Free Caveat Emptor by Ken Perenyi Page B

checkbook or credit card might be.
    Since I’d been living in the city, I’d continued my education at Parke-Bernet, and had also started visiting the galleries in SoHo. I was trying to follow the advice of Barbara (whose letters I waited for every week) to “find” myself artistically. I wanted very much to paint and succeed as an artist. I had come to the conclusion that I’d outgrown my surrealistic stage, and I certainly didn’t view forgery as a career. If there was to be a future for me in art, I would have to be part of the movement.
    In the summer of ’73, I was having dinner with Tony at Max’s when I outlined for him a concept I’d formulated during the past year. I wanted to create a collection of art consisting of twenty-four pieces in three components: canvas, Plexiglas, and steel. The work on canvas would be composed of eight large abstract paintings measuring eight by ten feet each.
    The second component would be made of eight rectangular Plexiglas boxes measuring four feet tall, three feet wide, and eight inches deep. Eight more paintings would be removed from their stretchers and then stuffed into the Plexiglas boxes, along with the empty tubes of paint, brushes, rags, and anything else used in their creation. Then each box would be sealed shut.
    The third component of the collection was to be composed of eight boxes made of sheet metal four feet high, fourteen inches wide, and fourteen inches deep, with welded seams. These too would have crumpled-up paintings jammed into them along with brushes, tubes of paint, etc., before being welded shut on top. The idea was that one could only visualize—imagine—the paintings within. The gallery arrangement would consist of paintings on the walls, the Plexiglas boxes displayed on pedestals, and the steel containers placed on the floor.
    Tony liked the idea, but two major impediments prevented me from getting started: lack of space and lack of funds. Without hesitation, Tony suggested I move in with him. He had little use for his loft space beyond the bedroom and, besides, he could use some help with the rent. He also suggested that if I could put this collection together, he’d be willing to use his connections in the art world to gain interest in it—for a piece of the action, of course.
    That night, I thought about Tony’s offer. I came to the conclusion that this was a golden opportunity. After all, Tony knew everybody in the business, and the space in his loft would solve the first problem. Now the only thing that remained was the money. I needed at least a couple grand to buy the materials for the collection. The only possibility I had of raising that kind of money fast was to sell the few “Dutch” paintings I had, including the three Mr. Jory had framed for me months ago. If I can go out and sell them, I thought, then I’m gonna move in with Tony.
    Although I was dying to let him in on my little secret and tell him of my plan to raise the cash, my instincts told me not to. Aware that he was still wanted for questioning by the FBI, and certain that he’d insist on selling some of my paintings, I knew that if anything went wrong and he got in trouble, the cops would surely tag him to the museum robbery, and instead of moving into the loft with Tony, my next home might be the bottom of the East River.
    A few days later, I was ready for action, and I didn’t have to go far. The streets just east of University Place were crammed with antique shops, many handling paintings, and most with signs in their windows stating “We Buy Antiques.” A week later, I had raised over twenty-five hundred dollars. Convinced that I was being guided by the hand of providence, I loaded up the Jeep and moved to Union Square.
    The loft was on the second floor of a run-down building above a Jewish dairy restaurant. It was practically empty, not much more than a dingy storage room illuminated by two windows