“Huh. I was wondering if maybe this is a real Levon Zakarian, what with the auction coming up.” She added, quietly, “That maybe it might be worth something.”
Janice reached into her desk drawer and took out a magnifying glass. She peered through it, paying special attention to the bottom right corner. “Unfortunately, there’s no signature, neither Clyde nor Levon Zakarian.”
“Who’s Clyde?” asked Virginia. “I thought the artist was Levon Zakarian.”
Janice turned and scanned the bookshelf, pulling out a thin catalog. “This exhibition catalog is one of the few remaining records of the Clyde paintings that were shown in New York in the early 1930s, although at the time, no one knew who the real artist was. He preferred to remain anonymous. The paintings were a huge hit, heralded as one of the first direct links between the School of Paris—cubism, for example, or fauvism—and the New York School, where abstract expressionism got its start.”
Virginia’s head spun. If only she’d studied modern art instead of medieval, this might make sense. “Cubism is Picasso, right, and fauvism is Matisse?”
“Exactly. Cubism was an early-twentieth-century movement, where the artists portrayed an image from many different angles, broken up into cubes.” She pulled out a book on Picasso and pointed to the cover. “Girl with a Mandolin is the name of this one.”
“It’s jarring.”
“Sure is. That’s the School of Paris, an umbrella term for all the remarkable artists who lived and worked there at the beginning of the twentieth century. The New York School, which includes abstract expressionism, came later, after World War II, with men like Pollock and de Kooning, who turned away from using a figure entirely. Pollock’s drip paintings, for example.”
“You’re saying that this Clyde artist was a bridge between the two?”
“Yes.” She pointed to the watercolor. “Look at the way the figure is barely suggested. Even less so than the Picasso painting. It might not be a figure at all.”
“How are Clyde and Levon Zakarian related to each other?”
“As I mentioned, at the exhibit in New York in 1931, the artist behind the Clyde paintings insisted on remaining unknown. Not until a second exhibit in Chicago was he supposed to step forward. Of course, there was great speculation, as the paintings had made an enormous impact with art critics.”
“What happened?”
“The train carrying the works from New York to Chicago crashed, ended up in a river. A horrible accident. All the paintings were destroyed, and the art dealer who represented the artist died on the train, along with Levon Zakarian. It was easy enough to put two and two together. Ever since, Clyde’s work has been attributed to Zakarian.”
Levon Zakarian must be the ghostly presence that Totto had mentioned her first day on the job.
“How terrible.” She thought for a moment. “You said all the paintings were destroyed. But what about the one that’s for auction?”
“That surfaced recently. Happens every so often; something comes to light that’s been stored in an attic for decades. Usually, the owner’s family never realized it was valuable. Even though the one that’s for auction wasn’t listed in the original exhibition catalog, the experts examined it and agreed it’s a Zakarian Clyde painting.”
“What are the chances mine is also a Zakarian Clyde? A study for the oil painting?”
“Hard to say. As I mentioned, he didn’t like watercolors. It could be a really good reproduction.”
Virginia turned over the watercolor. “What about this drawing on the other side?”
“How strange. Clara Darden, of all people.” Janice’s brow furrowed. “Darden was an illustrator who did magazine covers and that kind of thing. During her day, she was considered a huge commercial success.” She picked up a history of illustration from her bookshelf, turned to the section on Clara Darden, and handed it to Virginia.
In the black-and-white image, Clara Darden was wraithlike, her pale eyes, hair, and eyelashes hardly distinguishable from the gray background. The defiant look on her face, though, was familiar. Virginia recognized it from the illustration of the secretaries she’d seen on the wall of the art school her first day. The model in the center of the drawing had been a self-portrait, she was certain.
Janice continued. “Both Zakarian and Darden were on the faculty of the Grand Central School of Art, but Darden wasn’t in the same league as Zakarian, artistically.” She examined the signature at the bottom right-hand corner of the drawing, then did the same for the image in the auction catalog. “This is odd, though.” She picked up the magnifying glass again.
“What’s that?”
“The letter C in the signature lines. Take a look.”
Virginia examined both signatures, Clara Darden on the sketch and Clyde in the auction catalog. Both C’s had an extra swirl at the top. “They both curl around, more like a swirl than a letter C.”
“Yes.” Janice looked up and blinked a couple of times. “That’s unexpected. Astonishing, really.” She turned the page in the illustration book. “Here’s one of Darden’s illustrations for Vogue.”
Virginia’s eyes went right to the signature. “A curly C.”
“A curly C.” Janice pointed to the watercolor. “Your drawing is dated as well, 1929.”
“But the exhibit wasn’t until 1931.”
“Right.”
Virginia couldn’t contain herself. “So it probably wasn’t a reproduction. What if Clara Darden was Clyde?”
Janice raised her eyebrows. “The similarity in the name is interesting. However, it could be that Clara Darden did the sketch, and then Levon Zakarian took the paper and made this as a kind of study, in watercolor, for the final work. Artists often reused supplies and canvases in order to save money. The whole thing is quite odd.”
“But you said yourself he didn’t like watercolor. And why would they both use a curly C?”
“The curly C points to both works being by the same person, that’s true. I have to admit I’m stunned by the close correlation between the drawing and the watercolor.”
The way Janice drank in the painting, practically devouring it with her eyes, gave Virginia a surge of excitement. She really should be getting back to work, but this was worth being late. She might be in possession of a valuable work of art. To hell with Terrence’s scolding. “In that case, Clara Darden might be the original painter, not Levon Zakarian. After all, the train crashed before the artist was officially revealed, right?” Virginia’s thoughts rushed over one another. “Why would Levon Zakarian want to stay anonymous in the first place?”
“Good question. Maybe because it was so unlike his earlier work, for shock value. Bear in mind this was during the Depression, when no one was buying art. At the time, a lot of folks wrote it off as a publicity stunt to boost sales.”
Virginia shifted to the edge of her seat. “Is Clara Darden still around?”
“I’m afraid not. Nothing was heard from her after 1931.”
“The same year of the train crash. Maybe she was on the train.”
“You would think it would’ve made the newspapers. After all, she was one of the most successful female illustrators of that era. What’s really strange is that we know what happened to all the other illustrators in this book, but for her, there’s nothing. Like she just disappeared.” Janice touched the painting, gently, as if it were a relic. “You’ve discovered something important, I think.”
“Is it valuable?” Excitement rose in Virginia’s belly, like the quickening she’d felt while pregnant with Ruby.