All Art is Stolen

by Rick Smith

It’s been said that the first electric lights in Paris were as cruel as the sun. Which is why the artifacts throughout the Musee d’ Ethnographie du Trocadero were lit with gas fixtures lending each room the solemnness of a cathedral without the lighting of sunbeams breaking through stained glass. In the gaslight, the artist stood arms folded defiantly, as if to deny the seduction of the wooden African masks and statues he was looking at. It was an instinctual pose to ward off the power of the cubed faces, the pendulous breasts and the monstrous hips to move him. A man approached and stood next to the artist.

“Monsieur Picasso?” the man asked.

“Monsieur Bonnot,” Picasso said never looking at the man but staring ahead at the three masks lined on the wall. He unfolded his arms and pointed to an ebony mask depicting a female with squints for eyes and a nose grotesquely too long. Not a woman at all, just a figure intimating the idea of one. “That. Is it art, or no?” he asked Bonnot.

“It may have been,” Bonnot said, “but it’s someone’s property now and property is theft.”

“So, you are an anarchist?” Picasso asked still looking intently at the mask.

“If you say,” Bonnot replied. “I’m not here to discuss politics or art. A mutual acquaintance informed me that you may have a job for me. Perhaps we should talk about that.”

Picasso turned to the man. “You know, art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given to us to understand. Politics are the same. Is it true you are a bank robber?”

“I believe you already know that.”

“Then I may have a job for you. But first, tell me more about your profession. Do you find it dangerous?” Picasso asked.

“Not any more so than, say, construction or dock work. I try to avoid violence, if that’s what you’re asking,” Bonnot said. “Outsmarting the bourgeoisie brings great satisfaction.”

“So, you have been successful?”

“As successful as you at your chosen profession, I suppose,” the bank robber answered.

Picasso smiled. “And how would you know that?” he asked.

“Through our mutual acquaintances, Leo Stein and his sister, Gertrude,” Bonnot answered. “I have met Matisse through them.”

“Matisse?” Picasso spat out the name. “He said that?”

“Not specifically, Monsieur. But when asked, he said you were making a name for yourself.”

“Cezanne has made a name for himself…a name for the ages. Others try to make a name for themselves, but it only lasts for a moment,” Picasso said. “But, back to business. Why banks, Mr. Bonnot?”

“That’s where the money is,” Bonnot said. “Money extracted by capital from the masses. Money which can be used to build a revolutionary movement. That is why I rob banks. But why would you want to have me rob a bank?”

Picasso chuckled. “Not a bank, Monsieur Bonnot.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I want you to take them,” he said pointing towards the masks. “Liberate them from this museum.”

Bonnot looked at the masks and then at Picasso. “I am a bank robber, not an art thief.”

“So, we are talking about art, eh, Monsieur Bonnot?

A janitor came down the stairs leading to the African exhibit carrying a bucket and mop.

“You, sir,” Bonnot said to the man. “How long have you worked here?”

“Six years,” the man answered. “Why do you ask?”

“Only to see if you think that these masks are art?

The janitor looked over the masks. “I’m just a workman. I have no education in the subject. But, I do find them compelling.”

“So, are they art?” Picasso asked the man.

The janitor looked again at the pieces. “I suppose art is in the eyes of the beholder.”

“Thank you, fellow worker,” Bonnot said to the man as the janitor moved to the other side of the room and began to mop the floor. Turning to Picasso, Bonnot whispered, “There is no challenge here. I could easily take what I want. But, I must turn you down, Monsieur Picasso. It serves no purpose to me or to the revolution.”

“You don’t know that,” Picasso said. “These masks could be my muses. They could inspire a new, and revolutionary way of seeing. Something your friend, Matisse, has seemed to forget is the purpose of art. Instead, he plays with his colors.”

Bonnot sat on the bottom stair leading to the room. He watched the janitor working. “If I were to consider this job, what would be in it for me?”

