Page 4

FOUR

The Viewing

Vivianne

I take a moment to breathe in the brilliance of a true work of art. A spotlight shines on The Lovers , bringing the bold pigment to a burnished luminescence.

Broad brushstrokes hurry across the canvas, imbuing the still life with chaotic motion and vitality. Such evocative genius burned in Van Gogh’s mind.

How did the forger capture that essence?

I’ve read all the reports. Technical analysis of radiocarbon dating, infrared reflectography, X-ray, microscopic, and chemical analysis substantiates the claim. Based on those alone, issuing a certificate of authenticity is simple.

Few in the room would, though, not in today’s litigious society; many have been burned in the past—authenticating what was later revealed to be counterfeit—and they’ve been sued for millions.

For good reason, most experts shy away from issuing anything other than an opinion.

A larger piece than many of Van Gogh’s others, The Lovers dominates the wall. The characteristic whorls and brushstrokes appear authentic. I want to step close, get nose-to-nose with the painting, and compare it with what I remember of the original, but I hold back.

A quick glance over my shoulder and up the stadium seating of the auditorium reveals Dr. Phillips and the mysterious Paul de Gaulle deep in conversation.

My job won’t be easy.

Disproving authenticity depends on my ability to find a stylistic flaw or other anachronistic anomaly. I sweep my gaze across the picture, lingering on my most favorite features—the way the lovers’ heads tuck toward each other, that brief moment of intimacy shared between one step and the next, and even the row of windswept trees in the background, forever bowed against a breeze.

I always imagined a blustery wind sweeping through the garden while the man whispered poetry into the woman’s ear.

An imperfection on the canvas catches my eye. Not unusual in a piece such as this, except it doesn’t belong. I think little of it until another variation in shade snags my attention.

Like a kid’s dot-to-dot, I trace out the line joining the two spots. Another discoloration, this one darker, catches and holds my focus. I chew my lower lip, pressing my teeth into the soft flesh. The pinch of pain focuses my mind.

Bailey raps on the podium, jolting me from my inspection. The audience quiets, and all eyes fall on him. Once he has everyone’s attention, he explains the remaining order of events.

Five groups have been slotted for stylistic analysis. They will have an hour to be up close and personal with the artwork. More time will be allotted for those who request it.

Two older men, and another not much older than me, join Bailey after he finishes speaking. Dr. Phillips probably knows them on sight, but I’m still learning the who’s who of the art world. They will be the first group to examine the painting, leaving me an hour to kill.

Dr. Phillips stands at the back of the room, speaking animatedly with several others. The mood in the room energizes with the initial reveal, but there’s no sign of the enigmatic de Gaulle.

I climb the stairs and join Dr. Phillips. He puts his hand on mine and squeezes with excitement.

A person could lose themselves for hours, even days, admiring the rich history and collections from nearly every age of human history at the Met. I wish I had days to do that, but I wait with Dr. Phillips for our turn while the crowd within the lecture hall thins.

At the end of an hour, Bailey enters and approaches. “Dr. Phillips and Miss Faulks, would you please follow me?” Bailey gestures for me to precede him out of the room while he shakes Dr. Phillips’s hand. “We’re so happy you were able to come.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t have missed the unveiling of a Van Gogh.” Dr. Phillips slings his briefcase beside him while I wait in the hallway for further direction.

“This way.” Bailey leads us down a hall and into a secure room. Two buff men in security uniforms stand on either side of the painting. A spotlight shines down on it, bringing the swirling colors to life.

Four rows of tables separate the room into left and right sides, and chairs have been tucked nicely under the burnished wooden tabletops. Display cases line the side walls and stand empty.

“Is there anything in particular you need?” Bailey ushers us down the central aisle.

Dr. Phillips places his briefcase on a table and flips it open. He reaches inside and pulls out two magnifying glasses and two sets of linen gloves. We have no intention of touching the masterpiece, but it’s standard practice to don protective gear.

“I think we’ll be fine,” Dr. Phillips says.

“Good. Please let me know if we can provide you with anything.”

I walk up to the painting, my eye catching the imperfections noted earlier. I turn to Bailey.

“Could you bring a piece of glass to overlay the painting?”

Dr. Phillips gives me an odd look, but he trusts my methods.

Bailey scrunches his brow. “I don’t think we can mount a piece of glass?—”

“I don’t need it mounted. I want to place it in front of the canvas. Anything clear will do. Plexiglas?”

He nods. “Now, I do think we have some of that. It will take a moment to find it.”

