The Masterpiece

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

December 1975

Virginia’s legs shook as she maneuvered her way through the revolving door of the Museum of Modern Art. She gave her name to the woman at the desk, who directed her to a third-floor gallery where a sign outside read CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC. She pushed through and stood still, unsure of where to begin.

Clara stood at the far end of the room, towering above the art handlers and gallerists in her dark suit and shock of gray hair. Even from far away, Virginia could see Clara’s face was animated, her words coming out in a rapid clip.

In the eight months since they’d stormed the auction house, Clara had garnered lots of press, about her history, her legacy, and her artwork. The museum had offered up a show of not only her work but also Levon’s and some other artists from the period’s. But Clara was the only woman, and had the starring role, as she deserved. She’d invited Virginia to stop by in the afternoon before the official opening, a chance to see the show before the public swarmed in.

Virginia worked her way around the room, unnoticed and unobserved. The exhibit began with some of Clara’s early illustrations and, of course, The Siren. Nearby, in a display case that allowed both sides to be exhibited, hung the watercolor for The Siren, the link between Clara’s early work and her turn to oils. The piece had been recovered from the Lorettes’ possession after a police investigation into the sale of stolen paintings that electrified the art world.

Soon after being arrested, Mrs. Lorette admitted she’d discovered The Siren in the attic of the Maine cottage while putting away bed linens at the end of the summer term. The cleaning lady had told her it was by the “tall, skinny lady painter,” and she and Mr. Lorette had held on to it in case the value rose, just as they’d done with the other works of art that had “disappeared” at the school over the years.

Due to their advanced ages, they were each sentenced to only twenty-six months in prison.

Virginia, emboldened, had applied to the part-time master’s degree program in art history at New York University and, to her shock, was awarded a full scholarship. She still worked a few days a week at the information booth and was even more involved with the Municipal Art Society.

In fact, just before coming to the MoMA, she’d presented some of the raw materials for her thesis to Adelaide and the board of the Municipal Art Society, a slide show she called “Grand Central Terminal: Past, Present, and Future.” It began with photos of the interior and exteriors when it was first built, followed by Ruby’s powerful shots to show what it was like now. For the big finish, Clara had created renderings of what it might become with a little TLC. Or a lot, to be honest: a new roof that wouldn’t leak, windows scraped of paint and dirt, the marble walls cleaned, and, most spectacularly, the celestial ceiling restored to its original turquoise. The board had gasped out loud at the renderings, exactly the effect Virginia had hoped to achieve.

Now, though, her elation was ebbing fast. Virginia stiffened her spine before moving deeper into the exhibit, knowing what lay ahead.

Clara’s exhibit included three nudes Clara had painted of Virginia, including the one begun in the Grand Central School of Art. Together, they formed a fleshy, bold triptych. The figure in the paintings was definitely her, with her pixie haircut and wide eyes, but the look on her face was otherworldly, as though she were a seraph. The scar was just that. A scar. To think that her big secret, the one she’d been ashamed of these past five years, was out in the world for everyone to see. Fine. It was a part of her body, and she wasn’t going to pretend anymore. She’d been sliced open and put back together in a different way, and it had made her wise. A woman who’d fought her own wars and survived.

“Virginia!” Adelaide came careening toward her, holding the afternoon paper in her hand, her face flushed.

“Adelaide, what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

“I remember you said you were coming here. I had to find you. Have you heard the news?”

“No. What news? Is it about the presentation?”

“No. Well, yes, in a way. It’s been saved!”

Adelaide had attracted the attention of several people nearby. “What has?” asked one of the gallerists.

“Grand Central!”

Adelaide read aloud. “The landmark status of Grand Central Terminal was reinstated earlier today when the Appellate Division voted three to two to reverse the trial court’s decision. In his ruling, the judge challenged Penn Central’s accounting methods, saying the company wrongly assigned railroad expenses to the terminal operating costs, instead of the railway business, in an attempt to demonstrate economic hardship. Specifically, Penn Central’s claim that it was losing millions of dollars a year was found to be unsubstantiated. The decision is sure to advance to the New York Court of Appeals and perhaps the Supreme Court, but is a victory for the Municipal Art Society in its crusade to stop the construction of a 55-story tower atop the terminal.”

As a cheer broke out around the room, Adelaide mouthed thank you to Virginia, and they exchanged knowing smiles.

An arm wrapped around Virginia’s shoulders. She looked up to see Clara beaming down at her. “Congratulations.”

Virginia slid her arm around her friend’s waist. “It’s a huge win, for now. But who knows what kind of fight is looming down the pike. It might go right up to the Supreme Court.”

“I know that your side will prevail, most certainly.”

Virginia’s life up until last year had been about mitigating risk, doing nothing out of the ordinary, all while holding the people and things she loved as close to her as possible. Too close, it turned out. She’d learned the hard way that growth and change were unavoidable. Only once she’d undertaken her own crusades had everything fallen into place.

Most important, Clara Darden was finally recognized as a seminal artist of the twentieth century. She’d gotten the respect she’d deserved, almost too late. Using Clara’s life as her template, Virginia was now able to see a future unfold before her, one that didn’t involve loneliness or fear. She’d work in a gallery or teach art history, have mad affairs of her own—she’d already embarked on a burgeoning romance with a witty NYU linguistics professor—as well as deep friendships to see her through the difficult times.

Clara motioned across the room. “What do you think? Are you okay with this? I’ll take the triptych down if you’re not.”

“No. I love it.”

Clara smiled. “I wonder what Levon would have thought of all this.”

Together they surveyed the room. “I bet he’d have eaten it up,” said Virginia.

“He’d tell me I have goats on my roof. And he’d probably be right.” She barked out a laugh, and everyone in the room turned and smiled, acutely mindful of the celebrated artist in their midst.

But only Virginia could see the tears in her eyes.