“You could come by my studio and choose one painting for each mask you bring me. In fact, come by in a few days and see what you’d like.”

“I shall consider that,” Bonnot said. He stood, looked around the exhibition with the eye of a thief and said,” I shall let you know.”

***

The Café Lapine Agile sat on the streets of Monmartre, a home to artists, anarchists, and gangsters, much like the weekly salons held by Leo and Gertrude Stein. Bonnot had asked Gertrude to arrange for a meeting with Matisse and she happily obliged appreciating her role as a bridge between everything modern. Bonnot sat at a small table outside of the café and scanned the street looking for the older man.

“Monsieur Matisse,” Bonnot said loudly on seeing the artist. He waved him over to his table.

“Bonjour, Monsiuer Bonnot,” the man said sitting down. Unlike Picasso, Matisse was dressed conservatively: starched collar, flannel gray suit, and bowler hat. Bonnot guessed he was ten, maybe fifteen years older than the younger artist. He was sweating and a little breathless. “Gertrude and Leo have asked me to send their regards,” Matisse said. “How have you been since we last saw each other?”

“I’ve been well,” Bonnot answered. “It’s good to see you, too. May I order you a Pernod?”

“Ah, perhaps in my younger days, Bonnot, but I believe I’ll pass,” Matisse said. He took off his hat and fanned himself with it. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I do have another appointment shortly. You wanted to speak to me about something?”

“Yes, Monsieur. I need to know something about the value of art.”

“Pardon?”

“The value of art,” Bonnot repeated. “I figured you would know.”

The artist sat back, puzzled and yet delighted. “Being that art is an escape from reality the value is quite high,” Matisse said.

“I don’t mean this philosophically,” Bonnot said. “I mean value in a very exact and concrete way.”

Matisse looked out on the cobble stone street and sniffed. “You mean francs, no?

“Yes. Money.”

“I see,” Matisse said.” Are we talking exact and concrete works of art then?”

“Yes,” Bonnot answered.

“As long as you understand that exactitude is not truth and that value doesn’t necessarily imply greatness, I might be able to help. Who is the artist we’re talking about?”

“Picasso.”

The artist took a napkin from the table and wiped his brow. “Picasso, you say. Is that offer for Pernod still available?”

Bonnot called the waiter to the table and ordered two Pernods and water. Matisse loosened his collar and contemplated the play of sunlight on the cobblestones in the street. The waiter brought the drinks and Matisse downed his in one gulp, put his hat on and stood.

“Wait, are you leaving?” Bonnot asked.

“If I may, Monsieur Bonnot, I would say you are not the type to collect pieces of art. Is that correct?”

“Not at the moment, but, you never know.”

Matisse nodded. “And considering your chosen profession, I must say that I cannot be a part of some criminal action you and your gang may be planning against Picasso. Not that I care, personally, about the man. I hope you understand.”

“I’m not planning anything against the man,” Bonnot said. “It’s just that I may be considering an exchange with him. He’s offered me my choice of paintings in his studio.”

“May I ask for what?”

“Please, sit.”

Matisse removed his hat, sat and said, “If I’m sitting, I’ll have another Pernod.”

“Of course,” Bonnot agreed and ordered two more drinks.

“The items I’m considering exchanging with Picasso are currently not in my possession,” Bonnot said.

“I see,” Matisse said. “So, is it possible that this is criminal activity with Picasso and not against him.”

“Something like that,” Bonnot replied. “Ah, here are our drinks.”

They clinked glasses and downed their drinks. Matisse checked his watch, took a drink of water and said, “I know for a fact that Picasso is already in possession of stolen items from the Louvre.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh yes, two small Iberian sculptures that he coveted. I suspect that scoundrel, Apollinaire, had something to do with that.”

Bonnot was not particularly surprised, neither at Picasso’s complicity in such a crime, nor at Matisse’s suggestion that Apollinaire had his hands all over the act. Bonnot knew Apollinaire to be the worst kind of poet: elitist and pretentious, and generally, somewhat of an ass.

