The Art of Theft

By Jeffry Weiss

The Muse d'Orsay; Paris, France.  Among those partaking of the exhibit, an artist, an art collector and art critic, stroll through the museum, embracing the paintings that provide their inspiration, recognition, and position in French society. 

 

In a moment of creativity and levity, one of the men sees a way to rob the museum.  However, with so much to lose, the idea is dismissed as ludicrous.

 

They leave and separate.  But when their lives fall apart due to character flaws inherit in their positions, they realize they must go through with the theft.  They get away with the crime, yet that is not the end, but only the beginning.  Their offenses graduate from theft, to kidnapping, to murder, to gruesome murders, to avoid prison.

 

The painter is certain that the portrait he has done of himself and his friends absorbs their sins.  While they argue the merits of the painter's mania, one thing is clear: the portrait is changing.  It shows their debauchery in bloody detail. 

 

They realize that they will have their entire lives to relive the heinous crimes they have committed.  But the artist sees a way out.  He will destroy the painting to liberate their souls and attempt a reconciliation with God and society.  Who, and what, dies, in the end, is truly shocking.

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffry Weiss
• Release date: Sep 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533758057

Jeffry Weiss

I have been a political scientist (since graduating from the University of Pennsylvania with an MA in International Affairs), a political activist (who consults with Noam Chomsky on a regular basis) and an Investigative Journalist for the past 40 years. I have written position papers for three presidents: Carter, Clinton and Obama, and I worked with the Elizabeth Warren Campaign until she dropped out of the race. My work on social issues has received recognition directly from the desk of the president of Mexico. During that time I have written 16 geo-political thrillers, four modern-day versions of old classics, seven nonfiction books, four screenplays and one stage play.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France

Bright sunlight filtered through the beveled glass roof, reflecting off blocks of Italian marble floor dominating the main hall of the Musée d’Orsay.  Fryderyk Chopin’s Piano Concerto in F minor, opus 21, drifted down from speakers set high on Baroque walls.  Time within the museum slowed to its natural rhythm, marking decades and centuries, leaving the world beyond to tend to minutes and hours.

The light, displaced by fine dust particles, fell on Manet’s The Balcony, Renoir’s The Boulevards, Degas’ The Racecourse, Monet’s Water Lillies, Sisley’s Winter Morning, Cezanne’s The Card Player, Seurat’s The Circus, and Boudin’s The Beach at Trouville.  It was a magnificent exhibit, the finest ever assembled by the museum.  ‘l’art pour l’art.’

Among those partaking of the exhibit, three stood apart.  Raul Sautere, artist, Patrice duKart, art collector, and Bernard Dimie, art critic, strolled through the museum, embracing the paintings that provided their inspiration, recognition, and position in French society.  Blessed with an abundance of social grace – and dignified by Brioni slacks, Gabbana shirts, Ferragamo shoes, Balenciaga ties, and Christian Lacroix sweaters - the three lived the delicate and luxurious life of young men of birth and fortune, a life exquisite in its freedom from sordid care, its beautiful boyish insouciance. 

Magnificent, is it not? Raul exclaimed.

Distracted by a troop of young, beautiful ladies, Bernard said, Most definitely!"

Raul saw, what was to him, the lesser art form and said, Please pay attention!  We are surrounded by paintings from the most creative period in all of history!

Patrice took an alternative view.  I think creativity is more about the way you do things, not the things you create, he suggested rather flippantly.

Enough of your tête-à-tête, Bernard said, tugging his friends along.  Come.  There is much to see and the sun outside already casts a long shadow. 

Their steps carried them through four decades of Impressionist art: from Manet’s The Lunch in the Grass viewed at the first show at the Salon des Refuses in 1863 to the last Impressionist Exhibition in 1886.

Raul reached out to Monet’s Impression: sunrise.  Monet is the artist credited with introducing the new era, he said.  You see?  Impressionism could only have been born in France!  It was Monet and Boudin who inspired Renoir, Sisley, Bazille, Van Gogh, Pissarro, Manet, and the rest.  From there the revolution began!

