Authors: Dayna Rubin
Natanya then put her head in her hands as she thought about their actions in stealing the Vermeer.
“Wait…”
Philippe leaned back into the seat of the car while he held the door open, and waited for her next question.
“What if we don’t sell the painting to them? What if we just drive away and figure out some other way to obtain the album?”
“Then they will get someone else to do it and we’ll have lost the chance to recover the lost artwork forever.”
“And you don’t want the catalogued records so that you can sell everything after we find it? You…you
want
to give the paintings and other works of art back to the Jewish families?”
“Absolutely…trust me.” Philippe shut the driver’s door after he exited the vehicle, then popped open the trunk to pick up the bag containing the real Vermeer, ‘Woman Holding a Balance’.
“So, that’s it.”
“Yes, that’s it.” Philippe gave her one long last look, and then closed the hatch to the SUV.
He walked back up to the road and waited for their contact, with the bag swinging by his side as he walked.
Chapter Seven
Defining the Spatial Structure
The throttle fully released, the roar of the approaching motorcycle could be heard before it was seen, picking up speed as it drew nearer. Within a few feet of Philippe, the motorcycle suddenly slid to a halt, stopping inches from him.
The rider, covered in leather from his silver tipped boots to his gloved hands, revved the engine. Philippe didn’t flinch as the dust from the gravel drifted up from under the tires to envelope them both.
The rider’s gloved hand raised the shield of his black helmet, revealing a set of dark penetrating eyes.
Philippe stood his ground as he waited for the rider to speak.
“Tomorrow. We’ll meet here tomorrow.” The rider shouted over the noise of the engine.
Philippe stepped toward the idling motorcycle and its rider. “Why not now, we have the picture?” He challenged.
“We’ll see about that.” The rider revved his engine, and then lowered the shield of his helmet. Turning away from Philippe, the rider opened the throttle, quickly distancing himself from Philippe until all that Philippe could see was a hazy speck in the distance.
“Damn it!” Philippe exclaimed as he sidestepped down the embankment under the bridge toward the SUV
“What happened? Do you have the catalogue? Did you exchange the painting?” Natanya questioned.
“No.” Philippe sat down in the driver’s seat next to Natanya, his breathing labored.
“Well, what did he say?”
“There’s been a change in plan. We are to meet him here tomorrow.” Philippe closed the driver’s door forcefully and turned the ignition.
“What do we do until then?”
“We wait.”
Natanya and Philippe both stared into the dry creek bed directly ahead.
“Prepare yourself.” Philippe said as he put the car in reverse then placed his arm across the back seat as he prepared to back up. The car began its ascent up the graveled creek bed.
“What do you think he’s going to do?” Natanya inquired while she braced herself, thrown forward by the incline of the SUV.
“I don’t know, Nat.” Philippe avoided eye contact with Natanya, looking instead to see if there was any on coming traffic before passing over the bridge and heading back the way they came.
Natanya gave up looking for answers in Philippe’s profile, his clenched jaw revealed his tension, the tight grip on the steering wheel showed his resolve, she turned her thoughts to the Vermeer she had created; now hanging in the National Gallery.
The sun was setting; the gentle breeze ruffled the trees as they drove. Philippe flipped on the stereo, blasting the music of Sting, but she couldn’t really hear it, nor could she see the scenery as it flitted past her window, her thoughts wrapping endlessly around in her head until she felt dizzy.
Closing her eyes, Natanya leaned her head back onto the headrest and tried to recollect all that she had learned from her Great Aunt Rose Valland. Although she hadn’t met her, as her Great Aunt had passed away shortly before she was born, she had been left with a collection of carefully organized notes about her life, in the hopes that no one would forget what had happened during the Holocaust.
Natanya had read that Rose had been a Curator of the Louvre Museum before German forces had occupied France, and after the occupation, the Nazis replaced her with a German employee, leaving her to water plants and use whatever means she had at her disposal to spy on them. The Jeu de Paume, a modest gallery within the Louvre used mainly for holding Impressionist works, became a storehouse for plundered masterpieces acquired by the Third Reich.
