The Collector

by Robert Goethals

Dr. Albert Barnes, The Barnes Foundation

I
You're seeing a basketball game, a pick-up game on a public playground, in 1929. It's a ragtag group of players in a poor neighborhood. James Michener, a nerd with glasses, fakes out the kid guarding him, son of an Italian grocer. Orchestrates a fast break. It's a symphony of movement culminating in a quick two. Michener's glasses are fogging up, the street kids like to rib him about it, too. How does he score when his glasses fog up? When you see Michener next, he's on the campus of Swarthmore. Swarthmore, in 1929, represents the pinnacle of Protestant high seriousness. You associate the Quakers with the philosophy of peace and brotherhood but there's not a lot of diversity here like you just saw on the public playground. Most of the students look like north-country types, tedious and bland, completely oblivious to the anarchic impulses of the world outside its cloister. Unlike schools in Boston, Providence, and New York, the liberal arts are only just

entering the Quaker curriculum. Swarthmore students like math and science and consider the humanities frivolous.

Swarthmore College circa 1880

Swarthmore was a place where they had rules about everything, young Michener narrates, even the sort of music you listened to. If it wasn't some holy-sounding sonata by Brahms, forget about it. Swan is a dark, slight and intense man about thirty-five. Lone rebel on the Quaker faculty. A Russian Jewish immigrant, gay as well, but managed to find sanctuary at the university at a time when immigrants of Russian origin were often deported thanks to an atmosphere of virulent racism and intolerance. Swan digs music, painting, and literature. He takes his few students - including Michener - to the Philadelphia cultural sites on a regular basis. He points out what's monumental, and what's fake and foisted on the public to mislead them. Besides Pratt, my conceited roommate, continues Michener, Swan was one of the few people on campus that didn't sound like the descendent of some princely duke from noble York. What thinkest thou of Monet? inquires a blond. Dost thou find him tractable? After classes at Swarthmore, Michener returns to his rundown room off campus. Its the ghetto, above an Italian grocery. Stacks of books. There's a single, tattered movie poster of Charlie Chaplin. Outside the window looms a huge billboard advertising General Motors.

George W. Bellows circa 1909

I had a job at the South Philadelphia Athletic Club narrates Michener. It was a pretty depressing place even though everybody who hung there for the booze and battle royals looked like they were having big fun. You see prizefighters pummeling each other into bloody mucous. Nightly, while white rubbernecks get all the enjoyment 25 cents buys, there are special shows, too, with blindfolded featherweights, team fistfights, and blood-draining bouts between freaks and giants. Michener's job at the club is selling tickets, at the door. Making sure contestants get in for free. When I first saw Dr. Albert Barnes, I didn't know anything about him, says Michener. Big Maxie'd relieved me at the door, giving me ten dollars to get rid of Barnes for treating a disturbance at ringside. Creating a disturbance, I'd discover, was something Dr. Barnes excelled at. Amid the Irish pimps, black hustlers, cadets, glittering whores, and ferocious mafiosi, looms Dr. Albert Barnes. An imposing fifty-year-old man, with a powerful jaw and a boxer's build. If it wasn't for the expensive suit he might more resemble a Sioux warrior than a Philadelphia socialite. He and a black prizefighter named Johnny White have gotten into a brawl with some rowdy South Philadelphians. It all got started when Barnes punched a local sportswriter in the face, over a remark the man made about
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William James. You're back in Swan's class with Michener the next day. Swan walks in late, full of nervous excitement. I have the most marvelous announcement to make, he tells his class. There's an extremely rich businessman over in Merion. His name is Dr. Albert Barnes and he has a magnificent collection of French Impressionists. Paul has assured me we can ride over in his car, and the class thanks you, Paul. You're seeing Pratt, Michener's rich, conceited roommate, gun down a Pennsylvania country road. Swan's squeezed between Paul and Michener in the front seat. The assistant professor's enjoying it immensely. In the back seat, three Swarthmore girls pretend to be absorbed in the sight of nature. Their long hair is whipped with wind and sunshine. One tells Michener not to use his eyes so much. You'd think going on a field trip with three Swarthmore girls would be a helluva time, Michener narrates, but back then they all lived under toadstools. Swan suddenly repositions himself in the front seat. Now, remember everybody. Dr. Barnes has a frightful temper. Be careful not to confuse Manet and Monet. Manet is famous for his blacks. Monet is famous for his ponds and water lilies.

Monets Water Lillies

Swan and his class walk up the last of the steps to Barnes' mansion in Merion. The class seems to hold its collective breath as the assistant professor knocks three times on the oversized wooden door. It's answered by a stunning French girl with long disheveled hair,
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perfect full lips, and bottomless brown eyes. We've come to see Dr. Barnes, announces Swan. Barnes appears, suddenly, looking like a generous-souled, albeit slightly, suspicious Herbert Hoover. Thinking that Swan and his students might be from the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, the progressive public school in Philadelphia dedicated to the studio arts, he's delighted by Swan's spontaneity and brio. At last the ostentatious yet reclusive millionaire has someone to share his collection of paintings with - to savor his own unique assumptions of taste and criticism. But when someone clarifies they're all actually from Swarthmore, all sense of singular good will instantly vanishes. Swarthmore? Barnes repeats, as if the word was synonymous with fecal matter. Swarthmore's nothing but a tubercular ecclesiastical organization full of fish heads and rich dingbats! Barnes has turned against them with all the halfcrazed contempt that a mean intellectual and a physical bully can muster. If you want your asshole tickled, you've come to the wrong place! A moment later, Barnes is heaving Swan - literally lifting him In the air throwing him violently down the stairs to his home A bloody dental plate, a pocketful of pens, a book - all scattering across the ground. A little later, the drive back to Swarthmore is a silent mixture of helplessness and resentment. I thought about hiring some buds of Big Maxie, sending them over to beat the shit out of the bastard, remembers Michener. I hated Barnes. His superior attitude about everybody. He wasn't intelligent. He just thought so. The Pennsylvania countryside's quaintness, as they drift along the curves, suddenly feels like a cheap backdrop. It hides a new Menacing presence. Me, says Michener, I was thinking revenge. You see Pratt and Michener in Pittsburgh, a few days later. Pratt's reading aloud a letter Michener's composed to Barnes. He seals it, drops it in a mailbox. Michener stands alongside him, holding a coal miner's hat, and a bag stuffed with overalls. In the background, you see the grim urban cityscape of Pittsburgh - a sprawl of soulless factories and steel mills. Pratt And I checked out Barnes' past, recounts Michener. Discovered the thug we encountered with Swan was thoroughly characteristic of the man. He'd make millions of dollars discovering a medication called Argyrol when in fact he stole the formula from another chemist. Hed just promoted it. More recently, he'd swindled the Philadelphia Museum out of a masterpiece by Matisse entitled The Three Sisters. What an asshole.
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Steel works, near Pittsburg, Pa.

