surrounded by an ever-changing installation of flowers and shrubs. A pair of towering palm trees reach up to the sunlight, climbing beyond the third floor.
All four walls, which rise at least sixty feet, are cut by tiers of stone-fronted arches, notched doorways and windows, marble balustrades, and exposed stairways overflowing with flowers and greenery. The rooms at the perimeter of this courtyard form the bulk of the museum. Isabella Gardner built this monument to live in, to house her art collection, and to leave to the public upon her death.
Although I’m here to meet Rik for lunch, I climb the stairs to the second floor and walk through the Early Italian Room and the Raphael Room and into the Short Gallery. I need to see Bath’ s empty frame. The gallery is only about ten feet wide and has to be just about the worst place to hang a painting as large as After the Bath. But Isabella, who was eccentric, to say the least, personally determined the placement of each of her 2,500 pieces of art and then decreed in her will that nothing was to be changed, removed, or added. Ever.
It is this conceit that created the hodgepodge that is the Gardner. In contrast to the openness and brilliance of the courtyard, the shadowy galleries are filled with mismatched groupings of furniture, fine art, and random trinkets. Priceless paintings are hung over doorways, and 3,000-year-old sculptures are hidden in corners.
Poor lighting and cramped spaces render this clutter even more claustrophobic, and there’s barely a piece of artwork that’s shown to its best advantage. But since 1924, the year Isabella died, the museum has stayed as its mistress wished, as charming and capricious as she was herself. Only the thieves were able to best the old girl.
I walk up to the empty frame, the hollow enclosure where After the Bath once lived, and I’m overwhelmed by shame. I press myself into a corner, try to make myself small, hoping no one will notice me, recognize my culpability. And nobody does. As I relax and pull to a stand, to both my surprise and consternation, a surge of adrenaline nearly knocks me over. I am suddenly jubilant. I have After the Bath. It’s in my very own studio, where I sleep and paint. Degas’ masterpiece, to look at whenever I want. To smell, to even touch, that most forbidden act within museum walls. And, I remind myself, I’ll be partially responsible for its return home.
I watch the people filing past, looking sadly at the vacant spot, wondering as I’ve always wondered. I have an overpowering urge to tell them, to shout to the world that it’s mine, all mine. I turn abruptly and leave the room, calming as I wend my way to the small café hidden behind the tiny bookstore on the first floor.
Rik and I kiss, hug, exchange pleasantries and a bit of gossip, order our food, and then I ask him a few questions about the robbery.
“Why this sudden interest in the heist?” he asks.
I shrug. “I’ve always been interested. Isn’t everyone?”
Rik takes a bite of his burger. “Guess the rumor that Whitey Bulger had them with him in Argentina was as false as all the rest.”
“Couldn’t he have had them there anyway? Before he was arrested? Maybe they’re still there now.”
“Nah. I never believed Whitey or any of the Boston mob were involved. If it was organized crime, they’d have sold most of the cache pretty fast, and at least a few would’ve surfaced by now.”
“Then who did it?”
“I’m thinking some European. The robbery involved planning, disguises, and deception. That’s how art thieves work in Europe.”
“Not here?”
“Hardly ever.”
“You think the paintings are in Europe?”
“After all these years, they could be anywhere,” Rik says. “Although lots of people assume they have to be hidden away in some greedy collector’s attic, my guess is that they’re being used as collateral for weapons and drug running. Sometimes terrorist groups swap stolen paintings for their
All four walls, which rise at least sixty feet, are cut by tiers of stone-fronted arches, notched doorways and windows, marble balustrades, and exposed stairways overflowing with flowers and greenery. The rooms at the perimeter of this courtyard form the bulk of the museum. Isabella Gardner built this monument to live in, to house her art collection, and to leave to the public upon her death.
Although I’m here to meet Rik for lunch, I climb the stairs to the second floor and walk through the Early Italian Room and the Raphael Room and into the Short Gallery. I need to see Bath’ s empty frame. The gallery is only about ten feet wide and has to be just about the worst place to hang a painting as large as After the Bath. But Isabella, who was eccentric, to say the least, personally determined the placement of each of her 2,500 pieces of art and then decreed in her will that nothing was to be changed, removed, or added. Ever.
It is this conceit that created the hodgepodge that is the Gardner. In contrast to the openness and brilliance of the courtyard, the shadowy galleries are filled with mismatched groupings of furniture, fine art, and random trinkets. Priceless paintings are hung over doorways, and 3,000-year-old sculptures are hidden in corners.
Poor lighting and cramped spaces render this clutter even more claustrophobic, and there’s barely a piece of artwork that’s shown to its best advantage. But since 1924, the year Isabella died, the museum has stayed as its mistress wished, as charming and capricious as she was herself. Only the thieves were able to best the old girl.
I walk up to the empty frame, the hollow enclosure where After the Bath once lived, and I’m overwhelmed by shame. I press myself into a corner, try to make myself small, hoping no one will notice me, recognize my culpability. And nobody does. As I relax and pull to a stand, to both my surprise and consternation, a surge of adrenaline nearly knocks me over. I am suddenly jubilant. I have After the Bath. It’s in my very own studio, where I sleep and paint. Degas’ masterpiece, to look at whenever I want. To smell, to even touch, that most forbidden act within museum walls. And, I remind myself, I’ll be partially responsible for its return home.
I watch the people filing past, looking sadly at the vacant spot, wondering as I’ve always wondered. I have an overpowering urge to tell them, to shout to the world that it’s mine, all mine. I turn abruptly and leave the room, calming as I wend my way to the small café hidden behind the tiny bookstore on the first floor.
Rik and I kiss, hug, exchange pleasantries and a bit of gossip, order our food, and then I ask him a few questions about the robbery.
“Why this sudden interest in the heist?” he asks.
I shrug. “I’ve always been interested. Isn’t everyone?”
Rik takes a bite of his burger. “Guess the rumor that Whitey Bulger had them with him in Argentina was as false as all the rest.”
“Couldn’t he have had them there anyway? Before he was arrested? Maybe they’re still there now.”
“Nah. I never believed Whitey or any of the Boston mob were involved. If it was organized crime, they’d have sold most of the cache pretty fast, and at least a few would’ve surfaced by now.”
“Then who did it?”
“I’m thinking some European. The robbery involved planning, disguises, and deception. That’s how art thieves work in Europe.”
“Not here?”
“Hardly ever.”
“You think the paintings are in Europe?”
“After all these years, they could be anywhere,” Rik says. “Although lots of people assume they have to be hidden away in some greedy collector’s attic, my guess is that they’re being used as collateral for weapons and drug running. Sometimes terrorist groups swap stolen paintings for their
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