inside of Xavier’s cans are a bit neater than Manuel’s, there isn’t all that much difference. Then I look closer and see that Xavier’s brushstrokes go from right to left, and Manuel’s from left to right.
“Is one of the boys left-handed?” I ask Kimberly.
She thinks. “You know, now that you mention it, I’m pretty sure Manuel is. Yeah, yeah, he is. He was bragging that being left-handed made him a better boxer. Why? Does it make a difference?”
I don’t answer. I just stare at the beer cans.
W HEN I GET home, I print every close-up photograph I have and cut them wherever there’s a discernible brushstroke. I take Bath from the easel and lay her on the floor, move the little photo pieces around her surface, looking for matches. I find a few, some better than others. I move them around some more. When I’m satisfied, I lean back on my haunches and survey my work.
Almost everywhere, the paint’s too smooth to make any determination, but there are a few places, mostly in or around Françoise, where a difference can be seen. In each of the MFA Degas photos, all the brushstrokes go right to left. But in Bath, a number of them go left to right.
I lean closer to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. There is no doubt, and a low whistle escapes my lips. I knew it the first minute Markel unwrapped the painting. Knew it, but refused to believe it. My gut was right. This Bath is not Degas’ Bath. It was painted by someone else. A left-handed someone else.
From the pen of
I SABELLA S TEWART G ARDNER
July 1, 1886
Paris, France
My dearest Amelia,
Only six more weeks and we shall be together again! I cannot wait to see my very own grown-up married girl! You must indulge me in my sentimentality, as you are as dear to me as any daughter could be. In fact, as far as I am concerned, you are my daughter, even if I am not old enough to have actually given birth to you.
But you have been very naughty to have purchased so many furnishings without me. I shall be bringing a few items from our travels that I hope will find happy homes in your apartments. I’m glad to hear that Sumner allows you full reign over the household. I only wish your uncle would do the same as he is always fretting that I spend too much money.
And please, please, please, do not pay any attention to “Town Topics” unless it is to laugh at their overblown prose. I am not sorry that men desire my company nor that I enjoy the company of the most talented of them. And I have seen none of their wives “scolding and stomping their feet” when the men pay me attention. Far from it, Maud Elliott and Julia Ward Howe are just as pleased to attend my soirees and dinners as are their “giddy and wayward husbands”!
And the piece about my secret rendezvous with Frank Crawford, well, he is almost young enough to be my son! But I shall not be the one to spoil such a good story with the truth. Do not distress yourself over the words of this silly rag, especially not on my behalf. I say if people like to believe such things, please don’t deny them their pleasure.
You ask if I have had any further adventures with Mr. Edgar Degas, and indeed I have. I told you in my last letter that he had invited me to his studio. Well, my dear, I went to that wonderfully bohemian Montmartre, to 21 rue Pigalle (where he both works and lives) to be exact, and it was indeed an experience.
Edgar is such a complex and interesting man. Everything about him is a contradiction. His pictures are selling well and his name is everywhere, yet his apartment is so small that he must use his studio for his dressing room! His face is rather homely, but his posture and his clothes are so fine that one hardly takes notice. His eyes are dark and hooded, but in them one can see the wondrous and tortured soul of a true artist. And when he throws back his head and laughs (the gentleman is quite the card), he is most attractive.
He is the most meticulous of painters, and yet his
“Is one of the boys left-handed?” I ask Kimberly.
She thinks. “You know, now that you mention it, I’m pretty sure Manuel is. Yeah, yeah, he is. He was bragging that being left-handed made him a better boxer. Why? Does it make a difference?”
I don’t answer. I just stare at the beer cans.
W HEN I GET home, I print every close-up photograph I have and cut them wherever there’s a discernible brushstroke. I take Bath from the easel and lay her on the floor, move the little photo pieces around her surface, looking for matches. I find a few, some better than others. I move them around some more. When I’m satisfied, I lean back on my haunches and survey my work.
Almost everywhere, the paint’s too smooth to make any determination, but there are a few places, mostly in or around Françoise, where a difference can be seen. In each of the MFA Degas photos, all the brushstrokes go right to left. But in Bath, a number of them go left to right.
I lean closer to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. There is no doubt, and a low whistle escapes my lips. I knew it the first minute Markel unwrapped the painting. Knew it, but refused to believe it. My gut was right. This Bath is not Degas’ Bath. It was painted by someone else. A left-handed someone else.
From the pen of
I SABELLA S TEWART G ARDNER
July 1, 1886
Paris, France
My dearest Amelia,
Only six more weeks and we shall be together again! I cannot wait to see my very own grown-up married girl! You must indulge me in my sentimentality, as you are as dear to me as any daughter could be. In fact, as far as I am concerned, you are my daughter, even if I am not old enough to have actually given birth to you.
But you have been very naughty to have purchased so many furnishings without me. I shall be bringing a few items from our travels that I hope will find happy homes in your apartments. I’m glad to hear that Sumner allows you full reign over the household. I only wish your uncle would do the same as he is always fretting that I spend too much money.
And please, please, please, do not pay any attention to “Town Topics” unless it is to laugh at their overblown prose. I am not sorry that men desire my company nor that I enjoy the company of the most talented of them. And I have seen none of their wives “scolding and stomping their feet” when the men pay me attention. Far from it, Maud Elliott and Julia Ward Howe are just as pleased to attend my soirees and dinners as are their “giddy and wayward husbands”!
And the piece about my secret rendezvous with Frank Crawford, well, he is almost young enough to be my son! But I shall not be the one to spoil such a good story with the truth. Do not distress yourself over the words of this silly rag, especially not on my behalf. I say if people like to believe such things, please don’t deny them their pleasure.
You ask if I have had any further adventures with Mr. Edgar Degas, and indeed I have. I told you in my last letter that he had invited me to his studio. Well, my dear, I went to that wonderfully bohemian Montmartre, to 21 rue Pigalle (where he both works and lives) to be exact, and it was indeed an experience.
Edgar is such a complex and interesting man. Everything about him is a contradiction. His pictures are selling well and his name is everywhere, yet his apartment is so small that he must use his studio for his dressing room! His face is rather homely, but his posture and his clothes are so fine that one hardly takes notice. His eyes are dark and hooded, but in them one can see the wondrous and tortured soul of a true artist. And when he throws back his head and laughs (the gentleman is quite the card), he is most attractive.
He is the most meticulous of painters, and yet his
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