Bonnot said, “Monsieur Matisse, believe me, it is best that you have no knowledge of the items of exchange.”

“I see,” Matisse said. “You asked if I knew the value of art. In this case, specific paintings in Picasso’s studio. I may have an idea. We have exchanged a few paintings. He is young but someday will be a major artist. An extremely arrogant one at that. The man believes he will change the history of art all by himself. I would assume that any painting of his may someday have considerable value.”

“Would anything be worth a thousand francs today?” Bonnot asked.

“Perhaps. I’d have to see,” Matisse replied.

“That is the favor I’m asking of you, Monsieur Matisse. Would you accompany me to Picasso’s studio and evaluate the paintings?”

“We are, currently, not on speaking terms,” Matisse said. “It would be quite awkward.”

“Monsieur Matisse, wouldn’t the act of you putting a monetary value on Picasso’s work, in his studio, in front of his face, put the upstart in his place?”

“I haven’t thought of it that way,” Matisse said taking another drink of water. “It would certainly get under Picasso’s skin.”

“So, you will accompany me then?” Bonnot asked.

“I will, but keep in mind that Picasso, regardless of his bohemian ways and radical viewpoints, considers himself a shrewd businessman. He will expect equal value for whatever you’re exchanging.”

“He said, one painting in his studio for each item of exchange,” Bonnot reminded the artist.

“We shall see about that,” answered Matisse.

***

Picasso was shirtless when he answered the door.

“Monsieur Picasso,” Bonnot said.

“Bonnot,” Picasso answered, “it’s so good you’ve come by. Please, come in.” He opened the door to let the robber in. Matisse followed Bonnot into the studio.

“Henri?” Picasso said. “I thought we weren’t on speaking terms.”

Bonnot jumped in quickly, “I asked him to accompany me.”

Matisse had already entered and was looking around the studio, hands behind his back.

“Excuse me,” Picasso said. “ Is there anything you particularly wanted to see, Henri? Or are we still not talking?”

“We could start right here,” Matisse said pointing to two sculptures on a shelf near the door. They were both portrait busts of women whose features were simple geometric shapes, not unlike the African masks at The Trocadero. “I’m wondering. Are you starting a whole exhibition of stolen art?”

“I think you’d agree, Henri,” Picasso said as he picked up one of the busts, “that all art is stolen.”

“I would not agree,” the older artist said. “Not all art is stolen; certainly not my own.”

“If you say so,” Picasso said. “However, Cezanne may take umbrage at that. Monsieur Bonnot, may I ask why Henri has accompanied you?”

“Monsieur Matisse was invited so I can have an expert opinion on the value of your work.”

“Oh, is that right, Henri?” Picasso said putting the bust back in its place on the shelf.

“I may be able to offer an opinion. After all, Monsieur Bonnot will need some kind of guidance on whether to exchange pieces with you.”

“Exchange pieces, you say,” Picasso was frowning. “Monsieur Bonnot, have you told Henri of our arrangement?”

“Not explicitly,” Bonnot said. “Only that there may be an exchange.”

Picasso found a clean undershirt hanging on the back of a chair. He took his time putting it on his naked torso.

“Exchanges of this sort should be fair, no? Something for you, something for me,” Picasso asked Bonnot.

“That’s what I’m trying to calculate,” Bonnot said. “It certainly needs to be worth my while.”

“Mine as well,” Picasso said. “That’s why I’ve decided that you could bring me nothing to match the value of any of my pieces. No matter what Matisse says. Consequently, there will be no exchange.”

Bonnot looked Picasso in the eyes and calmly whispered, “I’ll be the person who decides whether this exchange is off.”

Matisse, all the while, had been looking about the studio. He approached an easel covered by a canvas tarp. “What’s this here?” he said.

“Leave it be!” Picasso shouted.