Unbeknownst to the Nazis, Rose understood the German language and eavesdropped to learn the providence of a painting when it arrived and where it was to be dispersed. Rose kept secret lists of all of the stolen art while she catalogued them for the Nazis. It was then that she realized that the photographs the Nazis took of each picture had a negative that could be copied, and she took them home each night to make her own collection. In her notes she had indicated that she been caught several times, but each time she had convinced someone to let her back in to continue her mission.
It was during this time that she met Benoit Mandelbrot, a mathematician who specialized in fractals. The Nazis were methodically purging every Polish individual, except for the children, which they ensured were adopted by a German family to be raised according to the German custom. Benoit was a Polish born individual who studied in France just prior to the war, but was forced into hiding when it was overtaken and then occupied by the Nazis.
To his credit, he attempted to help the French Resistance in any way he could. Initially, it was by creating codes to transmit without detection via messenger. This was very risky and they realized they needed to do more to help the movement since more people were being sent into the Ghettos. Bonfires had been erected without warning where massive amounts of ‘degenerate’ books, drawings, and paintings were destroyed.
Those artists who were either Jewish, Polish, or otherwise labeled ‘degenerate’ were not allowed to create art of any kind. Canvases, brushes, paints, clay, or any other type of tool, which may be used to create artwork, was confiscated from their homes. Nazis patrolled these homes for any signs the artists were attempting to rise against Hitler and create ‘degenerate’ art.
It was only a matter of time before the French Resistance and Benoit came to an understanding. One that would forever change the course of the art world, both then and today.
Chapter Eight
A Masterful Stain
“Although Warren Panetiere’ has been with the National Gallery in Washington D.C. for a short time, we have already benefited from his expansive vision, which has incorporated the culture and tradition of yesterday with the superlative progressive views of today. As our Chief Curator, he will interpret, install and develop our current Old Master and Impressionist collections, expand our research department, and bring forward an outstanding publicity program,” the presenter paused for effect before continuing.
“We also have a noble individual who has pledged to give a munificent contribution of six million dollars to the museum.
Please raise your glasses in a toast to our new Director and to our generous benefactor, Hedge Fund Founder, Bextel Limdahl.”
Stepping back from the microphone on the raised platform, the Secretary of State, welcomed Warren Panetiere’ and Bextel Limdahl onto the stage amid boisterous applause and cheering from the audience.
Warren stepped to the microphone first, “Thank you, thank you so much. Thanks also to all of the trustees, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, the Secretary of State, Secretary of the Treasury, and the Secretary of the Smithsonian Institute, along with the private citizens who have graciously donated their time and attention to the National Gallery.”
“Let’s lift our glasses in a toast to Andrew Mellon and John Russell Pope, our founder and architect respectively.” Warren paused to lift his glass.
“Andrew W. Mellon’s initial intention of building the National Gallery in 1937 was to not only put aside funds for the construction of the building from the A.W. Mellon Educational and Charitable Trust, but to also fund the acquisition of the artwork and to develop a supreme level of quality for the Gallery itself.” As Warren spoke, he not only looked directly at the audience, but he also unabashedly looked into each of their eyes.
Warren continued, “Large endowments from Samuel H. Kress, Joseph Widener, Rush H. Kress, Chester Dale, Ailsa Mellon Bruce, Lessing J. Rosenwald, Edgar William, and Bernice Chrysler Garbisch, along with donations from many others, began this wondrous resting place for our nation’s valuable treasures.”
“Since then, we have had many more donations of artwork and funds due to the hard work and efforts of the Collector’s Committee. However, none as generous as that of Mr. Limdahl. Please stand with me in acknowledgement of his generous gift to the National Gallery, which will help to provide the ongoing education and enjoyment of the public for years to come.”
“Mr. Limdahl everyone…” Warren shook hands with Mr. Limdahl and took a few steps back to allow him to speak.
“I give this endowment as a way to reach out to many who have a quest for knowledge; to learn as much as they can about art, as well as the history behind the work. Please accept my gift in the hope that it will provide funds for many special programs and projects in the years to come.” Mr. Limdahl was greeted on the platform by the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, with whom he shook hands before taking his place next to Warren.