A few days later, Michener trudges up to Barnes's mansion for the second time. His worn attire, dim with the unholy filth that comes with days on end spent in the total darkness of the mines, blinds you to the heist. He remounts the same steps where Swan last his dental plate, pauses a significant moment before knocking on the door. It's Laura Barnes who opens the door, the millionaire's wife. She's sweet and assuming, the daughter of a Jewish grocer and his Episcopalian wife living in Brooklyn Heights. Her parents owned a five-story brownstone staffed with servants and Laura's pedigree is unmistakable. You're the coal miner who wrote Albert, aren't you? Laura Barnes smiles magnificently. I've come to see 'The Three Sisters, says Michener soberly. Yes. I know, says Laura Barnes. You're a lucky man indeed.

Laura Barnes escorts Michener to an exhibition room where Barnes and his chauffeur Johnny White - whom Michener recognizes from Big Maxie's - are unpackaging a new purchase shipped to them from France. It's a piece of sculpture - a tall naked African woman languishing in a state of repose. A sonata by Brahms is playing on the Capehart and the excitement the Africcan nude generates feels dragged down by the classical music, like a fast car on flat tires. Why don't you put on something with a little more feeling, Albert? Laura suggests, after introducing Michener. Barnes takes in Micheners presence gratefully. Here's a man like himself, Barnes supposes, too long locked away from the pleasures of life by a bloodless brotherhood of Protestant high-rollers. What do you think about gospel music, Mr. Michener? inquires Barnes respectfully. Laura takes Barnes' empty glass, to freshen up the good doctor's drink. I don't think much about music,' admits Michener. I'm pretty responsive to anything. As long as its played with passion. Precisely, says Barnes emitting a deep-throated chuckle. Why does the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra have such a goddamn hard time understanding that? Michener brings up a sour subject. The manner in which Barnes acquired the famous painting. Barnes had duped the Philadelphia Museums curator into thinking the millionaire was actually buying the painting - on their behalf. The museum-going public, roars Barnes, brimming with cynicism. The Philadelphia Museum is controlled by a bunch of fucking fat men on horseback who don't give a shit about the public. The people of Philadelphia are just too dim to see it. Michener silently contemplates the notion. The Philadelphia Museum didn't have the money and I did. If they make me out to be a thief then I'm very much disappointed. But nobody in life is rewarded by the good fucking fairy. Barnes slams his fist down on the table, suddenly, red-faced. I suddenly found myself liking this brutal man despite myself, admits Michener. I'd come to Merion to steal the painting, avenge Swan, avenge everyone cheated by this thug. A meditative pause ensues. Now, I wasn't so sure.

Blind Willie McTell

You're seeing The Three Sisters a little later on and for the first time. Michener contemplates the masterpiece, feeling the cool steel of a Smith & Wesson revolver he selected from a Pittsburgh pawnshop. Barnes analyzes the painting. He squints, pops his eye sockets open, retreats a few paces, allowing a new perspective on its placement on the wall. In the background somewhere, Johnny White puts on some gospel music. It rocks the room. Michener's resolve to perpetrate a violent crime dissolve visibly. Do you love a man like Barnes? Michener asks himself, Or hate him? Didn't you ever go to college, young man? asks Barnes suddenly.
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No, replies Michener. No money. Well, everybody starts that way, bellows Barnes. Take Johnny, Six years ago, he was living off petty larceny. Johnny's full lips break into a luscious grin. What do you want to do with your life? persists Barnes. I want to teach, admits Michener without confidence. A teacher, eh? What do you have to teach? What do you have to say? I don't know, Michener shrugs. I just know I want to change people's lives for the better. I've had enough kinds of certain experiences. Like working in the coal mines? asks Barnes. Yeah, says Michener. Maybe I could help you with your education. I could send you to Paris to begin your studies. All expenses paid. Johnny White's exclamation of surprise reflects Micheners own. The former prize fighters stung by the offer being more familiar with Barnes' miserly side. Michener relaxes his grip on the revolver. The mans seductive. Barnes was a mean, intellectual, and physical thug. But capable of some great calls. At least, so I thought then, in the short history of my moral and social education.

Big Maxie circa 1921

A few days later, between classes at Swarthmore and work at Big Maxie's, Michener plays a pickup game at the public court across from the Italian grocery.
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After the trip to Merion, Pratt wanted to know what happened. We got the idea about stealing The Three Sisters from Picassos girlfriend who stole things from the Louvre to inspire the Spanish artist. Later that night, a drunken Pratt visits Michener after a big social event he'd attended. His big opportunity for artistic adventurism spoiled, he's bitching in between heaves in the shabby toilet. Michener ignores him. He's composing a valedictory address he's supposed to deliver at their graduation. What are you doing? Reading? asks Pratt semi-consciously. No. Pratt vomits some more. I don't know how you're going to hack it in the real world, Michener. All you've done for four years is fucking read. Graduation takes place in front of the American Friends Building for Science and Advancement, on the Swarthmore campus. It's a grand graduation ceremony, attended by families, friends, and dignitaries of Swarthmore' Board of Overseers. The podium is populated by superior-looking people in manner and attire. The most prominent guest is Walter Chrysler, a chief executive at General Motors, a company not yet known for its veiled yet brutal social agendas. Michener addresses the guests, the student body, talking about the mission of his generation. Society is an orchestra composed of all kinds of instruments, Michener tries enthusing. Each has its unique power and sound. You see Michener's mother sitting nearby, alongside the college's lone professor of liberal arts, Swan. Amid the Board of Overseers, whose members exude cool politeness, her longings for expression find fulfillment in her son's commencement address. Michener recognizes Walter Chrysler, the cosmo auto manufacturer and a man with an art collection, too. People must not lose their ability to see social reality, continues Michener. We cannot simply rely on the market and its robber barons to dictate to us who is valuable and who is not. If we do, the American Dream will roll back down on us like a rock. At that moment Michener suddenly spots Barnes. Barnes ignores the General Motor's executive's calculated flattery since its Michener's presence on the podium thats ruining his day. In the social swirl that ensues n the wake of the graduation events, the Governor of Pennsylvania congratulates Barnes with a hog-jowled, goddamn-good-to-see-you clench. But its Barnes who takes Michener by surprise. Grand speech my boy, simply grand, says Barnes, slapping the valedictorian on the back, brimming with mock enthusiasm. You play another little number on me, you little fairy, he hisses in an insidious whisper, and I'll cut your fucking balls off.

