An art thief and a gallery guard with a detective’s instinct for lying. What could possibly go wrong?
It’s 5.12pm. And the security guard’s chair is still here.
Why is it still here? It should have been packed away 10 minutes ago.
A guard I’ve never seen before is on duty today. I vaguely clocked him as younger than the usual gallery guards but, even so…. The others all take off promptly at five. Why not him?
“You like this one, do you?” a voice whispers in my right ear, close as my conscience. I whip around to see the guard rubbing his chin as he studies the painting. “It’s a favourite of mine too.”
He’s tall with a lopsided smile. Dark hair, longish, like he’s missed a couple of barber’s appointments. And somehow, even in the brown security guard’s uniform, he has a cool vibe going on.
Is he going to be trouble?
We’re in the European Impressionists room, at the NSW Art Gallery, in front of a Vincent Van Gogh, called Café Terrace at Night. Rich blues and yellows, a café on a cobbled street, a vibrant swirling night sky.
And, most importantly, it’s small enough to fit in the bag I’m carrying.
“It’s the first painting he did in his Arles series,” he explains.
“I know,” I say, hoping he’ll spare me the art history lecture. Not that it isn’t cute to meet a guard who does something other than haunt the room and scare kids who get too close to the paintings.
“It was his first nocturnal painting, too,” he adds.
“Interesting,” I say. Boring. However, the way he smiles with his eyes first, then his lips, then dimples, is kind of not boring.
“Did you know Vincent Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime?”
“Really?” Now that is interesting. Because the amount that changes hands nowadays for his work is grotesque. I know because I work at an art auction house.
“Apparently, the café in this painting still exists,” he says. “I would love to go there one day, with an art-lover friend.”
“Or an art-lover lover?” I’m not quite sure why I say it.
He gives me the slow-burn smile and offers his hand to shake. “I’m Jackson.”
“Like Jackson Pollock?”
We grin like gawky art lovers on a first date.
“I’m Eliza.” Did I just give him my real name?
It’s 5.15. Time to stop this foreplay. I hacked the surveillance system and have it on a loop, but only until 5.30.
Only problem is…now the guard’s not studying the painting. He’s studying me.
“Are you an artist?” He nods to my bag, where the outline of a frame is evident.
“Oh, you know… not like Vinnie.”
He grins. He is kind of appealing, in a pyjamas and hot chocolate kind-of-way. But now is NOT the time to notice.
“The art gallery will close in 10 minutes,” an announcer booms. “Please make your way to the exit.”
The guard doesn’t move. “Better not keep you,” I say.
“I can stay a bit longer. There’s no place I’d rather be.”
Oh great! Of all the days to steal a painting! When Mr No-home-to-go-to is on guard duty.
“So you’re one of the lucky ones, who enjoys their work?” Why am I prolonging this conversation?
“Don’t you enjoy yours, Eliza?”
“Up to a point.”
The point being where a rich person brings a painting in for sale, and it’s in the original wooden box he bought it in. Investors pay the Earth for these masterpieces, but have no interest in their history or beauty. It’s just a transaction, a way for rich people to get richer. Meanwhile living artists struggle to keep food on the table. Just like Vinnie.
I steal art for a hefty sum. But at least some of that goes to buying artworks from living artists. I’m a collector.
“What is it you do?” he asks.
“I work … at the zoo.” It just pops out.
“Really, in what area?”
“The back area, you know?”
“I meant which animals – reptiles, primates, African?”
“Oh, primates. I just love cuddling those little chimps.”
“Last time I went to the zoo, their enclosure was at the front. Have they moved?”
“Yeah, they have. Recently.”
This was going badly. Deflect.
“Have you been a guard long?”
He walks slowly, his eyes lingering on first one painting, then the next. “This is only a hobby. I take shifts when someone’s sick. I’ve got a year off to consider my options.”
Alarm bells go wild in my head. “A year off from what?”
“From the force,” he said. “I’m a cop.”
Shit!
I stretch my cheeks into a smile. “Interesting.” Horrifying.
“Yeah, it was interesting.” Something about the way he says it makes me think there’s more to the story.
