Chapter 17 15

【painting】 Corinne and Christian dropped me off at Arenda airport on the way back to Stockholm.I asked several airlines and learned that the next flight to Paris was very expensive, nearly two hundred euros, far higher than my budget.When I departed from Los Angeles, I transferred all my deposits to an account that could be withdrawn in Europe. The total was only eighteen hundred dollars, and I had to save it.But the flight was leaving soon, and I couldn't waste time in Stockholm, so I bought the ticket anyway. A few hours later, I was in the Paris Metro, following the crowd through a tunnel covered with bright white tiles.Although it took me a few minutes to study the map, I got on the wrong train at the Opera, and it took several stops before I realized it.I changed trains at Jiayin Station and got a seat. The train bumped all the way, and the night was getting darker. I tried to steady my hand and write in my notebook.

□□□ question: 1. Who is Mr. Brogner? 2. What is the content of that large-scale painting?What happened to that painting? I live in a youth hostel on a quiet street in the 15th district. The lobby is also a bar. It seems that half of the tenants are drinking here tonight.The bartender checked me in, gave me my room key and a printed sightseeing map from Lafayette. I sat on my bed, opened the map, and followed the Seine River that surrounds the city. There are two islands in the middle of the river, and the Boulevard Saint-Germain and Avenue Saint-Michel meet on the left bank.All my life I've wanted to come to Paris.I thought of French lessons over the years, and the suitcases of French paperbacks in my dad's garage, all yellowed by Gallimard.I folded the map and went to the bar to check information on the computer.

For the next two hours I searched for libraries and archives, and spent the night marking seven points on the map.The bartender winked at the girl next to me. Look at this guy, he has just arrived, and he has already found all the bars he is going to.Which one are you going to go to first? National Library. The next morning, I started work early, but Brogner was not a man to track down. There was no information on him in the National Library, I couldn’t find it in the catalog, I couldn’t find it in the digital library, and I borrowed a dozen books about Paris. Books by eminent collectors don't mention him either.I spent hours under the towering iron columns of the St. Cheniviev’s Library, flipping page by page through exhibition catalogs and reading letters from painters and sculptors of the 1910s and 20s.Brogner's name never appeared.So I looked for specialized libraries instead, and went to the Kandinsky Library at the Center Pompidou, and then to the multimedia center at the French Academy of Fine Arts.After four days, I knew the names of the famous art galleries in France, the collectors who would buy paintings there, as well as the major salons and exhibitions, but I still knew nothing about Brogner.

Night is better than day.I leave the library at six o'clock every evening, buy a beer or wine at the nearest grocery store, and walk down the street until I'm done with my worries and have nothing else on my mind but the city. I love everything about Paris.I love the enamel green of the fountain.I love the brown folding chair the accordionist sits on on the subway.The old accordionist in an old and frayed pinstripe suit played just for me, and the car crossed the Seine in Austerlitz, and the music was melodious.Every morning I drink a cup of weak coffee at the open-air cafe, and it costs 1 yuan and 20 euros.

On the third night, I was in the Luxembourg Gardens at dusk when a small man approached with a friendly smile and said his name was Mohammed and he was from Casablanca.He was wearing a dirty sweater, blue jeans, and white laceless basketball shoes.We talk in French and English.Mohammed knew the best places to spend the night by the river, and where in Paris you could get a plate of couscous 13 for three euros, but only on Sundays. 13, Couscous, a North African Berber is a staple food that is couscous plus meat or various side dishes, similar to vegetable rice. Mohammed said: "You'll be the only Englishman there, but follow me and you'll be fine.