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II
Four months after Michener graduates, the Wall Street Crash breaks the nation. It's the Great Depression. You see newsreel footage of the events of October 1929, when legions of investors are instantaneously ruined, distraught investors leap from upper-story windows, their fortunes suddenly gone poof. The New York cityscape looks phantasmagoric and surreal. The romantic possibilities of the city have vanished. Only men in ash-gray suits drift through the streets of Lower Manhattan, brooding over a future without even a reef of hope, stopping on dim corners to talk to no one in particular.

Great Depression, Soup line, Atlanta Journal

It's as if Barnes had treated his art collection as a backup bank reserve, says Michener. Perhaps it seemed a risky venture when he purchased his first paintings in Paris. But as time passed, Barnes' investment proved not only a great call in art history but in American financial history as well.
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You're seeing Colorado Springs now, with its frequently mowed lawns, it towering walnut trees, the thick green forests of the mountains looming in the distance. This college town is a blessing, so much so that James Michener, acutely aware of all the troubles that are raging outside this idyllic setting, almost feels uncomfortable. . I was lucky, Michener narrates, I found a job teaching college in Colorado. As l'road the train west, passing an army of jobless people searching for a place where every day wouldn't be life or death, I wondered if teaching would do any good. I wanted to be forgiven for the distance between what I was and what they needed. Michener's first class, an English class about Herman Melville, is lined with goodnatured boneheads with crewcuts, and shy, rosey-faced girls. They represent the friendly west. Michener silently contemplates the cultural gulf that separates them -- he's dark, nervous, and animated, and the students blond, impassive, who enjoy jokes about cowpies. Later, Douglas Rossiter, the dean, explains to Michener that composition should be the focus of his class. Science and technology are the wave of the future, not 'literature. Let's be frank Rossiter confides, 'these kids are the next generation of engineers, agronomists, fish-and-game people. You can't build a freeway with 'Moby Dick.' In town, in a bar called Buckets, Michener meets a woman, blond and blue- eyed, more interested than the others in expanding her horizons. They make love hidden in the forests, on hillsides, atop beds of leaves. Until the news of their affair leaks out, Michener hungrily embraces the gloriously young girl. During these years of being more or less an intellectual bum, my fascination with Albert Barnes never waned, narrates Michener. You're now seeing photographs of Barnes at Central High School in Philadelphia. He's playing baseball with John Sloan, William Glackens and Robert Preston. Barnes said it was no use being an honest man, since there is no good fucking fairy to reward you. When I think my only encounter with him was based on a lie, I wondered how I might right a wrong. More old photographs now from art class at Central. Barnes leans over Glackens, admiring the young man's illustration, an affectionate arm draped around Butt's shoulder. Glackens was born with a paint brush in his hand, continues Michener. He and Barnes were the best of friends. At Central, Barnes was a painter, too. But after graduation, Barnes attended the University of Pennsylvania Medical School, and later marketed a chemical compound that made him rich. Glackens struggled for twenty years. During that time, they never spoke. It's New York City in 1911, over twenty years later. In Washington Square, a light snow gives Lower Manhattan a romantic feel, without diminishing the darker undercurrents of urban life. It's a scene that recalls photographs by Steichen and Stieglitz. Barnes, in a long coat, crosses the common alone.
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Sometime in the winter of 1911, Barnes decided he'd look up his old buddy from Central high. He wrote Glackens a long letter, but got no answer. He wrote again, and again there was no answer. Barnes was already a man well known enough for the conductor of the Philadelphia -symphony orchestra to hold private recitals in his home. When only stony silence greeted a final telegram to the artist, Barnes decided to take matters into his own hands. Barnes identifies the number of a small studio, on a narrow side street off Washington Square. Pushing through a small group of village artists loitering on the stoop, Barnes cuts a somewhat comical figure. Inside the studio, Glackens, now forty-two, looks decidedly world-weary. The artist's refusal to surrender to the limitations of steady employment have taken an unmistakable toll. After a twenty-year lapse the sudden presence of Albert Barnes, seeking romance and radiating forgiveness, elicits no visible response. Well, you must be a rich man now, observes Glackens sadly. You didn't need to get rich to come and visit me. Barnes looks around the decrepit-looking studio. I didn't know then what I know
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now. Suddenly, two beautiful young women enter the studio. Glackens introduces them both to Barnes. One, Glacken's wife Edith, dresses like a flapper. She instantly gives you the impression she's a happy, brave woman full of daring impulses. Her glittering blue eyes see through poses effortlessly. Her companion, Violette, possesses a darker, more solemn beauty, exuding an undercurrent of sexual wealth. Glackens is recounting a story about of playing baseball at Central when he notices the light is changing. Glackens gathers his brushes and oils, holding up his end of the conversation, while Violette walks into the studio, and begins stripping. Aren't these baseball stories boring? Edith asks Violette. Viotette removes her brassiere, turning slightly, using Edith as a mirror. How do you find me? Lovely, says Edith reassuringly. Then, noticing Barnes standing stiffly nearby, she whispers teasingly it's her first time.

William Glackens

Violette's nakedness --- the whole mood of the studio -- seems to fill Barnes with awe and emotion. As Glackens begins painting, the extraordinary assailment of the young woman's natural beauty on Barnes' senses fills him with an overwhelming sadness. It's the
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sadness born of a startling realization that his life has slipped through his fingers. Hastily Barnes makes an excuse to return home. After Barnes ravishes the soup Laura's graciously prepared him, he asks where she's stored the hundred odd paintings he managed to produce many years earlier. When she worriedly asks him what he wants with them, his violent temper explodes. He calls her a cunt and insists that she tell him where his old art work's been stored Later, outside in the snow, Barnes tosses each canvas he painted years earlier in a burning barrel, smoke pouring off the old oils. Barnes returns to Glackens Washington Square studio where he doesn't show as much interest in the artist's work. Barnes is much more intrigued with the Paris art scene. Renoir, Picasso, Matisse, says Glackens, these are artists who are important. Why don't you introduce them to me? asks Barnes. I'll give you twenty thousand dollars and you can go get them for me. Glackens considers the offer silently. Doesn't twenty thousand dollars interest you? persists Barnes. No, it's not the twenty thousand dollars I'm interested in, replies Glackens.