“The combination of both public and private support makes it possible for the achievements and accomplishments of the National Gallery of Art. Federal funds enable the continual operations, maintenance, and ongoing protection and care of our nation’s art collection. These private donations, such as the liberal amount donated this evening from Mr. Limdahl, as well as Charitable Trusts, Foundations, and corporations enable us to acquire art, conduct research, provide exhibitions and develop educational outreach programs.”
“For every individual here today that has ever had a moment in their life where art has truly touched them, either through their own creation of art, or through the art of someone else, you understand how important it is to uphold our obligation to continue the efforts of Mr. Mellon. Please observe a moment of silence for everyone who has contributed to make our National Gallery what it is today. Thank you.”
In his unassuming manner, without drawing the attention away from the Gallery and towards himself, the Chief Justice of the United States seated himself once again while the entire room bowed their heads.
“Hard act to follow, but, hey somebody’s got to do it! I think the only person who could truly follow the Chief Justice would have to be the President himself…and…okay…so don’t look around, he’s not coming up on stage, at least not tonight.” The comedian for the evening’s entertainment went on with his performance. “I’ll never forget the first time I went to a museum and as a matter of fact, I think it was this museum…”
As the party continued through the evening, Warren saw to it that he spoke sincerely with every individual within the room at least once, and some people twice, but that couldn’t be helped. The changes he had already initiated had sufficiently ruffled many feathers, and if he was to continue moving forward, he was going to need backing. Not only monetary backing, but people who were willing to stand beside him and support the deaccessions he requested along with the infusion of art from other collections, thus continually turning over the inventory to keep it interesting and fresh for the patrons.
Warren stood surveying the room, mentally ticking down each person he had already spoken to when the Secretary of the Smithsonian appeared beside him. “I hear you’re shaking things up a bit here.”
Warren’s mind had a nearly photograph quality to it so he rarely forgot anything, which coincided with his obsession for order, detail and above all accuracy. He would much rather hear, I don’t know; I will find out and get back to you, than to have someone hazard a guess which he would have to toss into the air like a coin because of a 50/50 chance of being correct.
“Yes, I have, with many more changes to come, to be sure.”
“How do you plan to go about that? Because I’ve only been at the Smithsonian for a short time, but find myself squaring off with a department head, several committee members, private collectors and local government every time I try to make even one tiny change.”
“It’s very simple.” Warren smiled easily at the Smithsonian secretary. It’s all in the execution.”
The secretary from the Smithsonian continued to look at Warren with a questioning gaze. “You didn’t tell me anything,” he sputtered.
Warren’s footing was set equal to his shoulders, his tone level as he spoke with the secretary, already having determined he had more stamina and perseverance than nearly every person did in the entire room, his expression was unreadable. “Make your people believe they are your partner with every project, big or small, give them as much credit for a job done well as you possibly can, and never show them, let alone tell them, that you’ve given up or are intimidated by them. Lead, it’s just that simple.” Warren broke eye contact and let his eyes roam the room once more. “Think of this; in a time of crisis, who would you trust to remove you from harm’s way? If the answer doesn’t include yourself, then you have some work to do. And one more thing, if adversity introduces you to the strength of a man, then pleasure also introduces you to his weaknesses.”
A loud crash was heard at the far end of the corridor. “I’ll leave you to contemplate that as it appears a little too much pleasure has been had by a few of our art patrons.” As Warren finished his sentence, a loud shrill scream echoed through the Gallery followed by raucous laughter. Warren raised his eyebrows as yet another scream broke into the air, followed by hoots of laughter.
The Chief Justice grabbed him by the arm, “Looks like you’ve got yourself quite a little vixen here, and if I’m right, and I’m pretty sure I am, I would say that the Congressman from Texas and you are going to have to solve this together. Adios.” The Chief tipped an imaginary hat as he walked away chuckling.
Not liking the sudden turn of the crowd as the level of laughter diminished to gasps, and then dismayed whispers accompanied by shaking heads. He weaved his way through the throng of people.
“I was just makin’ myself a little ole friend, that’s all.” Mrs. Turner could hardly stand as she bounced her way from one person to another in an effort to explain herself, as well as stand up.
