Provenance_ How a Con Man and a Forger Rewrote the History of Modern Art - Laney Salisbury [4]
The Tate accepted the offer and promptly arranged a show of appreciation, inviting Drewe and Myatt to the museum’s exclusive aerie for an afternoon reception to recognize Drewe’s act of generosity. Those at the Tate knew from experience that given too much time to think it over, many donors lost their initial enthusiasm and failed to fulfill their promises. But Drewe was not that kind of man. Within days the paintings had been delivered to the Tate.
Now, in the elegantly appointed conference room above the public galleries, with the reception under way, Myatt sat quietly as Drewe, the principal guest of honor, chatted with his hosts and dropped names: Sir Alan Bowness, former head of the Tate; Bill McAlister, director of the Institute of Contemporary Arts; the art critic David Sylvester; and the pioneering architect Jane Beverly Drew.
Myatt watched, mesmerized. Drewe was a full-blown wonder, his speech smoothly modulated, his fertile mind drawing upon his broad knowledge of a whole array of topics and interests. Even his occasional bad joke was rewarded with polite ripples of laughter. Even Drewe seemed charmed by his own persona and its power to command the attention of this influential and powerful group.
Two waiters poured tea. Myatt looked over his cup at Drewe. He had often wondered why a research scientist would immerse himself in the imprecise world of art appreciation. Did Drewe need a break from the tedium of physics research? Did he need validation, regular and open praise for his erudition? It didn’t seem so. Drewe’s house, his cars, his dining habits, his accomplishments all suggested a high level of self-confidence.
The grand moment of the reception finally arrived. Two Tate conservators wearing white gloves came in carrying a pair of five-foot-tall paintings jointly titled Spring Woodland. The works were beautifully composed, semiabstract figures resembling birds and vegetation, set against an electric-blue background. Conversation stopped as everyone at the table acknowledged the gifts. There was a moment of respectful silence.
“Ahh, the Bissières, how lovely,” someone said, in a voice barely above a whisper.
Myatt was stunned. He had painted the two “Bissières” himself just two weeks before.
1
“I WANT A NICE MATISSE”
We are inclined to believe those whom we do not know because they have never deceived us.
—SAMUEL JOHNSON
John Drewe and John Myatt, perpetrators of what Scotland Yard has called “the biggest art fraud of the twentieth century,” had first met four years earlier, in 1986, when Myatt’s life was in free fall. His wife had abandoned him, leaving him alone to care for their two children, Amy and Sam, both still in diapers, and he was desperate. The family lived on a narrow lane in the small rural community of Sugnall, Staffordshire, in a farmhouse that had once belonged to his parents. The house was old and run-down, with no central heating or hot water, and was warmed only by an ancient pale-blue Rayburn cooker, into which Myatt fed coal whenever he could afford it. The day’s wash was usually draped over a drying rack above the kitchen table. The furniture, most of it threadbare, had belonged to his parents too. He lived frugally, but his meager earnings as a part-time art teacher hardly covered the bills, and he had been forced to go on the dole.
Myatt was not generally prone to self-pity, but these were hard times. In the middle of the night he would wake, overcome by the feeling that he was washed up, trapped in the rolling hills of western central England.
Things hadn’t always been so gloomy. As a boy, Myatt had shown musical and artistic promise, and had been encouraged by his parents to attend art school, where his teachers recognized his compositional skills. They were particularly impressed by his knack for copying the masters, a talent he attributed to an innate ability to “stand in someone