behind.
Even though clear forgeries were often obvious, people still tried to sneak them into auctions. Their provenances were sketchy—they were discovered in an attic or behind an old painting or in a flea market—or even nonexistent. The perspective was off, or the material was wrong, or it contained other anachronisms. Elm once saw smoke rising from an industrial chimney in the background of a Blavoin, even though the artist worked before the industrial revolution and lived, famously, secluded in the provinces. Terrified of horses, he traveled only on foot, and therefore never left his township, nestled in the foothills of the Alps, far from any such smoke. This willful disregard for scholarship offended Elm, even as she laughed at it. It was insulting that someone would think her that stupid, though she knew specialists and departmental directors often were. She had seen obvious misattributions (the euphemism for fakes) fool good eyes and wind up in private collections.
Elm was not supposed to voice her suspicions. First of all, it was bad for business. Too many items pulled from auctions because of suspect authenticity gave houses a reputation they didn’t want. Second, it was bad to be the whistle-blower. Also, unless Elm had the opportunity toexamine the drawing under the loupe, she really couldn’t be sure. And, of course, if the purchaser enjoyed his “Brueghel” or his “Delacroix,” who was she to rain on his parade? Still, pangs tugged at her heart when she saw small museums blow their acquisition budgets on inferior drawings. It was like watching the government build a bridge that she knew would fail.
Elm did a quick search in the Art Loss Registry. The database of stolen art was part of her due diligence, a hedge against liability if the pieces had been stolen. Nothing surfaced.
Elm wanted to meet the great Indira Schmidt, so she joined Ian and his croissants in a company car up to Columbia. Ian had described both the building and the woman perfectly. Mrs. Schmidt looked Elm up and down skeptically with rheumy eyes and let her into the apartment. Ian she kissed on the cheek, and as he straightened he winked at Elm.
The apartment was dark. The rays of sun that escaped from the velvet curtains blinded like spotlights instead of illuminating. The hallway carpet gave at each footstep. Elm noticed, as she walked slowly behind the old woman, that instead of family portraits, the pictures lining the entryway were all professional: Stieglitz, Leibovitz, Mann, Sherman. Not their controversial or iconic images, but recognizable nonetheless. In fact, Elm realized, there were no photos of family anywhere in the apartment.
Elm sat on a couch so low her knees were above her chin. She
Febrer
was put up for auction in a group of minor Impressionists, under “École des Hiverains, artist unknown.” It still sold for more money than Gabriel had expected. He sent his mother all of it, telling her he’d sold one of his paintings. In a sense, he had. The more he thought about it, the more he believed it himself, until it became as much a fundamental truth as the bitterness of coffee or the hot stink of the Parisian
métro
. He had sold his first Connois.
Elm
Mrs. Schmidt’s drawings returned authenticated. Several times, minor copies (or forgeries, it was impossible to know) crossed Elm’s desk. She could always tell—the lines lacked the natural progression, the logic of the artistic mind. Where an artist’s charcoal would fly across the paper, gathering speed in the weave and bumps of the pulp, the copyist’s was hesitant, looking back to check on its progress. The artist’s work was freer; those who followed in his footsteps were always a step behind.
Even though clear forgeries were often obvious, people still tried to sneak them into auctions. Their provenances were sketchy—they were discovered in an attic or behind an old painting or in a flea market—or even nonexistent. The perspective was off, or the material was wrong, or it contained other anachronisms. Elm once saw smoke rising from an industrial chimney in the background of a Blavoin, even though the artist worked before the industrial revolution and lived, famously, secluded in the provinces. Terrified of horses, he traveled only on foot, and therefore never left his township, nestled in the foothills of the Alps, far from any such smoke. This willful disregard for scholarship offended Elm, even as she laughed at it. It was insulting that someone would think her that stupid, though she knew specialists and departmental directors often were. She had seen obvious misattributions (the euphemism for fakes) fool good eyes and wind up in private collections.
Elm was not supposed to voice her suspicions. First of all, it was bad for business. Too many items pulled from auctions because of suspect authenticity gave houses a reputation they didn’t want. Second, it was bad to be the whistle-blower. Also, unless Elm had the opportunity toexamine the drawing under the loupe, she really couldn’t be sure. And, of course, if the purchaser enjoyed his “Brueghel” or his “Delacroix,” who was she to rain on his parade? Still, pangs tugged at her heart when she saw small museums blow their acquisition budgets on inferior drawings. It was like watching the government build a bridge that she knew would fail.
Elm did a quick search in the Art Loss Registry. The database of stolen art was part of her due diligence, a hedge against liability if the pieces had been stolen. Nothing surfaced.
Elm wanted to meet the great Indira Schmidt, so she joined Ian and his croissants in a company car up to Columbia. Ian had described both the building and the woman perfectly. Mrs. Schmidt looked Elm up and down skeptically with rheumy eyes and let her into the apartment. Ian she kissed on the cheek, and as he straightened he winked at Elm.
The apartment was dark. The rays of sun that escaped from the velvet curtains blinded like spotlights instead of illuminating. The hallway carpet gave at each footstep. Elm noticed, as she walked slowly behind the old woman, that instead of family portraits, the pictures lining the entryway were all professional: Stieglitz, Leibovitz, Mann, Sherman. Not their controversial or iconic images, but recognizable nonetheless. In fact, Elm realized, there were no photos of family anywhere in the apartment.
Elm sat on a couch so low her knees were above her chin. She
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