On May 18th, 1990, I walked into the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum with my brother. We dressed up like cops, and no one thought anything of it. Little did they know, we were about to pull off the biggest art heist in history. Our loot consisted of 13 artworks, valued at half a billion United States dollars. 

I was not after money. I was not after fame. I was not after notoriety. And I did not seek to destroy these precious pieces. I took what I felt was mine. I was after Art. 

I love listening to the piano, and The Concert plays every night in my padlocked basement. Its music is something only I get to enjoy. When I dance, I hear my footsteps clinking on the checkered floors and think: "How lucky am I?" Sometimes I trip over the cello, always, somehow, forgetting that it's there. I can lose myself for hours. 

When I need to mourn, my friends, A Lady And Gentleman In Black, always wait for me. They remind me a lot of my parents, and they were both there for me when each of them passed. They're like a second family, and they serve as a reminder that the pain of death doesn't go away with time, it only lessens. When I need to, I find myself sitting on the red velvet chair, and talking to my friends for hours. Thanks to years of wear, it's the most comfortable seat in the house. 

Sometimes my brother and I pray to Christ In The Storm On The Sea of Galilee. We go here together when we need to be reminded how privileged we are to live through the 20th century and beyond. We often bring oranges, bread, and fresh canteens of water for our seafaring friends. For their agony is neverending, and ours is allowed to stop when we please. They thank us, profusely, and we thank them for the experience.

Sometimes I visit my Artist friend. He's a Young Man with big hopes and dreams. He paints Portraits and tells stories. He loves ugliness, actually, he prefers it to beauty. He reminds me to embrace the hard parts of reality and find beauty in the bad stuff. Whenever I need that lesson instilled in me, I pay him a chat, and I always leave feeling refreshed and ready to tackle my problems. 

When I need a good thinking spot, I find myself in a dark and stormy Landscape. I get showered in golden light upon walking over to the Obelisk. The prayers I utter here are able to reach to the heavens. They crawl up the stone and float into the sky, turning into whispers heard by the angels. I find my questions are answered and my worries are settled by the time I journey back. 

When I need someone to tell it to me straight, my friend Chez Tortoni is the man I confide in. He doesn't talk much, but often the judgemental stares he sends in my direction make me rethink every whim and idea I want to act on. He doesn't really like when I interrupt his writing, but he always lets me have a sip of his drink before I go. It seems to be neverending. 

I've always loved France, but I can't afford to fly. Thankfully, when I'm craving the experience, I enter a Procession on a Road Near Florence and march along to the beat of their drum. I love looking into the distance at the city skyline. I take my time as I make my way into town. I love the smells of the foliage that we pass, and sometimes, I stop to pick the fresh berries growing on the bushes. They always taste the sweetest when I share them. 

My brother is afraid of horses, and we got him over his fear by playing polo with the Three Mounted Jockeys. They were incredibly patient in their training with us. They let us know that nothing is ever perfect. There is always time to continue working toward a greater goal. They remind us that unfinished stories leave the most room for possibilities. 

We've gotten really good at gambling when we follow the Horse Leaving The Paddock. The jockey in orange swears he is prepared to win the race, but we've seen the show enough times to know that the jockey in green takes home the prize. No matter how much money we win, we can never take it out of the frame, but it feels good in the moment, and drinks are always on us. The other spectators appreciate it every time. 

When I need to hear music unseen, I take An Artistic Soiree through the docks of Paris. I pass by the factory and welcome the fumes into my lungs, for they cannot hurt me here. Sometimes I enjoy sitting by the water and watching the ships. I love the creak of the wood; they don't make them like they used to. Sometimes, if I'm able, I catch an orchestral performance. It's always put on by a different artist, names always unknown. I dance with pretty women and they ask for my name, and I tell them, but we never cross paths again. 

When we enter the basement, the Eagle always knows. He flies up to the top of the staircase and leads us down to the portals. I think he holds the magic needed to make our lives possible. He keeps the pest problem to a minimum, and he never seems to age. He's like a third brother to us, and I wonder if he knows it. 

After a long day of bending the space-time continuum, my brother and I enjoy a drink of wine from the Ancient Chinese Gu. It tastes better as the grapes get tinged by the bronze. The metallic tang zaps my tongue every time. How lucky am I to experience such niceties? All because I took what I deserved because I knew its true power when others did not. 

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The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is located at 25 Evans Way in Boston, Massachusetts. If you're ever in the area, it's a fantastic place to visit. Tickets for adults cost $20, tickets for seniors cost $16, tickets for students are $13, and children under the age of 18 can visit the museum for free.

Unfortunately, the mystery of the ISG Museum Heist is still not solved. I didn't actually steal any art worth half a billion dollars, though it would have been cool if I did. I used 

 to source the artworks, and you can read more about their history through the provided link.

Portals

A fictional interpretation of the art heist that took place at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston on May 18th, 1990. 

On May 18th, 1990, I walked into the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum with my brother. We dressed up like cops, and no one thought anything of it. Little did they know, we were about to pull off the biggest art heist in history. Our loot consisted of 13 artworks, valued at half a billion United States dollars. 



Portals

A fictional interpretation of the art heist that took place at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston on May 18th, 1990.

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Portals

A fictional interpretation of the art heist that took place at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston on May 18th, 1990.

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of .css-13w9qce-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-accent);}Ashley Lima

About the Creator

Ashley Lima

Comments (2)

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Keep reading

Bristol Beach

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of Ashley Lima