Leave it, Eliza. Let him put the chair away and go home like a nice little guardy.
“What area were you in?” Ahh-I didn’t leave it!
“I was a detective. For twelve years.”
FUUUUCK!
“So can you tell a criminal mind from across the room?”
“I have an instinct for when people are lying.”
I feel heat bubbling under my skin. If I start to sweat, will Sherlock of the Art world figure out what I’m up to? Has he already? Is that why he’s hanging around?
5.22. Time to wrap it up before I appear on the security cameras.
“Why are you taking leave from the force?” I can’t stop myself. I don’t know why.
Jackson glances around to make sure no one hears. “I was stabbed on the job. Spent a few months in hospital. But it wasn’t the physical damage, so much. At night, the faces of the people you couldn’t save, the kids … they come back.” For a moment, his jaw tightens, fists clench. “Anyway, my doctor suggested I take up art. Be around beauty for a change. Whatever else is happening in the world…” his eyes trawl the room, “art is something we can all share.”
He gives me the full force of his smile. I look away in case he sees something in my face. Guilt.
5.28.
“What’s the painting,” He nods to my bag.
I’m out of time.
I grasp his shoulder and groan. “I’m so dizzy.” I lean against the wall and slide to the floor, head in my hands. “I probably haven’t drunk enough today.” It’s a prize performance, helped by the fact I actually feel quite queasy now.
“Do you need a doctor?”
“No! Just a glass of water.”
He rushes off to the kitchen. I glance at the clock. 5.29.
I make the switch and head out. I’ve done my reconnaissance and know my way around the gallery better than my own bedroom. Through the sculptures, I glimpse him crossing the floor with a glass.
I get out just in time.
At home, I crack open a beer, and prop the painting up on the sofa. Now I look at it, it is beautiful. Jackson was right. The sky swirls with colour and light. I would like to visit that cafe one day. As long as Sherlock the guard and his cop buddies aren’t staking the place out!
Speaking of whom … I wonder what Jackson thinks of me now. I try not to think about it as I throw off my blonde wig, take off the annoying false lashes and remove the green contact lenses. I study my true image. Short brown hair, blue eyes, a tad skinny – from all the nervous energy and running about. Would Jackson look at the real me in the same way he did the Kardashian lookalike?
I sip the beer and lean back, admiring the art on my walls – an eclectic mix of abstracts, graphic art and photo-realistic paintings from living artists. The space is almost full now – there’s room for only one more piece. I know just the painting – a dystopian aquatic scene I spotted in a city gallery, with a hefty price tag – $12,000. After this job, I can afford it. It’s my way of giving back to the art world that’s given me so much.
I text my buyer, who commissioned the theft, and arrange to meet later. Maybe I’ll give him a few fun Vinnie facts, for no extra charge.
I switch on the late news and the second item is about the art theft at the NSW Art Gallery. The camera focuses on the canvas I left behind.
“The Van Gogh painting was switched for one of a smiley face,” the newsreader says. “Which has led police to dub the bandit, Smiler.”
I chuckle. Smiler. There are worse things to be called. I didn’t put that painting up as a joke, or a thief’s calling card. But so it wouldn’t be as immediately evident to guards monitoring the security cameras that something was missing.
I choke on my beer as the screen shows a man being hustled out of the gallery into a police car. It’s Jackson, under arrest. At one point, he looks straight into the camera, with a lopsided grin. It feels like he’s sending a ‘Thanks for nothing!’ message directly to me.
I pace, unable to sit still. They wouldn’t seriously think he stole the painting, would they? An ex cop? While he was on duty at the gallery? He might go to jail. Or, if not, he could lose his job. It was just a hobby, I know, but ….
And he’d be able to give them my name. Eliza
“Shit.”
Shitshitshitshitshit!
I make coffee as I think. And then go to visit an old friend.
I push back my meet with buyer until the early hours of the morning. He gives me a hundred thousand. I give him the painting.
Everyone wins.
Except Jackson.
Next day, I slurp through a double espresso as I scour the news. Jackson has been released after a long night of questioning. Thank God. There’s nothing about police raiding the zoo, looking for a primate keeper called Eliza. He didn’t give me up. Interesting.