I am American. Muhammad nodded.What are you doing in Paris? Come to the painter Eleanor.An oil painting by Grafton.let me know if you see You can go to the Louvre.Mohammad said: There are thousands of paintings there.It's Wednesday, it closes late, and it's warm and dry inside. I walked through the back alleys of the Odeon to the Louvre, and searched all over the museum for an Eleanor painting without even knowing what it looked like.In the Denon Pavilion, when I looked at the rows of paintings in gold frames, I always felt that it was the last one, and that it would be the last one in the entire exhibition room.Because I have a feeling here, as if Yinmozhen is everywhere.She is in the icy gaze of the Grande Odalisque, among the shadowy brick walls of the medieval Louvre in the crypt, and in the exhibition area for the blind below the stairs.In this exhibition area, you can touch with your hands to know the facial features and expressions of the statues.Even the dark-haired woman in the museum café line behind me might look like her, I just have no way of knowing.

The next day, I reversed course and took the subway early in the morning to 28 rue Pigalle to visit the shop where Brogner bought paint for Eleanor.The original site is now a small grocery store.I crossed the Avenue de Clichy and wandered around Montmartre, but the painters had all left decades ago, replaced by hordes of summer tourists.I took the subway back to the left bank and asked the clerk about Moas at the art supply store Saunalier on the Embankment of Voltaire. He said he had never heard of this store and told me to go to another store on Rue Souflot.The old man behind the counter squinted at the receipt and frowned.

Moas, a famous paint store, closed it long ago. Are you selling good paint? He shrugged.I haven't seen it myself, but it should be pretty good.Moas was originally at Maison Edouard, and the colors they produced were the best in Paris, used by Manet and Caillebotte, everyone Is it worth buying from abroad? What? Is it good enough to order from abroad? certainly.Once a painter finds a paint he likes, he keeps using it and doesn't want to change it. I thanked him, walked out the door, and the bell rang as it closed, and I turned back abruptly. Have you ever heard of a collector named Brogner?

who? Brogner. He shook his head. No. I walked along the embankment to the National Library.The road is long, but I need time to think.There must be some clue that I haven't noticed. If I can catch the key evidence that I missed, even if it is only a little bit, just pull hard, and the truth will be revealed.But what is that key piece of evidence? After arriving at the library, I searched one topic after another, read relevant materials on pigments, linseed oil, and the French pigment industry, and browsed through the catalogs of all independent salon exhibitions since 1920, but I always felt that I was spinning in circles ,no progress.So I peruse the catalogs of Parisian museums and galleries, searching for paintings from the early twentieth century.Some small museums don't put their collections online, so I borrowed a lot of catalogs and browsed them one by one.Finally, the name came up.Eleanor.Grafton, p. 39.

Turn to page thirty-ninth, the content is brief. □□□ Eleanor.Grafton Unconquered (Study for a Nude), circa 1917.Oil on canvas. 733x1000.Henry.Donated by Brogner. Printed on the cover of the catalog: General Catalog of the Konarski Museum Collection.I quickly read the introduction.The location of the museum was originally the Warsaw poet Luwick.The home of Konaski, who came to Paris in 1909.At that time, there were many painters living in the beehive on Danzig Street. Konaski made friends with them and bought many paintings, laying the foundation for the collection. There is no telephone number of the museum in the catalogue, only the address: 54 rue Monceau, Paris, 75008.I copied down the address and walked out of the library quickly, wishing I could run.