You're seeing Paris for the first time, as it was in the summer of 1912. The grays, greens, and blues of the old fortified city with its solid buildings, cheap cafes, and
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commanding streets. It's a sense of history that pleases you, without emptiness. The Eiffel Tower is the lone monument that pokes into a cloudy sky. Barnes walks out of a little hotel in Montparnasse, Glackens, behind him, his guide. Paris was an awakening for Barnes, narrates Michener. It was full of life and adventure. Barnes and Glackens tour the Louvre. Glackens talks softly, Barnes silently reads from Bernard Berenson's book, oblivious to his friend. The physical contrast of the two men is vivid. Barnes takes big, lunging strides when he approaches a work of art, knitting his bushy black eyebrows as if inspecting the shine on a pair of shoes. For Glackens, the paintings command an invisible power and he approaches them carefully, as if spellbound. There were parties, too continues Michener, Glackens was friendly with Gertrude Stein. Her brother Leo, a man of deep emotion and intellectual measure, also shared his feelings about art with Barnes.

Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas, Paris, Jewish Museum

You're at a stupendous party hosted by Gertrude Stein. The walls are covered with paintings, all vying for your attention. Everything - everybody - radiates overwhelming magic. Barnes finds it difficult to retain his rectitude. At every moment another star arrives - Fitzgerald, Matisse, Renoir - each new person more marvelous than the last. What was most incredible of all, recounts Michener, was how Barnes did very
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little talking. Amid all the boasting and laughter, Barnes offered very little to say. When I first heard, I didn't believe it That night at Swarthmore he talked like a general. In Paris, Leo Stein thought he was just another dull, rich American who tried to look interested in what everybody was saying. Suddenly, Picasso makes his big entrance. This night the prodigiously gifted artist means to satisfy the ravenously voyeuristic crowd. Picasso, always proud of his vast acquaintance with criminals and deviates, is accompanied by two friends. One is the model Femande Olivier, the young woman who stole minor treasures from the Louvre to help inspire her man. Picasso's second guest is widely known for his talents in providing Montparnasse with the latest manifestations in offbeat hot-house sex. His name is Paul Guillaume.

Paul Guillaume, Paris

The next day, Barnes, having shed himself of Glackens, follows Guillaume to a Parisian quarter you're less familiar with. Along Boulevard Anatole France living - just living - is drudgery. Often pain. The apartments and studios have no running water. You bathe once a week. At the Eglise de Pantin, the medieval church that looms nearby, prostitutes sell themselves for five francs.
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Have you showed any of this guy's work to Stein? Barnes asks 'Guillaume as they walk. No, replies Guillaume. That cunt, continues Barnes vindictively. If she doesn't own you, she wants to put a knife in your back. I don't understand how she's become so legendary. Walking past a barren outdoor market, Guillaume explains the introduction that is about to take place. The Polish artist he's about to introduce to Barnes isn't making a living although he's a first-rate talent. After fleeing the upsurge of antisemitic propaganda and attacks, he's been living in Paris a couple of years, and remains deeply in debt. He's just broken off contact with his dealer, Leonce Rosenberg. Months behind on the rent, he's desperate for money. What's his name? asks Barnes. Jacques Lipchitz, says Guillaume. A little later Barnes surveys the contents of Lipchitz's studio for a cruelly long time. Finally, he asks the emaciated artist, Don't you have anything better? The haggard artist patiently shows Barnes ten new bronze sculptures. Barnes asks him how much he wants for all ten. Its strictly business. Lipschitz shakes his head uncertainly, the line of his gaze moving slowly back and forth between Guillaume and Barnes impassive, expressionless faces. Later, Guillaume also navigates Barnes to another down-and-out artist, Chaim Soutine. Soutine, a talented pornographer whose hallucinatory canvases many described as masterpieces, has yet to sell a single painting. After another merciless deliberation, Barnes counts out three thousand dollars in cash. He wants everything Soutine's got. Soutine, consumed with ulcers and delirious, runs into the street, dancing for joy. Returning to his hotel in a taxi a few hours later along Rue La Bootie, Barnes spots a collection of paintings by Pascin hanging in a small cafe. It's his third discovery of the day. In the years that followed Barnes' trips to Paris with Glackens, where he bought paintings at a dizzying pace, Michener narrates, Barnes also laid the groundwork for what he hoped would be a foundation dedicated to both liberal social causes, as well as the study of art. He said he wanted plain people - men and women who labored in shops, factories and schools, he said - to have access to his growing collection. What he was really doing was crashing the gates of the American art world cribbing the philosophies of Thomas Eakins and Walt Whitman.

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Albert Barnes, The Barnes Foundation