Matisse, with the flair of a magician, unfurled the canvas tarp revealing a painting of a large woman staring not at the observer, but across the painting into the dark red and brown of what was certainly a man’s room. She occupied space as an entity in herself. Only the Mona Lisa had been as solid and as fluid completely owning her space.

“My God, it’s Gertrude,” Matisse said.

“It looks nothing like Gertrude,” Bonnot said. “Picasso, did you hear me?”

Picasso put an end to the speculation. “Of course, it’s Gertrude. And, yes, I heard you.”

“Matisse,” Bonnot barked. “How much is that worth?”

“Did Gertrude commission this?” Matisse asked Picasso.

“Yes, and she sat at least eighty times for me. How many times has she sat for you?” Picasso asked with a smile.

“How much?” the robber demanded.

Matisse sputtered, “Apparently it’s already bought and paid for by the Steins. She came to you, Picasso?”

“She’s very interested in my work. She likes supporting—well, younger artists. Artists with something to say.” Picasso approached the older artist, reached out, touched his shoulders and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. For a moment, I forgot that Gertrude was sponsoring you, wasn’t she?”

Bonnot stepped in between the two artists on seeing Matisse’s face turn crimson and clenching his hands into fists which may have never seen a fight. He waited a second for everyone to breath, turned to Picasso and said, “The portrait may have been commissioned, but you’re the one in possession as far as I can see.” He then turned to Matisse and said, “No more dithering around. What is the value?”

“The piece is remarkable,” Matisse said.

“Worth a thousand francs?”

“Many times that,” Matisse said.

“It belongs to Madame Stein,” Picasso wailed nearly at the point of tears. “It is not for sale or for any type of exchange.”

Bonnot nodded. “I see. Then, perhaps, I shall just take it.”

“You’re just going to steal it?” Picasso asked. “You can’t do that. I’ll just contact the authorities…”

Bonnot grabbed Picasso by the undershirt and said. “I don’t think so because those authorities are probably still looking for those Iberian busts.”

Matisse had not expected Bonnot’s implied violence. He was pleased to see Picasso literally shaking in fear. “Picasso,” he said, “didn’t you just say that all art is stolen?”

Bonnot released the shaken artist. Picasso, bent over, picked up the tarp and placed it back, covering the portrait. “I didn’t mean for that to be taken literally.”

“How did you mean it to be taken?” Matisse asked.

Picasso thought for a moment. “A bad artist copies. A great artist steals.”

“Enough of this intellectual masturbation,” Bonnot announced. “We either have a deal or not. I can get you all the masks from the Trocadero. That’s not hard.”

“The masks from the Trocadero?” Matisse asked.

“Yes, the African masks,” Bonnot said.

“So, you’ll be copying them?” Matisse asked Picasso.

“How dare you,” Picasso said lunging at the older artist. They both tumbled to the floor knocking down the covered easel.

Both men lay breathing hard. Matisse groaned and sat up holding his knees. Picasso popped up.

“My god, the portrait,” he said reaching for the still covered canvas which had been knocked to the floor. He peeked under the tarp and let out a breath of relief.  “It’s all right,” Picasso said. “It’s alright.” He carefully put the portrait back on the easel and sat cross legged on the floor. He found a cigarette in his pocket, lit it, and blew out. “And you, old man, are you all right?”

Matisse touched his head and looking at his hand, said, “No blood. I guess I’m all right.” He watched Picasso smoking, blowing concentric circles out of his mouth.

“Picasso,” Matisse said.

“Yes.”

“You’re a great artist.”

“As are you, Henri.”

“I just want you to know, I noticed your portrait of Gertrude looks exactly like one of those, he said and pointed towards the shelf near the door that held the Iberian statues.

Picasso looked at the open door to the hot streets of Monmartre. He looked at the empty shelf, the first thing you see as you enter Picasso’s studio. “Bonnot,” he cried.

“Bonnot,” Matisse cursed.