I flash a smile. “Thank you.”

As Bailey leaves the room, I turn to the man standing to the right and stretch out my hand. “Hi, I’m Vivianne Faulks.”

His brows shoot up, and he shakes my hand. “Jerry Lemay.” He cracks a grin and chuckles. “Nice to meet you.” He jerks his thumb toward his partner. “That’s Mike Haney.”

Mike gives a wave. “Nice to meet you, Miss Faulks.”

I return Mike’s greeting, stepping over to shake his hand. “My pleasure.”

Dr. Phillips takes my cue and introduces himself to the two men. Too many people ignore security guards.

I gesture to the Van Gogh. “Do you mind if I approach?”

To do my job, I have to get up close and personal with the painting, but I’ve learned the power of being polite.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Have at it.”

Jerry stands well over six feet and towers over my more diminutive five-foot-five frame. Even with my high heels, the top of my head barely meets his shoulder. A bit brawny for a security guard at the Met, the man obviously spends hours at the gym to maintain his physique.

His partner, Mike, is similar in height and build. Two intimidating guards. The Board of Trustees isn’t taking any chances with their once-in-a-lifetime find.

I stretch out toward Dr. Phillips, and he puts the gloves and magnifying glass in my hand.

“Miss,” Jerry says, “let me remind you that you’re not allowed to touch.”

With a smile, I tilt my chin and meet his hazel gaze. “I have no intention of touching.” I slip on the gloves. “But, if I do by accident,” I wriggle my now covered fingers, “I won’t damage the piece with the oils on my skin.”

Jerry glances at Mike, who shakes his head.

I stand in front of the piece and cross my arms. Despite knowing it’s a fake, I need to do things right. I excel at this type of analysis because of my obsessive analytical method, which demands a strict step-by-step approach and is designed not to miss anything.

The first step is a simple viewing. I allow myself to take in the image portrayed on canvas and breathe the rhythms of the artist’s work.

Every painter’s work has a unique emotive feel, indescribable in many ways. A forgery often fails to capture that same essence, but that is not true of this piece.

It’s brilliant and feels exactly like a Van Gogh.

Nevertheless, I force myself to keep up with my process. Sinking into the moment, my attention roams where it wants, taking in subtleties of hue and texture.

Once my attention is firmly seated in the piece, I work from the top down, drawing out a grid in my mind and traveling row by row, memorizing and absorbing every detail.

I don’t have a photographic memory. Few people claim that blessing; many experts believe it is impossible. However, I have a categorization strategy, which allows me to retain surprisingly accurate renditions of the visual world.

My gaze keeps skipping to land on the flawed areas, and I force myself to move past them, not lingering any more than necessary. When I reach the bottom row of my imaginary grid, I repeat the process from left to right.

Glancing toward Jerry, I step close until I’m nose-to-nose with the artwork. The magnifying glass comes out, and I study the pattern of the brushstrokes and the heaviness of the pigments laid down and compare what I see with the unique fingerprint in every Van Gogh.

Whoever painted this has impressive talent. Even after a detailed exam, I can’t dispute anything except something’s off. That’s knowledge only someone who has seen the original would know.

That begs the question of how the forger gained such intimate knowledge when the painting was hidden from the world for so long.

He, or she, even added the three birds flying in the distance—something Van Gogh did not include in the sketch he sent to his brother with that infamous letter.

I chew my lower lip, feeling sweat gathering between my shoulder blades and trickling down my back. The cotton of my gloves absorbs the perspiration from my clammy hands.

My examination takes a little more than half an hour. Dr. Phillips stands beside me, completing his independent assessment.

We don’t talk to each other and won’t until the end. Then, we will compare notes, see if we agree, and if not, why.

I hope to find something obvious. Each passing minute proves that won’t happen.

We trade sides, each of us peering over the art.

The door bangs open, and the squealing of wheels catches my attention. I straighten and turn. Bailey returns, pushing a sheet of Plexiglas affixed to a dolly into the room. He glances up after the door slams behind him.

“Miss Faulks, will this do?”

The Plexiglas vibrates with movement, swaying in its perch atop the dolly.

“Yes, that’s perfect.”

“Why do you want that?” Dr. Phillips shakes his head. It isn’t my first time asking for something unusual during an assessment.

I flash him a smile and a private wink. He’ll find out soon enough what I plan.

“Can you wheel it over here and set it up in front of the painting?”

Mike and Jerry exchange confused looks but go to help the struggling Bailey. A few minutes later, Dr. Phillips steps back.