And what is you see that you would like to impart to us with your all-knowing wisdom? Patrice asked frivolously.

Well, if you are serious... the artist said.

Yes, yes.  We are serious of nothing but art, Bernard assured. 

Very well, Raul began.  "Take Renoir.  The artist delights in the effect of the sunshine filtering through the trees, dappling the revelers with light.  Pink and blue predominate – true to the Impressionist ideals.  The light disproves the shapes and contours.  Renoir is fascinated by the people in his painting and has created a lively scene with many stories being played out.  His fascination becomes our curiosity.  He has captured a moment...to be enjoyed by eternity.  The painting was done sur le motiv.

Let me ask you, Bernard began, does one painting please you forever, or do you grow tired even of the finest works of art?  And have your tastes not changed as you have matured?

You cannot compare a painting to a wife, Raul argued.

I agree, Bernard replied.  A fine painting grows in esteem and value with age, while a wife only ages.

Friendship is far better than love; it lasts longer, Bernard mused.

I think we are all looking in the wrong direction, Patrice said with a wry smile.

What is it that you see, my friend? Raul asked, his curiosity quickly getting the better of him.

A billion dollars worth of art, Patrice enticed with his words drawn out.

Raul and Bernard’s focus scrolled down the south wall of the grand hall to Cezanne’s, Pastel on Paper; Degas’, The Orchestra at the opera House; Gauguin’s, La belle Angele; Manet’s, The absinthe drinker; Monet’s Regatteas at Sainte Adresse; Pissarro’s Banks of the Marne River at Chennevieres; Renoir’s, The Luncheon of the Boating Party; Sisley’s, Le pont de Moret; and Van Gogh’s, The Yellow House.

Patrice turned his friends around and pointed to a window on the opposite side of the great gallery.  It was partially opened, held in place only by a small lock and chain.  Do you not see the window? Patrice asked, pointing circuitously around a pillar.  It provides many possibilities...and many temptations.

You see something we do not, Raul said.  Let us not play games in such a charming place.

Yes, Bernard agreed.  Include us in your cleverness.

Very well.  Patrice stopped to consider, then thought out loud, Suppose one wanted to not simply admire the great works, but possess them?

But one painting is worth a hundred times the sum a struggling artist could earn in ten lifetimes, Raul reminded his friend.

I was not suggesting buying them, Patrice held out temptingly.  Suppose a group of men, tastefully disguised, came into the d’Orsay with sketch papers, pretending to be artists gathering insight, appreciation, and inspiration from the works of the masters?

Pretending? Raul challenged.

My apologies, Patrice replied.  I was, of course, referring to Bernard and myself.

Apology accepted, Raul graciously conferred.

So, as I was explaining, Patrice went on, suppose those canvas sheets were coated with a substance, that when set with a match, released a smoke and stench strong enough to burn the eyes and cloud the vision?

Intrigued, Bernard quickly said, Go on, Patrice.

The three men would position themselves at key locations in the great hall so as to maximize the spread and density of the smoke.  And suppose that just before setting the sheets on fire, one of those men poured a few drops of concentrated acid onto that lock, Patrice said, nodding to the window.  Then, as soon as the gas was released, the three covered their eyes and mouths with small plastic gas masks, unseen by metal detectors.  Then they would then each snatch a painting off the walls.

Based on their individual tastes, Raul added, then laughed; a laugh that quickly turned serious.

Patrice agreed with appropriate aplomb.  "Then, the men place the paintings in a plastic bag, and attach the bag to a cord hanging from the end of an un-inflated helium balloon.  By that time the acid would have done its work.  One would push open the window while another inflated the helium balloon.  They would all take off their masks, place them in the bag, along with their disguises, and let it go out the window.  In a matter of seconds the helium balloon would float up and away from the building, only to be captured by an ultra-light glider that whisks the precious cargo away in an instant, before even the first alarm is heard in the museum.  The glider would set down just outside of Tuleries Gardens where a car would be waiting to take the package to a safe location.  The men, sans masks, would be just as exposed to the gas and its effects, making them no more suspect than anyone else in the museum."

