The Virginia Museum of Fine Arts on 200 N. Boulevard in Richmond had changed dramatically in the last twenty years. One’s membership card reflected one’s interests. European, African, Asian art, et cetera, would be cited on the card, and the mailings, often colorful and informative, arrived in the mailbox at regular intervals.
Children’s programs, senior discounts, changing displays for the various categories kept the place full even in the middle of the week. There were even painting and drawing classes.
The gardens provided one with the fleeting embrace of living plants and flowers as well as more permanent sculptures. Benches allowed one to sit and look and learn.
The day, low sixties, was probably the last of the warmer days, a sweater or a thin coat sufficed. Soon enough the winds would blow steady, the mercury hang in the forties. When winter truly arrived the forties seemed benevolent. This would be a goodbye to sitting outside.
“Hey, there’s Bill Hall and Willoughby.” Harry noticed a now-retired fellow who worked harder than when employed.
“And Beverly Ely.” BoomBoom knew the Charlottesville doctor. “Whoever they’re talking to must have spent a fortune on that outfit.”
“Maybe she’s one of those people who can pull something off the rack and look terrific.” Susan mused. “An enviable trait.”
“That’s Marvella Lawson,” Harry informed them as they walked over.
“Bill, allow us to intrude,” Susan opened the conversation as BoomBoom and Beverly hugged.
The handsome fellow stood up, kissed the ladies, one of the joys of being a gentleman, and introduced Susan and BoomBoom to Marvella Rice Lawson.
Harry said it was good to see Marvella, who said the same regarding Harry.
The silver-haired patrician lady smiled, clearly happy to meet new people.
“We were just discussing the seventeenth-century floral paintings. So vivid you felt you could touch them.” Marvella smiled.
“And so many of them painted by women. Put on a lower rung of art because of it. Whenever there’s an exhibition about people kept from their passion but who manage anyway, it always gets me.” Bill offered his seat to Marvella, who sat down with a begging Willoughby at her feet.
“You are not sitting in Marvella’s lap,” Bill intoned.
Willoughby did not sit in the lady’s lap, but he focused on the other women just to ignore his human.
They chattered on about what they’d seen, why they traveled down to Richmond today, when Marvella looked at the group.
“There’s room if anyone else is a bit weary.” She patted the bench.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lawson. I actually am.” BoomBoom sank next to the tall woman, two beauties sitting side by side. “We started a discussion but never finished. In a sense it’s what is art? Is the gorgeous skin shirt of a Plains brave the same as a painting by Rubens?”
“Boom, Mrs. Lawson and Beverly may not want to dive into such a loaded discussion.” Harry smiled, then looked at Bill. “He, of course, will talk about anything.”
They all laughed, for Bill was fearless. They knew not to ask him a question if they didn’t want to know what he really thought.
“In some ways that’s the same question as what is beauty,” Marvella calmly began. “Some would say it’s structure, harmony, line, color, and subject matter. It’s the last that raises the hackles. Subject matter. Think of Mamma Sugar in the warehouse. You all remember the uproar. The black mammy sphinx with a head rag in the old sugar factory.”
“Yes. I thought it was spectacular,” Susan replied. “And political.”
“That’s where the problem lies. Is a shirt art? Doesn’t that depend on who makes it?” Bill put his hand on Willoughby’s head.
“And who buys it,” Harry shrewdly added.
They all talked at once, invigorated, interested in one another’s thoughts.
“My brother and I loved art but we had vastly opposite tastes. He would purchase a Frederick Church whereas I stayed with European art, especially the nineteenth century. Pierre reached the point where he could appreciate my views and I could appreciate his. I admit that took us until our late thirties.” She laughed. “Did you know him?”
Harry, who had known Marvella from fund-raisers, which is to say, not well, knew Pierre but was not going to say “I saw your brother’s body in a small covert of trees,” so she replied, “I didn’t but I have seen his art collection. My neighbor made a copy of a video that she showed me. I was an art history major at Smith. It truly is impressive.” She paused. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”
Marvella’s distinguished face softened. “Thank you.”
Beverly spoke up. “Marvella, Bill, and I knew one another through Pierre. He nudged me to collecting on a small scale. Actually, Marvella, Pierre, and I often wound up talking about what is art, how the market distorts not just value but cultural integrity.
“About six months ago we somehow stumbled onto the subject of prices and Pierre told us that something like the turquoise warrior’s shirt in the museum would sell for over a hundred thousand dollars.” Beverly’s eyes widened.
“Wouldn’t something like that be easier to fake than, say, Stubbs?” Harry loved sporting art.
“We all didn’t get that far,” Marvella answered, “but I think it would be. With a painting you’d have to copy the painter’s style and use paints from the period. You might have to mix powders and egg white and God knows what else. With a deerskin or beaded shoes one would need to age the leather, use beads from the period, but it might be easier.”
Bill stepped in. “Still, where would you find someone who could do the work?”
“Well, I suppose forgers in their own way are almost as talented as the people they are imitating.” Susan wedged on the edge of the bench.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to use your talents in your own time?” BoomBoom wondered. “Not imitating another epoch?”
“How do you make a name for yourself?” Marvella said. “If you fake something that artist’s name is already valued.”
Bill then added, “Inside that building some of those works are worth millions. I guess that’s plenty of motive.”
“Even for tribal clothing and jewelry?” BoomBoom asked.
“Well, if something sells for a hundred thousand dollars and it’s expected that the creator is unknown, maybe that’s the easiest to fake or forge. Who really was the creator?” Susan replied.
“I don’t know.” BoomBoom watched a pigeon waddle closer as did Willoughby. “If you’re caught, game over, jail. If you cross the wrong parties, zip, they slit your throat.”
Everyone looked at her, the same disquieting thought running through their heads except for Willoughby’s. That thought being, might this have something to do with Pierre’s murder? It was either that, art, a subject about that Pierre knew a great deal, or he had stumbled onto some other form of wrongdoing that generated enormous sums.
Marvella finally gave voice to the thought. “I wonder if my brother was trailing a forger? Looking back, it’s possible. Sometimes one can’t see what’s under one’s nose.”
“Not me,” Willoughby bragged.
March 28, 1786 Tuesday
A week passed since the spring equinox. Daffodils swayed in the light breeze, buds swelled a dark red on trees, a few opened revealing fresh spring green color. Ewing decided a celebration was in order. He’d sent out handwritten invitations on creamy paper one week ago. Each invitation had been hand delivered by a well-dressed slave. Naturally, these tasks proved competitive as everyone wanted to travel, gossip with the other people on the various estates. Then again, being entrusted with such a mission, being well dressed, carried status, a lot of it.