Warren spoke in a low voice, barely above a whisper. “Our Security personnel are on their way?”
“We’re here, sir.”
“Let’s help this lady off her feet, shall we?”
Warren nodded towards the Congressman’s wife as Security surrounded her, guiding her toward the exit with her husband making apologies behind her as they maneuvered her out of the museum.
Warren took a step forward and the crowd parted a little, and then another step forward and the crowd parted a little more, and then took the last and final steps, and the remaining individuals stepped away from the painting on display.
Warren found himself looking at a painting from the 1600s; a Johannes Vermeer called Woman Holding a Balance. As he moved closer, he could see the bright red lipstick stain where the Congressman’s wife had kissed it.
With trepidation, he viewed the damage, believing he had a possibility of cleaning it; he turned back to the crowd. Seeing the Secretary from the Smithsonian give him a smirk, as though he were challenging him as to how we would handle the situation.
Warren addressed the crowd. “This is a most startling occurrence, and I assure all of you that our valued possessions are safe and secure here at the National Gallery and there is no cause for alarm.” Several staff members flanked him on either side. The heads of the departments couldn’t tear their eyes away from the damaged painting.
Warren continued, “I want to assure all of you that I will remove the offending stain and have the Vermeer back to its original place on the wall in absolutely no time at all. Let us move to the Gardens where we have prepared what we are calling our Galaxy of Lights, which highlights our enchanting statues. Refreshments will be served. Thank you.”
Groups of staff moved behind the art patrons as they sanctioned off the area with red velvet ropes, then closed the department entirely.
Warren listened for any sign of a diminished mood, but they seemed to be stimulated by the activity, not subdued.
Speaking slowly and carefully, he made his next request. “Obtain an expert authentication specialist for the Vermeer and send for the best restorer. Cost is not an issue, and I don’t think I need to tell you that time is of the essence.”
To a small group of other employees, Warren said, “Carefully take the painting down and place it in the oxygen free containment housing, then lock it and give me both keys to access it.” He annunciated each of his words, drawing out his instructions in a clear and precise manner, his voice without strain, his manner without anger.
His task was carried out as requested, leaving him free to make an important call. He wanted to know just as much about the stain as he did about the painting. He requested the brand of the lipstick worn by the perpetrator, a list of everything she ate and drank, along with a specimen of each sent to the nearest lab for chemical identification.
Warren walked back to the empty section of wall and stood, feet shoulder length apart, his gaze even and steady, and stared intently at the empty space. The space that until recently contained the work of an Old Master, an irreplaceable work of art; one of the most expensive pieces the Gallery had on view.
Then, in an even and steady stride, he walked through the Gallery alone, except for the occasional Security Officer. The patrons outside would be enjoying the seven skylights of silvered glass in the form of tetrahedrons, along with the fountain formed from 24 jets of water, which fell in a steep slope.
Warren passed the three massive towers in the shape of parallelograms as he walked along the Tennessee marble floors, drinking in the architectural significance created by the Chinese-American architect I. M. Pei, who divided the 55,000 square meters into two triangles by means of a diagonal.
Warren’s purpose was to reach the smallest triangle, which was a right-angled building, housing the curatorial and administrative offices along with the International Centre for Advanced Studies in the Visual Arts. That portion of the building following an architectural axis by extending the bisecting line of the Gallery through the plaza until it hit the apex of the larger isosceles designed triangle in the East building, which housed the exhibitions.
His stride ceased abruptly, his breathing had become uneven, jagged, as he viewed the damaged Vermeer in its incubated state. A triplex glass encasement now held the painting. It was kept at a continuous 68 degrees Fahrenheit with humidity of 55 percent, a built-in air conditioner and nine pounds of silica gel ensured no change in the air condition. It would now be properly protected against further damage; unfortunately, he could not say the same for him, as news of the mutilated painting had more than likely been released to the world. His reputation was now tarnished, along with the Vermeer.
“Excuse me Mr. Panetiere’,” an insistent voice finally broke through to him.
“I apologize, how long have you been standing there?”
“Not long sir. Both the acquisitions expert and the last restorer to work on the painting are here. Shall I have them brought in?”
“Yes Tsun Jae, immediately.”