How is That Possible?
The doors of the Halle St. Pierre Museum wouldn’t open for another hour but the line of people waiting to get in already wrapped around the large oval building. So did the protesters, who spilled off the sidewalks and onto the surrounding streets. Billed as the social event of the season for art lovers in Paris, tickets to the Jean-Luc Arnaud Retrospective – an exhibit celebrating the life and work of the late famous painter – were hard to get and very expensive. This infuriated the artists in Montmartre, a village in the north of the French capital, where the museum was located. Jean-Luc was born and lived in their neighborhood. He was always their friend, their mentor, their local-boy-makes-good, regardless of his success and fame. By jacking up the price of admission beyond what many of them could afford to pay, the artists felt they were being excluded from honoring one of their own.
In a gesture of collective contempt, a large flash mob appeared on the streets around the museum. Out of respect for Jean-Luc, the goal of the protest was not to shut down the exhibit but to create what the organizers called “joyous chaos.” Hundreds of local artists and performers of all kinds dressed in colorful costumes and marched around the building, clapping, chanting, blowing whistles, banging drums and bells, and waving the blue and yellow flag of Montmartre. Colored smoke bombs filled the air with orange, pink and green. Many of the protesters carried placards and wore buttons, all with the same slogan: Nous sommes tous Jean-Luc, we are all Jean-Luc, reminding the museum administrators that the famous painter they lauded that day was once very much like them: poor, hard-working, and struggling for recognition and inclusion.
Unnoticed by the revelers or their audience, a cat was strolling through the crowd, not at all bothered by the throngs of people or the noise they were making. The cat, a big white tom with blue eyes, trotted down the sidewalk and, passing most of the ticket holders, stopped to lean against the legs of a woman standing near the end of the line. Delighted, she bent over to pet the cat, scratching his head and then running her hand down the fur on his back.
“What a sweet boy you are!” said Sarah to the purring cat.
“My wife, the ailurophile,” said her husband, Mark, winking at the young couple behind them in line. “She’s never met a cat she didn’t love.”
The couple smiled politely as the man teased his wife.
Having had enough attention, the cat left, crossing the street and entering the park next to the museum, disappearing into some bushes. Sarah brushed the loose fur from her hands and off the pant legs of her new suit. The couple watched her closely, whispering to each other, then the young man said: “I know you, you’re Sarah Gellar, that famous reporter. I’ve watched you on the news for years. I’m a huge fan.”
“Thank you,” she said, shaking his hand. “You’re very kind.”
Sarah started her career in journalism decades ago, taking a job right out of college as a cub reporter with the National News Center, a cable news network based in Atlanta. Within a year, she was given her first overseas assignment in Paris, followed by stints in Cairo, Tokyo, London, and Canberra, among others. After a long career traveling the world as an award-winning international correspondent, Sarah retired recently. To celebrate, Mark booked them an extravagant trip to Paris, which included two very expensive tickets to the opening night of the Arnaud exhibit.
The doors of the museum finally opened, and the people waiting in line started to file into the gallery. While outside the crowd was loud and flamboyant, inside the people were polite and sophisticated, talking in hushed tones, sipping champagne, and wearing the latest haute couture. Sarah felt woefully underdressed even in her new outfit, especially standing next to so many stylish French women. Among all of them, though, one stood out: an older woman with long gray hair and tinted red lips, wearing a form-fitting black dress trimmed with leather. She was smiling and laughing, surrounded by people vying for her attention. Even though she was older now, Sarah recognized her immediately. She was the artist’s widow, the same woman whose image was captured in so many of Arnaud’s paintings.
While the retrospective showcased the many art styles used by the painter, Arnaud preferred photorealism, creating paintings in oil that looked as realistic as stunning photographs. His portraits were said to be incredibly lifelike, capturing every conceivable detail of his subjects: every facial feature, lock of hair, patch of skin, and piece of fabric was painted with expert brush strokes, making them appear convincingly real. While many of the wealthy of Europe paid him handsomely for a sitting, the artist was best known for portraits painted early in his career of everyday Parisians: a school student, a crepe seller, a homeless man, a waiter, an African immigrant, a bus driver.
But his most famous portrait, the one Sarah really wanted to see, was said to be a modern equivalent of Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. Sarah and Mark elbowed their way through the crowd, and when they saw the painting, they both gasped.
“Mark!” cried Sarah, grasping her husband’s arm to steady herself. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
It wasn’t the skill of the painter that surprised them. It wasn’t the subject of the painting, a beautiful woman with long dark hair and soft brown eyes, wearing a dress of white silk, leaning back on a chaise. It wasn’t the artist’s use of color or how the light played on her hair, dress, and skin. What surprised them the most, what made their eyebrows raise and jaws drop, was the cat that sat next to the woman.
“That cat! The cat in the painting!” Mark said excitedly. “It looks exactly like Tenny!”
Years earlier, when Sarah was still in college, Mark surprised her with a kitten as a reward for getting through a particularly difficult semester. During their senior year, Tenny grew into a beautiful long-haired cat. Her paws, belly, chest, throat, and face were white, and she had the large black and orange patches typical of all calicos. She had the square face common among cats, with a pink nose and long white whiskers, and her eyes were golden-yellow with flecks of green. Tenny had one feature, though, that Sarah had never seen on any other cat: three chevron-shaped stripes, sitting one above the other, in a tawny patch on her right shoulder. Thanks to Arnaud’s attention to detail, the stripes could be seen clearly in the painting.
“It’s Tenny, I’m sure of it,” said Sarah, “but how is that possible?”
Sarah and Mark leaned forward to see the inscription on the placard attached to the bottom edge of the picture frame. It read:
Artist: Jean-Luc Arnaud
Title: Woman and Cat
