answers would expose him for what he had allowed himself to become—a fake.
Drewe explained his plan: Once inside the archives he would alter the records and seed them with his own alternate history, a “reconstructed” chronicle that would include the names of real and invented collectors and would revolve around the works he had commissioned from Myatt.
The painter was dubious and apprehensive. How could Drewe possibly get away with it? How would he get past security?
“Don’t worry, John,” said Drewe. “Archives are on the lookout for people taking material out, not for people putting it in.”
M yatt needn’t have feared being cross-examined at the reception. No one in the room was aware of his discomfort. He sipped his tea in silence, and looked at the people seated around the grand oak table. Myatt had nothing to offer them. He was sitting among some of the most influential members of the art world, sophisticated and intelligent, and they had enough to talk about with Drewe, who seemed as excited about the potentials of this partnership with the Tate as they did. All eyes were on Drewe—until the moment when the two conservators came in with the Bissière panels. Myatt nearly spilled his tea.
Had he known that Drewe intended to donate these two pieces, he would at least have used authentic French paint from the 1950s. Technically they were quite good, he thought, but he had done them on fiber-board, an artificial wood made of sawdust, with the usual everyday house paint. The two panels of Spring Woodland, purportedly painted some forty years earlier, looked fresh, bright, and brand new. Myatt knew that any respectable art institution, and certainly the Tate, would inspect them closely before officially taking them into its collection. He gripped his chair, imagining that he could detect the faint smell of the varnish Drewe had sprayed on them. He looked over at the professor. Drewe seemed oblivious.
Once the reception was over the paintings were carried down to the conservation department. Myatt was sure that if the conservators so much as touched the canvas with a fine brush, the paint would give way and the game would be up.
As the Tate brass escorted Drewe and Myatt downstairs to the gallery, one of the curators pointed at a wall. “This is where we’ll hang these two wonderful pieces,” he said.
Placing a work at the Tate was a remarkable achievement for any artist—forger or not—but Myatt could see only one possible end to what had transpired. He had survived many low points in his past, but none quite as devastating as this one was shaping up to be. Surely he would land in prison.
Outside, Myatt dropped his usual deference toward Drewe and exploded. “There’s no way they’re going to look at those panels and think they’re oils from the fifties. You’ve got to get them back!”
Drewe protested that if he asked for the paintings back, he would suffer a terrible loss of credibility. All the effort he’d put into cultivating the confidence of the Tate’s senior staff would be for naught. By this time Drewe knew quite a bit about the authentication of artworks and should have recognized that Myatt’s fears were well-grounded, but his arrogance and his faith in his phony provenances may have led him to believe that the Tate would never even question whether the Bissières were genuine.
In any case, he understood that he had to appease Myatt, who seemed close to coming apart. His investment in Myatt was greater than his investment in the Tate, so he assured his partner that he would get the paintings back. In exchange, though, they would have to make a sizable monetary gift of £20,000 to the Tate. Drewe managed to convince Myatt to pay half of it.
The following day Drewe returned to the Tate to withdraw Spring Woodland . There was a problem with the provenance, he said, questions having to do with the previous owners. The details were vague, but the long and the short of it
Drewe explained his plan: Once inside the archives he would alter the records and seed them with his own alternate history, a “reconstructed” chronicle that would include the names of real and invented collectors and would revolve around the works he had commissioned from Myatt.
The painter was dubious and apprehensive. How could Drewe possibly get away with it? How would he get past security?
“Don’t worry, John,” said Drewe. “Archives are on the lookout for people taking material out, not for people putting it in.”
M yatt needn’t have feared being cross-examined at the reception. No one in the room was aware of his discomfort. He sipped his tea in silence, and looked at the people seated around the grand oak table. Myatt had nothing to offer them. He was sitting among some of the most influential members of the art world, sophisticated and intelligent, and they had enough to talk about with Drewe, who seemed as excited about the potentials of this partnership with the Tate as they did. All eyes were on Drewe—until the moment when the two conservators came in with the Bissière panels. Myatt nearly spilled his tea.
Had he known that Drewe intended to donate these two pieces, he would at least have used authentic French paint from the 1950s. Technically they were quite good, he thought, but he had done them on fiber-board, an artificial wood made of sawdust, with the usual everyday house paint. The two panels of Spring Woodland, purportedly painted some forty years earlier, looked fresh, bright, and brand new. Myatt knew that any respectable art institution, and certainly the Tate, would inspect them closely before officially taking them into its collection. He gripped his chair, imagining that he could detect the faint smell of the varnish Drewe had sprayed on them. He looked over at the professor. Drewe seemed oblivious.
Once the reception was over the paintings were carried down to the conservation department. Myatt was sure that if the conservators so much as touched the canvas with a fine brush, the paint would give way and the game would be up.
As the Tate brass escorted Drewe and Myatt downstairs to the gallery, one of the curators pointed at a wall. “This is where we’ll hang these two wonderful pieces,” he said.
Placing a work at the Tate was a remarkable achievement for any artist—forger or not—but Myatt could see only one possible end to what had transpired. He had survived many low points in his past, but none quite as devastating as this one was shaping up to be. Surely he would land in prison.
Outside, Myatt dropped his usual deference toward Drewe and exploded. “There’s no way they’re going to look at those panels and think they’re oils from the fifties. You’ve got to get them back!”
Drewe protested that if he asked for the paintings back, he would suffer a terrible loss of credibility. All the effort he’d put into cultivating the confidence of the Tate’s senior staff would be for naught. By this time Drewe knew quite a bit about the authentication of artworks and should have recognized that Myatt’s fears were well-grounded, but his arrogance and his faith in his phony provenances may have led him to believe that the Tate would never even question whether the Bissières were genuine.
In any case, he understood that he had to appease Myatt, who seemed close to coming apart. His investment in Myatt was greater than his investment in the Tate, so he assured his partner that he would get the paintings back. In exchange, though, they would have to make a sizable monetary gift of £20,000 to the Tate. Drewe managed to convince Myatt to pay half of it.
The following day Drewe returned to the Tate to withdraw Spring Woodland . There was a problem with the provenance, he said, questions having to do with the previous owners. The details were vague, but the long and the short of it
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