An Obsessive Lust Robs the Rest of Us

You’ve seen it already—the early-morning Parisian theft of five paintings from the City Museum of Modern Art is all over the news. Picasso. Modigliani. Léger. Matisse. Braque. One individual broke into the museum through a window and carefully removed each canvas from its frame.

How could this have happened? What went wrong with security? Or was the robbery sanctioned by someone on the security or museum staff? How much time did it take? Who was the thief? Endless questions for the investigators and insurance company.

With this particular choice of items, though, I wonder about something more. The paintings represent a handful of my favorite artists, as they must for the person who has them now. Did that person hire a thief? Or are the thief and the art lover (for these are not investments; they will never be sold on the open market) one and the same? Would the art lover and I enjoy one another’s company? We have something in common, after all. Because I have obsessive tendencies (all editors do), I can understand this person’s fixation. Or perhaps obsession didn’t drive this person as much as the sheer ability to pay for what s/he desired did. And without a moral compass, the method of “purchase” and possession was easy.

How does it feel to swell with such self-importance? How many people will never get the opportunity to view Braque’s olive tree because one person decided s/he alone should have it? Where is the Modigliani woman fanning herself as I write?

Let’s hope investigators will at least arrive at an answer to my last question.