You're witnessing an opening night of the Barnes Collection at the Philadelphia Academy in Philadelphia. Barnes is sponsoring an exhibition of Lipchitz, Modigliani, Renoir, and Soutine. The event reminds you of the extravagant night at Gertrude Stein's. An American procession of stars makes their entrance. The narcotic Georgia O'Keefe accompanied by Stieglitz. Samuel Bronfman and Greta Garbo. Peggy Guggenheim and the tortured Thomas Eakins. Glackens brings a whole crowd from New York too, including Violette de Mazia. The Biddies arrive to contemplate the canvases. Walter Chrysler is there, pronouncing the works disgusting but out of earshot from Barnes. Disgusting had never been so cool before. Barnes is a new man. He's now the Barnes who impressed the young James Michener - boasting, bragging, swaggering , strutting. His thirst for public attention and admiration is unquenchable. As he stands before one of his newly-acquired canvases, stiff
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and aloof, there's little question that a new art authority has arrived. It's so perverse, comments a well-known psychiatrist, during a rare pause in Barnes' monologue. . Yes, that's right, snaps Barnes. All original art is perverse. You just haven't figured it out yet. Barnes see Violette, breaking free from the noisy crowd, wandering into an adjoining exhibition room dedicated to the old masters. Inside the somber room, Barnes walks up to her When he first saw her in Glackens' studio, he felt weighed down by his boring life. Suddenly tonight, his sadness has evaporated. I'm Albert Barnes. Violette looks up from the Rembrandt she's been studying, pleased to take him in. Yes, I know. She shakes his hand. Violette de Mazia. She redirects her attention back to the painting of the Madonna. Barnes' eyes remain fixed on the shape of her perfectly-shaped breasts pressing against the sheer voile of her red blouse. It's a copy, says Barnes exaggerating his disdain. Is it? All the Rembrandts in this gallery are copies. To prove his point, Barnes removes a beautiful pocket knife, then slices the painting neatly from its frame. He holds it up for inspection and scrutinizes it manfully. See? Well, what difference does it make? asks Violette breezily. It's still exceedingly beautiful' Their liaison is intruded upon. John Dewey, the famous philosopher and professor is standing by, his eyes anxiously scanning the room. What are you doing? asks Dewey foggily. You see Barnes in one of the fantastic exhibition rooms at home, a few months later, after the show at the Philadelphia Academy has closed. He's alone in his element, surrounded by his art. He's got an untasted whiskey in one hand. A smoking cigar in the other. He's weighing a new purchase mentally, trying to measure it on some invisible scales. The intensity of Barnes concentration is palpable. His sole focus is the intrinsic merit of the painting before him even the faint waves of Johnny Whites crossover soulsters emanating from some faraway phonograph can't break the lock. Dr. Barnes'? asks Johnny White, making an unusual appearance. Ordinarily, nobody dares disturb the doctor at work. Yes, Mr. Johnny? I need $40, says Johnny White, bowing his head slightly. Barnes raises his bushy black eyebrows in obvious concern, takes a sip of whiskey. Johnny White has borrowed money from Dr. Barnes before and never repaid it.
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It's not for me, says Johnny White. It's for Blind Lemon Jefferson. Who's Blind Lemon Jefferson? asks Barnes. I've never heard the name. He wrote the song you like so much. You play it all the time. Why haven't you ever introduced me to him? grumbles Barnes. He's dead, says Johnny White. Five years now. What the hell do you need the money for then? persists Barnes. I want to put a stone on his grave, says Johnny White. As a memorial. Barnes and Johnny White walk solemnly out to the garden. Laura Barnes is preparing for a visit from the ladies of Merion's Garden Club. Barnes explains to Johnny White how he must consult his wife on all decisions concerning money. The only thing he can buy without her permission is art. Laura Barnes listens stone-faced as Johnny White tells his story. When she looks away for a moment, you wonder if her eyes are swelling. But then she tells the chauffeur he's got to find a way to pay for it himself. Pay for it with what? asks Johnny White. I been poor my whole life. How am I supposed to pay for it? Every goddamn day of my life I'm underneath the hood of the Packard? Leave me alone says Laura Barnes, finishing up to prepare for the ladies of the Garden Club. I'm not a philanthropist. Barnes watches her walk away. Do you believe there was a time when she'd dance naked for me after dark in that pischer grocery? he asks. The good doctors finally gaze shifts back to Johnny. Instead of living under the hood of that goddamn Packard, why don't you spend a little time looking at those 12-cylinder big band machines? See how they run. What kind of gas they take. Returning from another trip to France, recounts Michener, the supremely selfconfident collector became eager to promote and advertise his new trophies. He talked to Matisse at length about his plans for America's new Louvre. Barnes tried unsuccessfully to impose his ideas for a foundation on the University of Pennsylvania and the Philadelphia Museum, too, Michener. Both institutions considered the good doctor to be more interested in his place in eternity than unselfish and altruistic service in the name of artist. The effect of this response, especially coming from his alma mater only infuriated an already temperamental man, refining his considerable talents for invective. In 1925, you're witnessing the construction of the Barnes Foundation. Matisse's mural - The Dance - is being installed. Its leaping, spinning figures swirl across the great cream-colored limestones constituting the Barnes Foundation's main gallery. Now, all the work that's gone into it, all the labor and pain Matisse has spent on the project - it
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all suddenly hangs in the balance. Finally, says Michener, Barnes built his Louvre all by himself.

Henri Matisse, Le Bonheur de Vivre, Barnes Foundation

Barnes, surveying the awesome site in Merion and surrounded by a small army of architects, engineers, and construction worker, evaluates the mural. He says nothing for several tortuous moments. Matisse stands nearby on the verge of physical and emotional exhaustion. I like it, says Barnes finally, suddenly radiating good cheer, It's a splendid thing. A few weeks later, Barnes, majestic in tails, presides over swirls of glamorous looking people. It's a party of unparalleled proportions kicked off on a Saturday afternoon by Leopold Stokowski and the Philadelphia Orchestra. As evening approaches, the big band sounds of Duke Ellington's orchestra, with Coleman Hawkins and Lester Young, unleashes a wave of fresh prodigality among the party-goers. Among the sea changes of faces, you see the governors of Pennsylvania and New York. Members of Congress clink champagne glasses with lobbyists flashing incisory grins. The Wideners share polite laughter and casual innuendo with the Biddles.
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People driving past the Foundation crash the gates, including black teenage fans of Lester Young, wandering Maytag salesmen, anyone who's half-heard something fashionable was happening in Merion.

Duke Ellington Big Band, Yale Univ.

Barnes raises a toast to Paul Guillaume, calling him a creator in the greatest of arts life itself. Then he, Guillaume, and a Nigerian Chieftain mount a bright red fire, at the courtesy of the local Merion fire department truck, and race around the twelve-acre estate at maximum speed and sirens roaring. Barnes himself is driving, ignoring all the stop signs, nearly colliding with a passing motorist. This is cool running, the Nigerian laughs. Back in the main exhibition room, surrounded by gushy admirers, Barnes bumps into Edith Glackens, looking curiously removed. Why didn't you include Butts in the show? asks Edith. She doesn't sound badtempered but the remark takes some wind out of Barnes' sails. His body tightens. I thought you had an eye for quality, Edith adds, not just names. I'm writing a book about your husband, announces Barnes. He nods to Glackens across the roomful of people. The artist is gesturing for his wife to join them. You know I don't write books about unimportant people. General Motors executive Walter Chrysler is attending the party, too, with guests
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Andrew Mellon and T.S. Eliot. They drift along a wall of Renoirs, sharing an attitude of superior disdain, like three spinsters inspecting an exhibition of pornography. I understand he's written a book that tells the truth about art, inquires Eliot delicately. Five, actually, says Chrysler. Five rather tedious books. What does he have to say? asks Mellon. Nothing, really, says Chrysler. Just a lot of twiddle and twaddle about science. Yes, murmurs Eliot. Our old friend science. Who invited you? demands Barnes, addressing Chrysler but glaring in turn, at Mellon and Eliot. For the first time, since his confrontation with Swan, Barnes appears capable of physical violence. To Eliot, especially, the man is frightening. Why you did, Dr. Barnes replies Chrysler calmly, holding up his harmless invitation. Naturally. All the happy people around them quiet down suddenly. A strange thought occurs to them - that Barnes is about to do something crazy - that he's about to go off. There's an elusive quality about Barnes. Its his capacity for physical assault. It's what his reputation for badness is based on. The feeling that at any given moment, when his wounded pride or affronted dignity releases its psychobiological stimulants into his brain, he will assault you with all his strength. And this is exactly the response the General Motors executive elicits. There's a terrible slow motion to it all. Barnes wrapping his powerful hands around Chrysler's throat, and slamming his head against the wall. It's messy and bloody. Because the well-behaved quests enjoy the thrill of the spectacle, despite Eliot's shrill screams and pleas, it takes a few moments for Barnes to restrain himself. Walter Chrysler never loses consciousness. Finally the auto maven removes a monogrammed handkerchief from a pocket, wipes bloody spittle from his lips, looking at Barnes unblinking as he speaks. You're a collector, Barnes, says Chrysler. Artists are trinkets to you. They're proof you're not just another ordinary guy. Barnes says nothing. The higher the class of talent you bully around, the better you feel about yourself. Barnes trembles with rage. Get out of here, you simpering bitch. You hear me? Get out before I throw you out. As Chrysler makes his way out, with Eliot and Mellon's help, Violette appears. Shes standing on tip toes, asking Johnny White what all the commotions about. Nothing, Johnny White assures the beauty. Dr. Barnes is a sadist and the other man is a masochist. Nothing more to it than that.

