Jackson Arn at Art in America:
I didn’t take much convincing. In movies, there is always that scene where the criminal, having said no, changes his mind and growls, “I’m in,” but I was feeling more agreeable. When an old friend approached me about one more job with a big payday, I decided to say yes before I’d finished the email. And so, for weeks, I read and watched nothing but stories about stealing art.
In time, they began to blend together, until I felt I was investigating a single elaborate crime: dozens of old friends recruiting hundreds of thieves, quintuple-crossing each other out of lush portraits, gold statuettes, Fabergé eggs both real and holographic. I encountered lots of art presented as a symbol for sex or a metaphor for immortality, but not enough art presented as worthwhile for its own sake. I met people who seemed constitutionally incapable of standing in front of a beautiful object without having a flashback. I saw champagne flutes, dinner jackets, rakishly raised eyebrows. I caught Faye Dunaway playing one thief’s lover and moonlighting as another’s therapist. I heard the words “Don’t you fart!” and wrote them down in the solemn certainty that they were destined to appear in my article.
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