Sheila Sharpe
Field of Gold:
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...“Braun. He’s one of the best of the California Plein-Air Impressionists. He lived in San Diego and painted around here in the early 1900’s. His landscapes are infused with sunlight like your painting is, though the surface grime has dimmed this work’s glow.”
My heartbeat quickened. “If Braun painted this, would it be valuable?”
“Probably, but you’d need an expert on the California Impressionists to authenticate it.”
I thought of Bryce, the natty, middle-aged art collector, I’d met this morning while waiting outside the locked door of the frame shop—the entry to Julia’s second story studio. He’d described her “marvelous” restoration of twenty paintings from his collection. He was an expert on the California Impressionists and might still be looking at frames with Julia’s husband, who ran the frame shop. Bryce offered to evaluate my painting, but I’d planned to get a conservator’s reactions before bringing in a heavyweight. Besides, he was over-the-topflashing his mega-white teeth and gold Rolex, crowing about his “unbeatable” Plein-Air collection.
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to hear your impressions first.”
She looked pleased. “Glad to oblige. Do you have any papers that tell where and when your grandparents got the picture?” I said no, and Julia removed the hardware with her permission, lifted the picture out of the frame, and studied the back. “The canvas has turned brown, meaning it’s quite old, but I see no clues as to who painted it.”
“Do you have any papers that tell where and when your grandparents got the picture?” I said no, and with my permission Julia removed the hardware, lifted the picture out of the frame, and studied the back. “The canvas has turned brown, meaning it’s quite old, but I see no clues as to who painted it.”
We returned to the front room and Julia propped the picture on the easel next to the window. Standing next to her, I glanced at the items on her tidy supplies cart—a glass palette, jars of solvents and fine brushes, a small paintbox that looked like an ice-cube tray filled with jewel-toned colors. There was no odor of turpentine or oil paint, only a faint chemical and old building smell.
Julia put on a pair of magnifying goggles, leaned in close, and scrutinized the surface. She’d been trained to see the slightest anomaly. What would she find? I waited, watching, my feet swelling in my hot leather boots. Muffled street noise came through the closed window, and I could hear my ragged heartbeat.
“Wonderful impasto in this, very like Braun.” She dabbed a clear solvent on the edge with a tiny brush, then rubbed the spot with a Q-Tip. “The brownish gunk is coming off. Do you see the golden glow shining through?”
“Oh yes.” Like a glimmer of hope, I thought.
“Decades of grime have stained these poor clouds. This will take quite a while to clean.” She crossed the room to a small desk and picked up a notebook and pen. “For the record, what would you like to name it?”
I pictured the golden glow of the sunlit flowers after their bath. “Field of Gold.”
“Perfect.” Julia estimated the work would take five hours and cost me five hundred dollars.
Wincing at the price, I glanced at the life-size picture of the battered Madonna
.
“How long would it take to get this beaten-up lady looking virginal again?”
“Hundreds of hours. Thousands.” Julia threw up her hands and laughed. “Never.”
I chuckled. True, and it would always be a bad painting. But hers was a good little painting.
Sitting on Julia’s vacated stool, I asked, “How did you get into conservation?”
She hesitated. “I started out as an artist, but when I studied painting in college, I soon discovered I was a technical whiz but incapable of originality.” Her face tightened. “Conservation has its rewards. I can make paintings shine, make them their best selves.”
“Well said. I used to be a painter, too,” I blurted then quashed the urge to share more. “Now I’m a psychologist who treats blocked artists.” I made a decent living, but thanks to David’s bad investments, her work alone didn’t cover the mounting bills. My stomach knotting, I pictured the creditors gathering outside my door, cawing like crows.
Julia tilted forward. “What stopped you from painting?”
I’d rather eat worms than talk about this. “It’s a typical story. The art world didn’t fall in love with my paintings, and I was hopeless at self-promotion. My gift seems to be helping other artists fulfill their talents and dreams. That’s been rewarding.” Not to mention heart-breaking.
The sun streaming through the windows was heating up the studio. With Julia’s permission, I cranked open one of the side panels. Street noise and the cool March air rushed in.
“Before investing in the cleaning, I’d like to find out if my painting is a Braun. Can you recommend an authenticator?”
“Yes, you’re in luck,” Julia said. “Bryce Morton is downstairs looking at frames in my husband’s shop. He’s a wealthy collector of California Impressionists and an expert in Maurice Braun’s work.”
After speaking to Morton on his cell, Julia said, “He’s coming right up.”
David’s baritone boomed in my ears—Take the picture and run!
Minutes later, Morton swept into the studio, his too-white teeth bared in a predatory smile. “Call me Bryce,” he said thrusting his hand toward me.
Julia gestured toward Field of Gold and asked if the collector recognized the artist, explaining where I had found the work.