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III

War in Pacific, 1943, Library of Congress

While Barnes launched war on the art establishment of the eastern seaboard, his insanity paled in comparison to the global holocaust taking place in the rest of the world. You're seeing newsreel footage of the Second World War - in Europe, North Africa, Russia, and the Far East. Hellish images. Mauthausen. The relentless shelling of Stalingrad. The Bataan Death March. The bloody beaches of the Volcano Islands. Not far from the action in the South Pacific, you're now seeing Michener riding alongside one of the few black pilots, Anthony Tomkins, serving in the Second World War. The two men fly over a new island - Kurelei - scouting possibilities for an air strip. It's the advance guard of the Allies' big push to Japan. A few missions earlier, theyd have been greeted by seventy Zekes.
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 I was among the inept civilians - ribbon clerks, school teachers, bulldozer operators - who responded to a call to service by my government in the Second World War, says Michener. I began writing, too - at the age of forty-two. Among a group of appleknockers, hooziers, and cornhuskers, Anthony Tornkins and I were stand-outs. If there wasnt a war going on, nobody would have invited us out for a beer. On the scouting mission with Tomkins, Micheners suddenly staring down plumes of bigdecibel antiaircraft fire, the plane ripped and plummeting earthward. Stranded off a Japanese-occupied island with nothing but a buoyant parachute and eight months of accumulated individual torture, Michener manages to compose Tales of the South Pacific. Its last pages scribbled as Nebraska hooziers in a PT boat mount a final firefight with Japanese snipers across a nearby strip of sand. In New York, as the Second World War rages on at a distance, you see Barnes walking with Fidel up the steps of the Board of Higher Education in Lower Manhattan, flanked by the American philosopher and Columbia professor, John Dewey and a rabbi. Barnes is still nursing his deep resentment of Philadelphia High Society after having recently robbed him of his rightful place in American history. Andrew Mellons just opened the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C. Deweys trying to convince Barnes that he has a way to rekindle public interest in Barnes Foundation. Outside the Board of Higher Education, a demonstration is being staged by a group of prominent intellectuals protesting the New York State's Supreme Court ruling that the famous mathematician and philosopher, Bertrand Russell, be denied the opportunity to teach at New York pity College. The judge has deemed the appointment of Dr. Russell to be an insult to the people of New York and a menace to the health morals and welfare of its students. The man needs a job, reports Dewey, and the Foundation will be all the better off. If Harvard doesn't want him, why should I? asks Barnes, peeved that anyone else be perceived as the preeminent enemy of religion and corrupter of youth. Democracy isn't an abstraction, comments the rabbi. It's a shared experience. Barnes simply grunts. It's at this moment that Dewey waves over Patricia Russell, an unclassifiable beauty, who has been able to make it down to New York from Cambridge, Massachusetts, for the rally. Although forty years younger than her famous husband, she appears totally committed to his crusade. Barnes finds it impossible to resist the young woman's pendulous breasts and pear-shaped bottom. Barnes instantly reassures the captivating woman that he understands her husband's hardships. He will do everything he can to ensure a peaceful, friendly environment for his scholarly pursuits.

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Matisse, Odalisque au tambourin, XXe Siecle

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Bertrand Russell's first lecture at the Barnes Foundation is much publicized, although no members of the press are allowed. Bertrand Russells an aristocratic ruffian but doesn't know much about lying, cheating, and strong-arm tactics. Barnes has set up two permanent chairs in the lecture room. One for himself and one for Johnny White. Fidel, Barnes dog, sits dutifully at his feet. While the attention of the Barnes Foundation students is collectively focused on Russell, Barnes himself is far more preoccupied with the philosophers young wife knitting in the front row. Rational thinking is wasted on that dry fig, Barnes whispers. When do you think she last begged for mercy? I'd fill her with so much jism, it'd squirt out her ears. Johnny White's trying to follow the lecture. She's desperate for a good-sized prick, Barnes persists. That's what the knitting is all about. She's good-looking but too loony to admit it to herself. Johnny White says nothing. Barnes posture suddenly stiffens. Did you see that, Mr. Johnny? Oh, she's clever. What? asks Johnny White, mute and resentful. She just showed me her fig. Nobody else was looking - After the lecture, Barnes approaches Lady Russell, brimming with all the robust cheer of civil society. The unlikely-looking students - mostly local losers recruited from Merion's soda fountain - have abandoned Barnes to linger with Russell. Barnes takes advantage of the moment to zero in for the kill. You must get bored listening to him pray all day, whispers Barnes. Doesn't he ever turn his attention to more lowly matters? What is it, exactly, that's on your mind? asks Patricia Russell. Barnes peers down her dress. While you and your husband are preparing yourselves for heaven, says Barnes, I'm just trying to strike a few lonely sparks down here with the devil. It's here that Violette de Mazia intervenes to rescue the young Englishwoman. Violette's now teaching at the Barnes Foundation, accepting the money Albert's giving her with the understanding that he's buying nothing but honesty. Albert's a bastard, comments Violette sweetly. He actually enjoys being terribly aggressive. Do you? Patricia Russell addresses the good doctor, full of mock astonishment. I enjoy throwing stones through windows, Barnes admits, clenching his teeth. Well, what about dropping bombs through roofs? asks Patricia Russell breezily. Adolf Hitler enjoys breaking the law of civilized society too. Now it's Johnny White who has returned to quiet the fracas. He delivers the news that William Glackens has been struck with a cerebral hemorrhage.