And this you thought out in just the last five minutes. Raul asked with a mix of admiration and shock.

Is it not true that some of the greatest ideas and works of art were composed in a burst of creativity? Patrice asked.  But to answer your question...no, I have been planning this crime for some time.

This is all just conjecture, I hope, said Raul.  There is no turning back after such action.  Life would never be simple, or stable, or safe again.  A single errant word would lead to incarceration, if you even got away with the crime initially.

But why would we be suspected, when criminals are generally thought to derive from the lower classes, and from desperation, and impoverishment?  After all, crime is to them what art is to us, simply a method of procuring extraordinary sensations, Patrice insisted.  What we are, finally, is creative: we may only be accused of combining two species of sensation into one.  For the criminal, as we all know, takes a heightened pleasure from theft, while those of us in the upper classes derive it from art.  We are merely, in the spirit of the times, economizing.

How do we reconcile theft from a society that has allowed us to earn a living, follow our chosen professions, and gain the respect of our peers? Raul asked.

There is no essential incongruity between crime and culture, Bernard insisted.  In fact, crime brings out the most of creatively.

Crime takes away, art creates.  They are dichotomous, Raul argued.

Should we not ourselves be compensated for our cleverness, and the diversion we bring? Patrice asked.

I have to agree! Bernard said emphatically.  The world likes nothing better than for those who are accomplished to satisfy those who are gullible.  There is the charm of the union of disparities to consider, after all.

And then too, men like us need to see and touch things, not to read about them, Patrice added.

We live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and thinks too much to be beautiful, Bernard added.

We all have rich lives; with much at stake, Raul reminded his friends.

To deny ourselves this adventure is to deny the adventure of the self, Bernard said.  We must succumb to ourselves in order to overcome the impulse against ourselves.  Those who reject the battle are more deeply wounded than those who take part in it.

There are sins whose fascination is more in the memory than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratify the pride more than the passions, and give to the intellect a quickening sense of joy, Patrice said, philosophically.

You speak of this as a game, Raul said, when in fact it may be the beginning of the end for us.

Or the beginning of a new beginning, yes? Patrice suggested. 

And what happens when all the gendarmes in Paris begin their search for the man or men who have robbed this museum? Raul asked.  What then?

Have you not read the papers? Patrice asked.

Yes, but what does the Ripper have to do with us? Bernard asked.

Why the man garners every headline, takes the focus of every gendarme, Patrice insisted.  Society demands his head.  Other crimes have been relegated to the classifieds.

And this man would indulge us by continuing his tirade? Raul asked.

Oh, I think he would, Patrice assured.  Our stars are in alignment.

We all have careers, Raul insisted, positions than garner respect, incomes that allow for niceties, not just essentials.

But such things are fleeting, Bernard argued.

We shall see how fleeting when my exhibit opens tomorrow, Raul challenged.

Considering the prickly nature of Parisians and the fickle nature of art collectors, you may, in fact, see much merit in our thinking very soon, Patrice predicted.

CHAPTER TWO

Galleria Moutin, Paris, France

Strings of bare bulbs - from the sidewalk to the front entrance - lit the way for visitors to The Galleria Moutin.  The marquee outside announced the opening of an exhibition: The works of Raul Sautere in the Impressionist Tradition.  Feb 10th through the 22nd.  Open to collectors, the public, and friends.

It was a grand building, rivaling the art for appreciation.  Built at the time of Napoleon III, it carried with the traditions of the era.  Grand pillars, classic relief, the strength of Italian marble, the detail of French artisans. 

