No, I did not mean the Louvre.
But before I get to that story I must clue you in on another. Not far from Frankfurt in Germany is a fine hotel, Schlosshotel Kronberg. One day a few years ago I was sitting in the bar with friends, sipping a vermouth. We were admiring the décor of this five star establishment, particularly six nicely framed reproductions of works by William Turner. I like Turner. People travel to London to see his paintings in the New Tate and a survey conducted not long ago showed that of all the pictures in the National Gallery Turner’s “Fighting Temeraire” was the run-away favorite of the British people.
When I commented on these “reproductions” the waiter, in mock consternation, said: “Sir, these are originals!” And they were, having hung on the same walls ever since the building had been the home of German Empress Victoria, daughter of Queen Victoria. Unbelievable. Six original Turners in a hotel bar. How eerie is that!
I mention this episode because it shows that I had reason to be excited, that my shock at what I am about to tell you was justified. San Juan Capistrano is a miniscule town in Southern California. This is where Monsieur Blaise runs a small restaurant. French cuisine of course. But also soup and sandwiches, fresh fruit and cheese. And wine. The kitchen is twice the size of the dining area which makes me suspect that Blaise takes his cooking seriously.
On the wall of the dining room he has installed a set of panels depicting the various grape varieties as they look on the vine, the Cabernet Sauvignon, the Chenin Blanc, the lovely Riesling, the Pinot Noir, the Sirah. “Layman”, the panels say, “look at these ripe grapes that God gave us (us French, that is). Sit back and prayerfully contemplate the vintner’s skill and biblical devotion as he turns mere grapes into heavenly wine”.
There is also a very true to life oil painting of the chef on the wall. He looks awfully healthy. I cannot imagine the man on a non-fat, no-salt diet. And I am sure he does not drink iced tea for dinner. So, who says wine is not good for you? But I digress. I was really going to write about the “petit cabinet”, the rest room at Blaise’s. Specifically the gentlemen’s room. The first thing that happens as you enter is the shock, the shock of beholding over the wash basin a huge oil painting in a gold frame, showing a Parisian street scene. There was a signature in the lower right corner but I could not really make it out. The first letter was a “C”. Maybe Caillebotte? I remembered similar scenes by that painter. As I stared some more at the scribbles it suddenly came together: “Claude Monet”, it said. I almost forgot why I had come in here. Remembering my Turner experience, related above, it flashed through my mind that this could be the real thing. Was I in the presence of a real Monet? This was serious now. It looked so real, a view of the Boulevard des Capucins, as I later learned.
In textbooks I have seen many of Monet’s paintings, the Water Lilies, the Haystacks, the Rouen Cathedrals. I had never seen a street scene by Monet. This must be a fake, or a copy, I thought. But then there was a signature. Would a copyist forge a signature? It must be a reproduction. Yet it was on what appeared to be linen. When I asked M. Blaise he just smiled like the Mona Lisa but did not explain. All right, I forced myself to calm down, it had to be a reproduction or at most a copy. If so, where is the original? I had to find the answer. It turned out that Monet painted the same scene twice. So there are two originals to account for. I learned that one of them is in Moscow. Was it possible that the other one hangs over the wash basin in a San Juan Capistrano men’s room? What a strange fate for a masterwork.
Further inquiry revealed that the painting in question is recognized as one of the most important pictures Monet painted because it set the stage for this kind of impressionistic cityscapes. If one of the originals is in Moscow then where, I wanted to know, is the other one? Well, it is not in San Juan Capistrano, nor is it in the National Gallery of Art in Washington either, nor in the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square, the Prado, or the Louvre. It is not at the Metropolitan, not in Munich, Vienna, or St. Petersburg. It is, of all places, in Kansas City. Yes, in Missouri.
Next time I go East on Interstate 70 and stop for lunch in Kansas City I will first of all go to the men’s room. They will have to show me!
I would have liked to ask the young lady at the cash register if there was anything like that in the girls’ room, too, but then I thought that it was not proper for me to ask that. So, should you go for lunch at Blaise’s one day, will you ask? On the other hand, the girls have of course no way to compare. So strike that. Let that be our private mystery. If anyone asks, just smile like the Mona Lisa.
(c)2017 by Herbert H Hoffman
picture credits: www.gustavcaillebotte.org