Karl Schwind did not come alone. He, in his early thirties, was accompanied by a woman in her early twenties. You would have taken them for strangers: with his tousled hair and overalls, he looked like a 1968 hippie, while her appearance was immaculate. She moved with poise, and sized me up coolly. When the painter became overwrought, she laid her hand on his arm.

“He doesn’t want to let me take any pictures.”

“You—”

“My portfolio was destroyed, so I have to take new pictures of some of the paintings. I know who bought them, I call these people, and they let me come and take pictures. They’re happy to let me visit. He refuses.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t say why. I called him, he hung up, and when I wrote him, he didn’t reply.” As he spoke, he threw up his hands, splayed open his fingers, clenched his fists, let them sink down. His hands were large, like everything else: his frame, his face, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. “I’m attached to my paintings. I can hardly stand to have to sell them.”

I explained that the law gave artists the right to access their paintings for the purpose of making reproductions. “That is, if the artist has a legitimate interest and there is no conflicting legitimate interest on the part of the owner. Is there a reason that the owner might object?”

The painter stuck out his chin, pressed his lips together, and shook his head. I gave the woman a questioning look; she shrugged and smiled. He gave me the name of the painting’s owner, Peter Gundlach, and his address, a prime location in the Taunus hills.

“How was your portfolio destroyed? Not that it matters, but if I can explain why—”

Once again he interrupted. I was annoyed with myself – back then I always got annoyed when I wasn’t as assertive as I thought I should be. “I had an accident – my car went up in flames and so did the portfolio.”

“I hope—”

“I was fine. But Irene was trapped inside and she,” he placed his hand on her leg, “suffered burns.”

“I’m so—”

He waved it away. “Nothing serious. Healed long ago.”

5

I wrote to Gundlach, who wrote back immediately. He claimed he’d been misunderstood. Of course the painter could come by and take pictures of the painting. I relayed the response to Schwind and considered the matter resolved.

But a week later, Schwind was back. He was beside himself.

“Did he deny you access?”

“The painting is damaged. The right leg – it looks like he took a lighter to it.”

“He?”

“Yes, Gundlach. He says it was an accident. But it wasn’t an accident, it was intentional. I can tell.”

“What do you want now?”

“What I want now?” The woman had come back with him, and again she placed her hand on his arm. But he still began to shout.