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William Glackens, estate of Edith Glackens

Later, in the operating room of Mount Sinai Hospital, Barnes is granted permission by hospital officials to observe the surgery. It's unsuccessful. When Barnes informs Edith, she accepts the news stoically, summoning her strength. Butts asked me to tell you something, says Edith Glackens finally. And now I will. Barnes knits his bushy black eyebrows, uncomprehending. The state is about to initiate legal action against you. They're going to say you're the guardian of a closed collection, and they're acting in the interests of art and education. That's the good reason, hisses Barnes. What's the real reason? An anonymous collector is funding the prosecution. He wants to break up the
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collection. Who? Walter Chrysler? I don't know. Edith Glackens turns and walks away. When Barnes asks where she's going, she doesn't respond.

Walter Chrysler, Chrysler Foundation

That next morning, at the Barnes Foundation, Barnes has an announcement to make to the class before Russell begins his lecture. He informs the students that the Foundation will not tolerate the trouble-making propensities of Lady Russell. She will no longer be welcome at its classes. Barnes then politely asks Russell if he has anything to add, and the students' attention shifts back to Bertrand Russell. I don't really think you're interested in anybody's opinions, says Russell. Later the same day, alone in one of his splendid exhibition rooms, Violette mocks Barnes for his abusive treatment of the Russells. You suck people dry Albert, she says. You get them to pour their guts out to you, over and over again until you think there's nothing left to know, then you throw them
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away. You don't see how much these people want to help you Help me? interrupts Barnes, bristling, outraged, affronted. Help me? He laughs, before turning more sinister. Why you lousy little cunt. Who do you think you're talking to? Violette's silence glows with heat. She's had it with all the meanness and nastiness. Who do you think listens to his pious little prayers all day? rages Barnes. Who do you think puts food on his plate? I do. I'm the source of goodness in his life. If it wasnt for me that smug sonavabitch would be destitute. Standing in the soup line You know, Albert'? says Violette, cutting him off. Many years ago you made a profound effect on me. You helped me realize what life's truly about. If I never acknowledged that fact to you, I'd never be able to live with myself. Now, it's Barnes who is uncharacteristically silent. He realizes she's finally abandoning him. But now, you've taken back the very thing you gave me. You've become the very person you once despised. And your punishment won't be that you'll never be able to explain it to me - or even to yourself. Your punishment will be that you'll never be able to explain it to the people you owe all this great work. Violette leaves. Barnes stands along in his room full of art. It's four years later - early May of 1948 now. Michener's adventures in the South Pacific are over. He's finished his novel. He's found a publisher, but the publishing house, Macmillan, wants him to give up writing to concentrate on managing their educational department. You see Michener walking out of the Manhattan offices of the publishing giant at day's end, looking more aged and world-weary than you've seen him. I felt much older when I returned to New York, recalls Michener. I'd been roughed up in the South Pacific, but I had hope that I might be able to make my way as an artist. Now I was being asked to give it all up in the name of business, and you know the heart of business is empty. A young editor rushes out of the building, trying to track down Michener, brimming with important news. He catches up with Michener a block west, informing him he's just won the Pulitzer Prize. I didn't even know the book was nominated, says Michener cautiously. Congratulations swoons the young editor. There must be some sort of mistake, says Michener. When Michener returns to his apartment in the West Village, his wifes heard the news too. He never considered himself an author of the same rank as hs competitors, like, Saul Bellow. Sorting through his mail, as his wife uncorks champagne, he's stunned to find a letter from Albert Barnes. As the telephone rings, as neighbors knock at the door, as the festivities swell all
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around him, Michener silently reads the letter from the good doctor. From the expression on the authors face, this correspondence is hardly another affectionate acknowledgement of the author's achievement. Michener's face turns hard and somber, registering an emotion that passes from simple uneasiness into the range of unmistakable fear. A few weeks later, Michener's life is again magically transformed. He's walking through a Broadway theatre, as dancers rehearse Oklahoma!' in the background. Oscar Hammerstein is the grandson of the famous theater builder, who himself has succumbed to the narcotic attractions of the stage. Michener says nothing, listening to Hammerstein spin his vision of Tales of the South Pacific produced as a musical that blends comedy and serious drama. About the same time, Barnes attends the funeral of Nathan A. Mossell, a physician who attended the University of Pennsylvania Medical School many decades earlier. While Barnes and Mossell sustained no friendship, Barnes remembers how Mossell was an ardent supporter of civil rights. In 1886, Mossell had petitioned the Board of Trustees of Lincoln University to appoint a black professor to the faculty, offering $700 toward the endowment of the chair. When the Board of Trustees turned down Mossell's pledge, Mossell never set foot on the campus for eleven years, when the Trustee Board finally became integrated. Barnes is one of the few whites among the platform party. As he patiently waits for everyone to take their places, the good doctor strikes up a conversation with Horace Bond, a striking man, the first black president of Lincoln University. If you're on the program, comments Barnes I hope you won't speak forever. I'm a busy man. I'm not much of a talker, replies Bond, nonplussed. I've never met a Negro preacher who didn't talk much. Bond says nothing for a beat, concealing his anger. Well, I'm not a Negro preacher, Dr. Barnes, and since I'm taking only five minutes, it might not be a bad thing to listen. It's a two-way street now. Later, Bond praises the late Nathan Mossoll for the lesson he gave us all in social democracy. The vision of Anglo-Saxon cultural homogeneity has been out of date for over a hundred years, Bond reminds the gathering. Neither a Jew, nor a black man, nor a Pole, nor Italian can change his grandfather no more than a Protestant could change his. Protestant culture is no more useful than the other proud traditions that other races and nationalities have brought to this country. On the contrary, it is those very traditions that have sustained immigrants in the New World - given them worth and dignity as they cope with the demands of this new life. Cultural diversity does not weaken this nation - it strengthens it. Dr. Mossell always liked to remind me, this society is an orchestra. Every person plays an instrument in it, and the musical harmony this symphony creates is what constitutes civilization.
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Mary Martin in South Pacific,

