ART THEFT AT ISABELLA STEWART GARDNER MUSEUM
Boston, Mass. March 18, 1990
The Gardner Museum was robbed by two unknown white
males dressed in police uniforms and identifying themselves
as Boston police officers. Upon gaining entry, the two
unknown subjects abducted the on duty security personnel,
securing both guards with duct tape and handcuffs in remote
areas of the museum's basement. While in the museum from
the hours of 1:24 a.m. to 2:45 a.m., the unknown subjects
seized thirteen works of art, the values of which have been
estimated as high as 300 million dollars.*
The Dutch Room
Rembrandt
(Sanctity violated,
paint chips fall.)
The dark seas roil,
angry waves crash
in white tops, they toss a boat.
Light pours from a crack in the clouds,
spilling onto a swollen, flapping sail,
pale and bowed, a tired dove�s wing.
Breaking Storm on the Sea of Galilee.
The light of the sky and water merge
-cream clouds billow, liquid sparkles,
pushing the ship into the dark.
The world is tilted sideways,
falls out of its frame
And is gone.
Vermeer
Feeble winter light
falls aimlessly from the left.
(the master�s trademark)
It lands on a chessboard floor
with arrogantly perfect perspective.
Two paintings on the wall stare,
dead eyes revealing nothing,
looking down on a tight trio.
A girl in a yellow shirt,
perfect satin folds
with a touch of pigment,
her hair primly pulled back.
She plays an instrument,
pale face concentrating,
while a lone pearl earring
glimmers, a single star.
The man has his back to us,
wrapped in the music,
The Concert.
A woman sits,
serenely unaware.
We could almost see her face.
Red drapery pulls it all together.
The table in front, the clothes,
the back of the man�s chair.
It folds on itself,
and is lost.
Flinck
Stormclouds spread,
a blackish purple bruise
overtakes blue sky.
Grey haunts the horizon
and melts into the far off cliffs,
lurking in the background,
approaching the obelisk.
It stands alone, proud and distant,
outlined in reflected white.
A shimmering spear.
Landscape with an Obelisk.
Much closer are the twisted trees,
their twigs vainly reach for light.
A dry brush vaguely hints
at a tired stone bridge
arching under the ages
and a warm town,
cowering before the storm.
A river meanders through,
trapped piece of azure
reflecting the lost sky.
Puzzle in middle tones,
confuses the experts
and is missing
before it is solved.
*largely appropriated from the FBI�s website