The front doors opened with a flourish, whisking guests into the main hall.  There was a medley of people, albeit sparse.  All the women wore their smartest gowns.  At the end of the gallery stood a heavy Tartar-looking lady with tiny black eye and wonderful emeralds, talking in bad French at the top of her voice, and laughing immoderately at everything that was said to her.  The cream of the haut monde gossiped in the corners with the editors of leftist quarterlies and other amusing malcontents; a popular television personality could be spotted hobnobbing with a stern academic from the Sorbonne.  A man in top hat and tails made a grand entrance, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and taking the arm of each of his friends, the opposite hand clutching a cigarette – between the fore and middle finger - held high above his head.  Every move was made with panache, every handshake with the friend of the moment.

Unaware of the proximity of the artist, the gentleman asked a woman standing nearby, What have we tonight?

Oh, just some silly exhibit of a copy-cat; an artist, I use the term loosely, seeking to singularly revive the Impressionists.

Oh, one more of those?  But I suppose we must remain for a while, at least long enough to be seen.

The theater starts at 9:00 p.m.  Better to wait here than out in the rain.

The words stung the artist.  For Raul, following the Impressionist tradition was his life’s work and highest calling.  He walked over to a few who seemed at least somewhat engaged in the exhibit, and moved into position to where he could hold court for his guests.  Impressionism, he explained to a small group clustered around his interpretation of Monet’s Boating at Argenteuil, can only be understood as an essentially French invention.  With a brandish of gestures he went on, "Nothing like it had been seen before the middle of the 19th Century, and those artists who were brave enough to take up its challenge and leave the safety of the figurative norm strode out into the brave, new air, the fresh light of immediate experience, of color, shape and sensation, of stillness and of movement as these actually are in nature, sur le motiv, rather than be content to have them rendered from the mind by the imperfect brush and palette of memory.  It was a profound shift.  Perhaps the most profound ever to take place in art."

A few people wandered away, leaving Raul with less of an audience.  He noted the loss but continued ardently.  "These artists, the Impressionists, may have languished undiscovered, however, were it not for a man some regarded, and indeed still regard, as a brute:  Napoleon III.  It was he who created the great Salon de Refuses to accommodate, indeed to welcome, what he saw as transcendent works that could find no home at the great Salon of his day, which ruled the artistic tastes of France, and without whose acceptance no artist could hope to triumph.  Napoleon simply would not allow its rule and authority to exceed his.  And it was the exhibitions that he arranged which allowed Impressionism to flourish at the center, rather than on the tattered edges, of French society."

Yet it was not just the Impressionists who challenged the status quo, a man in coat and tails disputed.  Others took their painting outside.

To simply be outside is not enough.  The Impressionists embraced the subtleties of light, they cared for light, they embraced light as a lover embraces the beloved.  Or they returned to light the way a mathematician returns to a problem he cannot rid himself of, nor wishes to absent from his mind.  Monet and Cézanne both did this, painting again and again in the same place to capture the moods and effects of a startling, complex light.  This set the stage for a more deeply refined knowledge of color and optics, and a stronger appreciation of the actual uses of light, which led to the development of the camera, among other marvels.  Even details as simple as tubes of paint that could be carried to wherever they were necessary find their origin in this moment in art.  The Impressionist movement created beyond its own creations.  It was a unique form of expression.

And the classic art is of no consequence? a woman challenged.

The Impressionists were unconcerned with elevating subjects: the moral tales, dramatic scenes from history or mythology, or biblical parables preferred by the upper middle classes of Paris, Raul responded.  They simply painted life as they saw it: in the streets, the country lanes, the riverside cafes in and around Paris.

That may well be true, she said, the last words thrown over her shoulder, but as a consequence they are no more interesting in themselves than whatever it is that hides beneath their little rippling lakes and ponds.  They are invisible; only their art shows.  They would be more interesting to me if they were less interested in light and its effects and more interested in the glow of celebrity - as all truly entertaining, if less talented, and more interested in the glow of celebrity - as all truly entertaining, if less talented, artists are.

As she wandered away, more followed.  It did not bode well.  The crowd was thin.  Visitors did not spend much time in front of each painting, certainly not enough time to absorb their colors and consider their meaning. 

