glaring holes in his logic. Which might be the problem. There’s something too pat, too convenient, about the explanation. But I figure that’s the least of my difficulties.
I turn back to the painting. It’s a depiction of three nudes toweling themselves dry, not an unusual subject for Degas in the later part of his career, but it’s rendered in his early classical style, dense layers of vibrant color set on top of one another, expressing the inexpressible with a luminosity that indeed makes Meissonier’s work look like dull metal. I want to touch it so badly that I have to clench my fists to keep my arms by my sides.
“This is the opportunity of a lifetime for you in many ways,” Markel says. “Not to mention the adrenaline rush of the century. You strike me as the adventurous type. Why not give it a shot?”
“For the obvious reasons,” I mumble.
“They don’t seem all that obvious to me.”
I shake my head.
“Claire?”
Finally, I whisper, “I’m not good enough.”
Markel’s laugh bellows out of him and bounces around the studio. “I misunderstood your reluctance. I thought it was some kind of misplaced morality.”
I jut my chin forward. “Well, it’s that, too.”
He winks and says, “Let me know what you need.” Then he walks across the room and closes the door behind him.
T HE ROOM IS dark, and I’m lying on my mattress. I’ve been up most of the night. I feel After the Bath like a human presence: massive, breathing, haunting, yet also comforting. As if Degas himself is with me, risen from the dead. His genius, his brushstrokes, his heart.
I think about the Gardner Museum, about the frames that hang empty on the walls of the Blue Room, the Dutch Room, and the Short Gallery. The frames hold nothing where the stolen artwork used to be, marking the loss, waiting stoically for the return of their raison d’être. I’ve been to the museum many times since the robbery, and I always stop in front of these frames to ponder the fate of their missing centers.
Much has been written about the Gardner heist, but very little is known. Or, more correctly, those who know aren’t talking. A $5 million reward, no questions asked, no chance of prosecution for the return of the thirteen works, and nary a nibble. The statute of limitations has run out, and still no one’s come forward with even a reasonable rumor. In this global Internet village we live in, it doesn’t seem possible, yet there it is. I climb out of bed, flick on the light, and stand in front of the painting.
It’s such a magnificent being. So alive, yet more like the sensation of life, rather than how life actually is. Color and emotion pulse from the canvas. Once again, tears fill my eyes, and this time I let them run down my cheeks. I should return it to the Gardner right now. It isn’t fair to keep such a masterpiece hidden away.
But I don’t want to give it back. I want to live with it, spend time with it, paint it. I know I shouldn’t, but I reach out and tenderly run my finger over the hand of the bather on the right. She’s seated, one leg raised as she towels her ankle dry. I decide her name is Françoise. The other two are Jacqueline and Simone.
Eight
The exterior of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is underwhelming, to say the least. The façade is plain, almost unbroken by windows or decoration, an unwelcoming fortress. The first time I saw it—I must have been about seven—I cried when my mother told me this was the museum she had been raving about. But when I went inside, my tears quickly dried.
The museum is essentially an ornate Venetian palace turned in on itself, a seven-year-old girl’s delight. Instead of canals, a magical four-story central courtyard faces the interior walls. A greenhouse of sorts. The roof is glass and the floor is a sensuous garden filled with freestanding columns, whimsical twelfth-century lion stylobates, and all manner of statuary. A Roman mosaic sits at the center,
I turn back to the painting. It’s a depiction of three nudes toweling themselves dry, not an unusual subject for Degas in the later part of his career, but it’s rendered in his early classical style, dense layers of vibrant color set on top of one another, expressing the inexpressible with a luminosity that indeed makes Meissonier’s work look like dull metal. I want to touch it so badly that I have to clench my fists to keep my arms by my sides.
“This is the opportunity of a lifetime for you in many ways,” Markel says. “Not to mention the adrenaline rush of the century. You strike me as the adventurous type. Why not give it a shot?”
“For the obvious reasons,” I mumble.
“They don’t seem all that obvious to me.”
I shake my head.
“Claire?”
Finally, I whisper, “I’m not good enough.”
Markel’s laugh bellows out of him and bounces around the studio. “I misunderstood your reluctance. I thought it was some kind of misplaced morality.”
I jut my chin forward. “Well, it’s that, too.”
He winks and says, “Let me know what you need.” Then he walks across the room and closes the door behind him.
T HE ROOM IS dark, and I’m lying on my mattress. I’ve been up most of the night. I feel After the Bath like a human presence: massive, breathing, haunting, yet also comforting. As if Degas himself is with me, risen from the dead. His genius, his brushstrokes, his heart.
I think about the Gardner Museum, about the frames that hang empty on the walls of the Blue Room, the Dutch Room, and the Short Gallery. The frames hold nothing where the stolen artwork used to be, marking the loss, waiting stoically for the return of their raison d’être. I’ve been to the museum many times since the robbery, and I always stop in front of these frames to ponder the fate of their missing centers.
Much has been written about the Gardner heist, but very little is known. Or, more correctly, those who know aren’t talking. A $5 million reward, no questions asked, no chance of prosecution for the return of the thirteen works, and nary a nibble. The statute of limitations has run out, and still no one’s come forward with even a reasonable rumor. In this global Internet village we live in, it doesn’t seem possible, yet there it is. I climb out of bed, flick on the light, and stand in front of the painting.
It’s such a magnificent being. So alive, yet more like the sensation of life, rather than how life actually is. Color and emotion pulse from the canvas. Once again, tears fill my eyes, and this time I let them run down my cheeks. I should return it to the Gardner right now. It isn’t fair to keep such a masterpiece hidden away.
But I don’t want to give it back. I want to live with it, spend time with it, paint it. I know I shouldn’t, but I reach out and tenderly run my finger over the hand of the bather on the right. She’s seated, one leg raised as she towels her ankle dry. I decide her name is Françoise. The other two are Jacqueline and Simone.
Eight
The exterior of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is underwhelming, to say the least. The façade is plain, almost unbroken by windows or decoration, an unwelcoming fortress. The first time I saw it—I must have been about seven—I cried when my mother told me this was the museum she had been raving about. But when I went inside, my tears quickly dried.
The museum is essentially an ornate Venetian palace turned in on itself, a seven-year-old girl’s delight. Instead of canals, a magical four-story central courtyard faces the interior walls. A greenhouse of sorts. The roof is glass and the floor is a sensuous garden filled with freestanding columns, whimsical twelfth-century lion stylobates, and all manner of statuary. A Roman mosaic sits at the center,
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