When Micheners invited to the University of Pennsylvania, it still breeds good manners and cultural imperialism, but tonight everybody's hot for a shot of pop fiction. The lecture hall inside the History Department is packed, too, not just with hung-over students but the blue blood. You recognize Walter Chrysler, as stiff and inexpressive as ever. There are no plain people here. An English professor in a properly aged herringbone jacket introduces James Michener. The professor, with some smugness, notes the new formula for fiction Michener has managed to create liberalizing the definition of what is called distinguished fiction. Michener takes the stage awkwardly to begin his reading from Tales of the South Pacific. But before he can begin, he catches the sounds of an invading barbarian. Someone is screaming epithets outside the lecture hall, and it's a slow paralyzing realization that the man shouting obscenely is none other than Albert Barnes. Barnes bursts inside after a tussle with an usher, his chest puffed out, showing off his muscular physique. The entire audience appears vulnerable to the good doctor's terrorist tactics. They're clearly in shock. Nobody feels safe. James Michener! shouts Barnes in mock celebration. I remember you! You're the rich kid from Swarthmore! The little fairy who conned me! A cold shudder runs through Michener. His eyes are glazed. Is it indeed the good doctor? Or is it the fucking devil himself? Truth and illusion. Who knows the difference?
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James Michener! American War hero! Barnes bellows. The man who had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to fight the Fascists! Everyone is outraged but nobody take Barnes on. Dscretely, Walter Chrysler sends for the police. You call this a novel? Barnes holds up a copy of Tales of the South Pacific as if it were a pathetic little turd. This is nothing but a self-involved fantasy. Since when did the Pulitzer Prize Advisory Board begin awarding con artists? This has nothing to do with the real world of art! Two policemen arrive. They bodily escort the fanatic Barnes out. Outside, tossed out of the establishment like a belligerent drunk, Barnes takes a moment to straighten his tie. It's only here that you suspect that his knee-in-the-groin fights might actually be jolly. Dr. Barnes? A lone member of the audience has followed Barnes out. It's Horace Bond. A few months later, you see Dr. Barnes complaining about the prices in Julien Levy's Manhattan gallery. Bond is accompanying the good doctor on his visit to a show of young abstract expressionists. On their way Barnes remarks loudly how the new dealers in New York are pushing nothing but crap. There's this faith that all new art is good art, comments Bond. Now, they'll learn the hard way. Barnes likes this sincere, inexplicable man. And I thought you were nothing but a long-winded Negro, says Barnes. That's just a con I use on people who've lost their ability to see social reality, replies Bond good-naturedly. Later on, it's Barnes, not Johnny White, who drives Horace Bond back to Philadelphia. Barnes wants to impress Bond with his memories of his father - the senior Barnes joining the Union Army when Lincoln announced a draft of five-hundred thousand men. Dr. Barnes vividly describes the scene that awaited his father and the Pennsylvania volunteers at Cold Harbor - the smoke, the fire, the horses running unsaddled or ridden by men without limbs. When Barnes drops off Bond, outside the Main Line, the Lincoln University president expresses his gratitude to the good doctor. He expresses his gratitude too, for remembering the neglected artists in Barnes' own extensive collection - artists who've never even had a name. You're not like anyone I've ever met, comments Barnes, his Packard idling. That's because I have a face that's a different color than yours, says Bond. Later, turning up the radio, Barnes drives to his summer residence full-tilt with Fidel. Goddamn, gospel music consoles him. What is it these people have in their blood?
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Barnes speeds past a fireapple-red stop sign, not only ignoring the traffic warning, but also the most conspicuous thing on that evil road - a thundering flat-out high-speed truck taking an alternate route. There's a stunning explosion. The fireball blows your mind. After the first flames die down, you suddenly catch sight of the good doctor enshrined in fire. No longer subject to friendship or love - not even a dog's. Hes just another charred corpse, as ordinary as any other, whose breath and power is gone. You're seeing Korea, the night sky full of raging shapes and flashing illuminations. Michener, silhouetted thinly on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier, contemplating the panorama of the Korean War. I was in Korea in 1951 when a New York Times reporter told me about Dr. Barnes' death. I remember thinking how appropriate. Michener is writing alone in a suite of rooms at the Park Plaza Hotel. Now eight years have passed since Barnes' death. The year is 1959 and Central Park's bright red colors are deepening into winter. There's a stillness and serenity to the setting, and the sharp door-knock breaks the spell. After a perfunctory introduction, Walter Chrysler explains the reason for his visit. Sitting across from Michener on a couch, he opens a leather briefcase. He removes a letter with conspicuous ceremony. Michener recognizes the signature instantly, before Chrysler even starts quoting its author. Your collection of paintings is nothing more than a locked-up and windowless pigsty, Chrysler reads, where you and your swine can happily smear your faces with liquid manure while grunting and fucking one another in the mud. It's an unsettling letter. After the reading, Mr. Chrysler asks for Michener's assistance in breaking up the Barnes Foundation on the grounds that it's founder was clinically insane. The man was in possession of some truly priceless art. The collection is worth well over a billion dollars, the General Motors executive adds. How can I help you? asks Michener. Well, certainly you've received an obscene letter from him as well. Michener does not disagree. The State of Pennsylvania is taking the Barnes Foundation to court. Your testimony with regard to Barnes' mental illness will be crucial. A few months later, in 1963, the decision whether or not to break up the Foundation is about to be announced inside the courtroom of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court. Michener is sitting alone. When Violette de Mazia enters with Laura Barnes, you're surprised by a sudden, spontaneous expression of gratitude. The two women approach Michener, taking turns embracing the middle-aged writer. Across the open gallery, the spectacle is greeted with a cold, mistrustful stare from Waiter Chrysler. I never beat him in life, admits Michener. What right did I have to attack him
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dead. As much as I disliked the man, didnt want a collection that served as an exorcism to a generation's fears, hatred, and hallucinations to be lost. l returned to the Barnes Foundation, Michener narrates, One late afternoon in October, many years afterward. The estate was empty, the grass overgrown, but you still held your breath when you walked in the exhibition rooms. You see Michener, alone, contemplate the surroundings, face-to-face for the last time with something equal to his capacity for wonder. Dr. Bond became the collection's new guardian. He brought to public light the fact that many of the Renoirs, were forgeries. Guillaume had also manufactured the sculpture of the naked African woman in Paris, shipped it to Africa, then on to Merion, Pennsylvania. Dr. Bond also discovered several unaccounted and priceless masterpieces by Horace Pippen and other nameless artists. Artists who had been neglected for generations, without certification or pedigree, whom the good doctor had the courage to show. In the end, Barnes was not the purist he claimed to be.

~ Robert Goethals, 1995

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