I glance around. “Do you have any markers?”

Bailey shakes his head. “I can get you some.”

Jerry pulls a Sharpie out of his left breast pocket. “Will this do?”

Plucking it out of his hand, I stretch on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Yes, that’s perfect.”

His infectious grin pulls a smile out of me.

I stand before the painting again, the Plexiglas between me and Van Gogh’s work.

This time, I take a good long look at those spots bugging me. I uncap the marker and place a dot on the Plexiglas over the first spot. I grip the marker, and my lower lip curls between my teeth.

Peering through the Plexiglas, I allow my eyes to pick out, not imperfections exactly because the forgery is the best I’ve ever seen, but spots of color and variations not present in the original.

Slowly, the Plexiglas fills with an array of dots. I move methodically, using my grid to guide my hand, not once looking at the mess of dots as I go.

Noises fade into the background. Dr. Phillips retreats somewhere behind me, probably sitting in one of those uncomfortable-looking chairs.

Bailey might or might not still be in the room. I don’t keep track of him. Even the guards, Mike and Jerry, disappear under the intensity of my focus.

The muscles in my hand protest my grip. The skin between my first and second finger aches under the pressure of the marker pressed between them. A strand of blonde hair falls in front of my face, and I blow it out of the way. It floats back into view, and I reach up to tuck it behind an ear.

My gaze lifts to scan the next square within my imaginary grid, and the marker squeaks against the Plexiglas. Another black dot joins the constellation of others.

The strong odor of the permanent marker irritates the sensitive tissues of my nasal passages and makes my eyes water. I blink against the fumes and breathe through my mouth.

A hand grips my shoulder, and a sharp intake of breath pulls me from my task.

“Viv?”

I pat Dr. Phillips’s hand. “Just something that’s bugging me.”

The back of the marker taps against the glass. Nearly two-thirds of the way through my grid, I reach a spot of canvas empty of imperfections.

I want to skip past the void but force myself to stick with my method.

“Viv…” Dr. Phillips’s fingers dig into my skin.

“I’m almost done.” I shrug away from his grip, irritated by his interruption.

A thread of annoyance works its way into my tone, and I clamp down on my lower lip, ashamed of my outburst. The pinch of pain focuses my mind.

“Viv, take a look.” Dr. Phillips yanks on my shoulder and pulls me back.

I glance up, twisting over my shoulder, ready to give him a piece of my mind.

Can’t he see how hard I’m working?

How much concentration this takes?

Now, I have to backtrack to find my place again.

“I’m not done.”

He points to the Plexiglas, his finger shaking. Mike and Jerry stand behind him. When did they move from their positions beside the painting?

Bailey cups his mouth, his skin turning a sickly shade of gray. He backs up until his thighs bump against a table, and he reaches down, fingers shaking to grip the wood.

“It’s a Starling.” Dr. Phillips makes the pronouncement into the overwhelming silence.

I glance at the array of dots. Sure enough, the vague outline suggests a bird in flight. The form is unfinished, but the dots outline the unmistakable sweep of wings and tail feathers flared in flight.

Not any bird… It’s a starling in flight.

Dr. Phillips turns to me, his eyes wide and brows lifted. “How did you…” He points through the Plexiglas to the canvas beyond.

There’s no way to explain my intimate familiarity with the original without giving away Faulks’ family secrets. Nevertheless, my skin itches.

Why hide a bird within the painting? Obviously, the Starling wants the world to know he created this piece. Surely, he doesn’t expect the forgery to be discovered so soon.

Or is this an attempt to draw out the owner of the true Van Gogh?

Dr. Phillips flutters his fingers around the outline. He turns to Bailey. “We need to review the X-ray analysis,” he says. “Expose the entire piece?—”

“Yes, of course.” Bailey’s hands shake.

One of the uses of X-ray analysis is to reveal hidden images beneath the uppermost layers of paint. Many forgers leave behind calling cards or anachronisms to later prove their hand in their creations.

One such technique is painting a bottom layer in lead-based paint. During the technical analysis, only small areas of the canvas were exposed to the damaging radiation to minimize any destruction of the piece as a whole.

Since the design I uncovered spans the entire breadth of the canvas, it wouldn’t have been revealed through standard techniques.

But that is not what worries me.

There’s only one reason to forge this particular piece. What better way to draw out the owner of the original than to parade a fake to the world?

The only question is, what interest does the Starling have in the real The Lovers: The Poet’s Garden IV ?

And, even more worrisome, have I just led him to my front door?