I head to the gallery in the afternoon. Security’s tight. The line of people waiting to have their bags inspected before they can leave snakes through the Australiana and post-modern galleries. Thankfully, they’re only monitoring people going out, so I cruise in, unchallenged.
When I get to the Impressionists gallery, I’m surprised to see Jackson back on duty. With a cop friend. They eye the patrons, probably hoping the thief will return to the scene of the crime. As if!
I keep my distance. If Jackson gets too close, he’ll know me, even in this red curly wig with brown contact lenses. It’s crowded today. My canvas with the smiley face has been removed but people snap photos of the empty hook. #thesmiler
Over my shoulder, I hear: “The Potato Eaters is considered to be Van Gogh’s first masterpiece. He was trying to depict the truth about how hard life was for peasants.”
“Truth is good,” I say, with a Slavic accent. I don’t turn around.
Does his breath hitch?
“See how he painted the scene in a dull palette to echo the drab living conditions of the time,” he says.
“Thankfully, not so drab anymore.”
When I turn around, his smile freezes, then ebbs away like the last firework on New Year’s Eve.
“I preferred you as a blonde,” he whispers. His eyes flicker to the cop by the door. He could turn me in right now. The fact he doesn’t … is interesting.
The room is getting quite full. With an air of expectation.
“I need your help,” I whisper.
Jackson is across the room, talking to a group about a Monet painting. I’m inspecting the Van Gogh, beside the empty hook.
“Hey, don’t touch the paintings!” His voice rings out. All heads snap round his way. It’s hard to see what’s happening as people block the view. A Twitter post that morning suggesting that an attempt would be made to steal a Monet during opening hours has attracted a mob. People stand on tiptoes and hold cameras above their heads trying to film the moment. The cop pushes through to see what’s happening.
By the time they turn back, the Van Gogh is back on its hook and I’m gone.
As twilight descends, I wait in the park across the road as the last staff leave the gallery. Spotting Jackson, I jog over, falling into step beside him as he enters the Botanical Gardens.
He double takes as he sees me, with short brown hair and blue eyes. A muscle tightens along his jawline and he walks faster. I struggle to keep up. Eventually, I drop back, letting him pull away. Oh well, it was to be expected. I’d just hoped...
With a deep sigh of irritation, he stops and waits for me. Arms folded, unimpressed.
“What was all that about then?” he says. “Stealing it? Putting it back?”
“We all need a hobby.” My glib answer deepens his scowl.
The gardens offer a view of the Opera House and the Sydney Harbour, thick with boat traffic.
“I have a painting on my wall,” I say, “which must have been done here.”
“Another hobby acquisition?” A tad flinty.
“No, this I paid for. Maybe, you’d like to see my collection sometime?”
He sighs, serious now. “That was a first for me. Being arrested.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to happen. In fact, a lot of things went down differently than how I’d planned.”
Like a visit to my friend Luca during the night. She’s a brilliant artist and forger. It was her copy of the Van Gogh I gave the buyer. He saw media reports of the theft – verifying it had happened. And if he had doubts about the provenance of the painting … well, he could hardly get it authenticated, could he? I told him the gallery would say they’d retrieved the painting, to save face, but would put a copy of the artwork on show. In fact, they had the original. And I had a new business model. ‘Borrowing’ paintings for a day, then selling copies to unscrupulous rich people for mega-bucks.
“You took a risk putting it back,” said Jackson.
“I don’t usually do that.”
“Then why did you, this time?”
“Well, someone once said, art’s not meant for one person in a private room. It’s something we can all share.” A tad cheesy?
But he seems to like it, smiling just a little. “Maybe I will come and see that collection of yours? And the receipts for payment.”
“And how does a cop feel about associating with a thief?”
“Former cop,” he corrects me. He scratches his chin as he thinks. It’s a gesture I’m getting quite fond of. “Stealing art and returning it?” He twists his lip to the side. “I’d need to think about that? During a holiday would be the ideal time. Somewhere with art, good cafes…?”
“Starlight shining on cobbled streets?” I grin. “I know just the place.”