Monceau Road is a one-way street. The Konaski Museum is located on this road south of Monceau Park. It is a white house separated from the street by a yard with a locust tree.I opened the door, and the woman behind the counter stood up with a look of surprise. Sir, the museum closes in fifteen minutes. I said I didn't come to visit the museum. I saw a picture in your general catalog, it's Eleanor.Grafton's work. She frowned.I have no idea It was donated by a collector named Brogner. Oh Brogner.Most of his collection is here with us.Let me check. She sat down and I helped her type the name Grafton into the computer, and she clicked with the mouse. Study for a Nude, 1917.That's right, in our warehouse. not here? She shook her head. Our museum is small and has a lot of collections.Most of the collection is not regularly exhibited. Are there any photos to see? Of course, it should be in a certain book She searched on the shelf behind her, smacked her lips when she closed each book, walked into the back room, came back with a large black paperback, smiled triumphantly, and put the corner-folded book in front of me .It was the picture on the opened page. look! The picture says so: □□□ Eleanor.Grafton (1891-1969) catalog page 537 Unconquered (Study for a Nude), circa 1917 oil on canvas Height: 0.73 meters; Length: 1 meter Henry.Brogner Endowment On the screen is a pile of geometric figures, as if a plane is split into fragments of various colors, the cool gray and blue fade into the background, and the warm earth tones stand out.It took me a while to see the main theme, a woman standing with one leg outstretched, a blue cloth over one shoulder, and the rest of her body naked, made of ocher and tawny prisms.The front and side of the face are presented simultaneously, separated by the nose. But this face could be anyone's name, it was nothing more than patches of brown and blue, with dark triangles for the cheeks and a few strokes for the eyebrows and chin.Her hair was two copper-colored splinters, and in one hand she held something yellow, thin and narrow, a stick or a sceptre, if you like.Below the picture is a commentary in French: □□□ This is the British painter Eleanor.Grafton's work.Grafton is the sculptor Vivian.Daughter of Soames︱Anderson, studied at the Slade School of Art under Henry.Tonks, though not particularly active, did well in portraits and landscapes.Grafton was late to modern experimentation, skeptical of the Futurism and Vortexism of pre-war London.But before 1914, she traveled to Paris many times and was deeply interested in the works exhibited at the Golden Section Salon. Some of these works were close to Cubism or Orpheus, based on mathematical principles, with harmonious colors and classical Proportion.Grafton did not do this kind of experiment smoothly. After destroying the studies in 1914 and 1916, she completed the final work, but she was still not satisfied, and she abandoned Cubism since then. The technique has never been regained throughout his life. I pushed the book back to the librarian and she looked at me. Not this one? No.I mean, it's the right one. Do you want to photocopy? She walked into the back with the book and made photocopies for me.I thanked her, put it in my bag, and walked out of the museum, not knowing what to do next. The matter couldn't be simpler, when she drew that picture, Yin Mozhen was not pregnant, and the reason for destroying the work was very common, just because the picture was not good enough.The reason why that painting is hard to find is because it has no exhibition value.Brogner may have wanted to buy the previous studies because he collected modern paintings, thinking that Eleanor's experimental work would be worth the price in the future. I'm so crazy to follow this lead.The letter from Sweden gave me hope, but no joy in the end.I was foolish enough to think that finding one piece of evidence would solve everything.I thought one painting alone would prove everything. I whispered to myself: You have no such ability. Turn right into Jardin Monceau, there is a road leading to the circular building on the north side.It's time, time to admit that I don't know what I'm doing.I'm fighting for a huge inheritance, yet acting like a freshman researching material for a final presentation.Perhaps I should have reneged on my non-disclosure agreement, risked my inheritance, and hired a lawyer to handle all matters involved.Pichard told me not to tell anyone about it, but to listen to him was to choose to trust strangers instead of friends and relatives.Today is September 3rd, and in five weeks, I won't get any money.I was at a loss, and I wanted to find someone to help, but no one could find it, so I could only rely on myself. Now I have two options.One is to go back to London and start over, and even spend money to hire someone; the other is to seize the only evidence in hand, which is Ashley's letter, and go to northern France.The last time Ashley and Enmergen saw each other was at the Somme, about a hundred miles northeast of here.Seriously, I don't want to go back to London empty-handed, and I don't want to break the contract while I still have a chance to find evidence on my own. I walked past the circular building, down the stairs, into the subway, took line 2 to Gare du Nord, and bought a one-way ticket to Amiens at the SNCF counter.I leaned over to the microphone and repeated the place name several times. I said: Amiens. Orleans? Amiens. The ticket sales lady raised her eyebrows and guessed again. Ryan? She finally understood, and I bought a train ticket for tomorrow at one o'clock.I bought a bottle of cheap red wine from the little shop behind the station, opened it on the pavement, and poured it into a jug.I wasted a week in Paris, at least one night to myself.