Bryce strode to the easel, seized the painting, and took it to the window. He studied the picture from every angle, then looked at me and drew in a deep breath. “From my initial gut reaction, the distinctive painting style, and the characteristic golden glow, I conclude that the artist who painted this could be none other than Maurice Braun.”
I felt light-headed. “But couldn’t it be an excellent copy or a forger’s pastiche?”
“No one knows Braun’s œuvre better than I do.” He sniffed. “It’s not a copy of any of his known works. It’s an unknown work. A tremendous find. I wouldn’t be taken in by a pastiche.” He looked at Sondra. “Would you consider selling it?”
I stifled a whoop, adrenalin pulsing through my body.
“I’ll give you a hundred for it,” Bryce said.
“A hundred?” I murmured.
“He means hundred thousand,” Julia said.
“Oh?” My voice cracked. The floor tilted, and the room began reeling. I sat on the desk chair and tried to say something, but Bryce’s feverish gaze held me speechless.
“How about a hundred and fifty?”
Julia coughed. “Bryce, shouldn’t you get a forensic evaluation before a purchase?”
“Hell no. I believe in my eyes and years of experience more than all that science fiction equipment.” Bryce raised his brows at me. “What price would you accept?”
My mind shut down. “Let me think a minute?”
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“Take all the time you need.” Bryce gave her an avuncular smile, turned, and placed the painting on the easel. He continued examining the picture through the magnifiers, Julia standing at his side.
I folded my hands tightly, seeing no good way out of my dilemma. I glanced across the room to the 16th-century panel of Judgment Day leaning against the wall. One of the hideous demons seemed to be laughing at my silly moral struggles. Selling the painting to Bryce was wrong, but I felt desperate. He was awash in money and would feel no loss or pain. David’s voice—You could be caught and ruined.
I needed the impossiblea win-win. I thought of my former client, Nick McCoy, a brilliant art forger who’d played havoc with my heart and moral compass. My skin tingling, I recalled his resonant voice spelling out his techniques for seducing a filthy-rich collector.
I ask myself, what makes this asshole tick? Winning? Status in the art world? Passion? Possession? Hoarding his gold like Midas? It’s just psychology, Doc. You’d be a natural.
Adrenalin pumping, my brain went into action, an idea taking shape. I stood, muscles tensed, charged for a battle of wits.
The collector turned toward me, grinning like a kid with a grand new toy. “Have you decided?”
I sighed. “I’m sorry, Bryce, I can’t sell you the picture. The truth is Maurice Braun didn’t paint it.”
“What?” His face froze. “What nonsense. I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. My grandfather painted it in the manner of Maurice Braun.”
“Rubbish.” Bryce stood, pulled off the magnifiers, and tossed them on the cart.
Julia’s brows flew up. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”
“My apologies. I didn’t want to influence your evaluation.” I turned back to Bryce. “Granddad told me if I ever needed money, I could pass his painting off as a Braun. He was an expert copyist. So even if you paid the big bucks for forensics, I bet it would pass as a Braun.”
“It would pass because it is a Braun,” Bryce said. “I think your grandfather misled you. He wanted you to think he was as good as the master. Artists have monumental egos coupled with massive insecurities. Trust me, I know.” His chest puffed up.
I knew that the biggest claim to fame for an art collector, an expert, or a curator was to find an undiscovered work of an important artist. Bryce thought he’d done just that with Field of Gold. So, I’d offered up her grandfather as the forger to spare Morton the less palatable truth and worse humiliation. But he would not let me spare him. So be it.
“Bryce, what if I confessed and said I’m the one who painted Field of Gold?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’d think you were pulling my leg, or you were a failed artistor just another female desperately seeking attention.”
I glared at him. This misogynistic prick deserved a hardball lesson.
“Will you accept my offer?” he said. “I’ll increase it to two hundred thousand because you had the decency to tell me what you thought was the truth, even though it was against your interest to do so.” He squinted at me, puzzled, as though I must be mentally challenged or utterly naïve to have acted against my self-interest.
“A magnificent gesture, Bryce.” Julia winked at me.
“Thank you, Bryce. I accept your generous offer.”
I shook his outstretched hand, and Bryce wrote me a check for the exact amount, bubbling over with his good fortune. “By the way, were there other paintings in your granddad’s treasure chest?” His eyes shone with a hungry gleam of hope.
With the check in my hand, I stopped breathing. The slippery slope of easy money yawned before me. Beckoning. What should I say? I stood paralyzed. Money wasn’t the only lure. More compelling was the exhilaration I felt in becoming a significant talent, however short-lived—that plus the heady excitement of a clever win-win. My ethical therapist-self seemed to be nowhere in sight. Had I cured Nick McCoy’s forgery addiction only to become an addict myself?
END