Caveat Emptor by Ken Perenyi Read Free Book Online

procured three suitable panels scavenged from a third-rate piece of early European furniture. I went to the Met, studied the Flemish portraits for hours, and bought books containing reproductions of them. I noticed that many of the paintings shared similar characteristics: deceptively simple portraits of people with thin lips, long straight noses, medieval hairstyles, and ethereal expressions.
    With the originals as models, I used a method I had once watched Tom employ. I got a sketch pad and, borrowing a little from each model, was able to complete several plausible portraits of imaginary sixteenth-century sitters. All I had to do next was to cut the panels to proper size, carefully burnish the edges, apply a thin coat of gesso, and finally transfer the sketches to the panels, again using a cut-out-and-trace method I had observed Tom use in his work.
    Over the next two weeks, my mother couldn’t get me out of the garage. I was either tuning up the Bentley or working on the portraits. At last, I produced three examples ready to be “baked” in the sun for the next couple of weeks.
    After the paint was sufficiently hardened, the next challenge was the cracking. I noticed from my studies at the Met that not all paintings on wood panels display cracks, but when they do, they show a unique crack pattern that resembles a macroscopic grid pattern that is referred to as “craquelure” by experts.
    It was mentioned in Tom’s book about van Meegeren that forgers sometimes used needles to engrave cracks into paintings. After raiding my father’s tool chest for an engraver’s needle, I began to engrave cracks fine as a human hair under a large mounted magnifying glass and lamp. It took several days to copy the “grid” pattern onto each panel.
    The next step was to darken the cracks. Natural cracks in an antique picture appear black because of a deposit of microscopic debris and discolored varnish that has settled within them over the years. All it took was a wash of powdered pigment with some soap and water, wiped over the surface of each painting, to reveal the entire pattern right before my eyes.
    I made an “antique” varnish by simply using a commercial brand of varnish and tinting it with a brown stain. After this was applied and the paintings allowed to dry in the sun for a few days, I rubbed dust thoroughly into the back, front, and edges of each painting.
    I was very excited with the finished product. The portraits looked exactly like the real ones I’d seen in the Met, especially my third—and best—effort. It was a portrait of a man perhaps fifty years old. A black tunic covered his chest in pleats, and, in a corner at the bottom, a few fingers lay as if resting on a windowsill. His hair was clipped like that of a monk, and his face exhibited the serene expression of a saint.
    With the Bentley on the fritz, there was no time to waste. I emptied a yellow manila envelope of some junk mail, slid the panel in, and left for the city.
    As I was heading downtown on the Eighth Avenue A train, I was trying to decide which dealer I would approach. Then it came to me. There was a miserly old curmudgeon called Ephron, whose posh gallery on East Fifty-Seventh Street near Lexington Avenue dealt in Renaissance art.
    Ephron’s window invariably displayed a rich array of early European furniture, tapestries, and paintings. Once, when I was trying to sell a couple of pieces of early furniture, I thought I’d give him a try and perhaps establish a new client. I entered, told him I was selling some period furniture, and showed him photos. He took them for a second, looked at them, and asked how much. When I told him the price, which was reasonable, he simply handed back the photos and showed me the door. So I figured, What the hell; I’m gonna try that prick again.
    By the time I got out of the subway and started walking east along Fifty-Seventh Street, I began to lose my