Patrice and Bernard came in, immediately assessed the situation.  They walked quickly around the gallery, trying to fill empty spaces with deft movements of hands and feet.  They admired the paintings with a flourish.  Enlivened hand gestures and vocal praise attempted to educate and engage those questioning the value of the work and competency of the painter.

To much heavy brush, not enough detail, one of the guests commented; a man whose high hat temporarily elevated him to the status of a person with character.  Not very good.

I must remind you that it is not within the purview of an individual such as yourself to say whether a painting is very good, or very bad, Bernard insisted.  I see you have the capacity of a man seeking a vehicle for his opinions.  There-fore you may say, as of a train or of a bus, that it moves you, or it does not move you.  But that is all.

You cannot dictate taste to us! the man’s wife, wearing a dress that competed with a peacock for colors and audacity, countered.  Her dress looked as if it had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest.  She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy.

It is a pity, Bernard responded, but too many women are so poorly assembled they can have no sense of a perfect arrangement beyond themselves.  They lack the organization required for the artistic sense.  Putting up a refuting hand, he continued, "Ah yes, Madame, I know how much you enjoy giving a rapid précis of your guests.  Hissing into another’s ear - a tragic whisper which is perfectly audible to everybody in this room - the most astounding details."

If that is true, then it has to be said of men that, being instinctive ruffians, they try to smell, taste or feel beauty, but cannot see it, the woman retorted. 

Forgive me, Bernard said graciously.  I am attempting to cast light only on the nature of woman.  To render my acutest impression, as it were.  And that is, among women, the art of painting has two very definite categories.  One is that of the amateur, who paints with broad strokes, but who is very good for passing an evening with in dim light.  You cannot lose her.  The other is the professional, who paints so as to appear she does not paint at all, and so is also very good company: one can easily get lost with her.  I see you perceive the distinction?

Your opinion is that of one man  a man obviously with limited experience with women.

I never concern myself with what pedestrian people say, and never get in the way of what interesting people do, Bernard retorted.  You have my apologies for uttering what even the most common of men know to be the truth.

You may be more common than you think, and far less charming!  In any case, I don’t pay attention to what people like you say, but I am considered very charming to people who value what I say.

I acknowledge your razor tongue slight hit there, Bernard responded with a slight bow at the waist, but not without saying you looked uncommonly pretty while saying it - which is the best that most women can do.

For myself, I intend to give this exhibit the highest praise in tomorrow’s Parisiene Star, Bernard added to the argument.  Why don’t you wait till you read my column?  Then you can speak knowingly and fluently as to what is true.

Maybe you are simply jealous because I am more beautiful than any of the paintings that hang here.

I fear, Madame, that my jealousy is only aroused by a thing so beautiful that I cannot live without it.  And yet in a moment I will walk away from you.  Miraculously, I will yet live and breathe, Patrice decided.

It seems you love yourself far more than the art on these walls, or the shared thoughts of others. The woman said.

"To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance, Patrice quickly responded.

I will remember your impudence young man, she swiftly said.  I will speak to this gallery’s sponsor about you. You can rely on that!

I do hope so, Patrice said.  I do so like to be talked about.  Any man does.  It demonstrates what a fine subject he must be.

Before he could stop himself, the husband laughed out loud, his top hat almost tumbling from his head.

You are very welcome, sir, Patrice assured him.  I too admire laughter at the end of a conversation.  It is like a good port after a rather insufficient meal, is it not?

Bernard tugged at Patrice’s sleeve as the woman’s color went from rose to purple.

They brushed off the retorts flung at them as they walked away, continuing their rounds of the museum, seeking out their next challenge.

The two passed a group of men trying to impress themselves with bits and pieces of borrowed phrases. 

I favor the modernistic school, one said, using a cane as a sword to jab at the painting.  They are far more in touch with the world, and what do we have to learn from poor fellows who went around like vagabonds, with brushes sticking out of their pockets?

The woman was a dowdy thing, with one of those characteristic Slovenian faces, that, once seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked, white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the impression that inordinate joviality could atone for an entire lack of ideas.

"I think we can agree that there is nothing here for