Somebody stole an Easthampton Bear Fest bear. A shiny, small-sized one. As of this writing, nobody’s saying who it was. Of course, it’s a nefarious, even ignominious thing to do. It also turns out to be a felony, the Easthampton cops told the Daily Hampshire Gazette, thanks to the price tag for a single one of the fiberglass fellows.
And this got me wondering a couple of things. Why a humble bear? The world of art heists depends upon the thieving of far more valuable artworks to drive its own blackmarket economy. Art thieves, perhaps, hold a slightly elevated status among the burgling set—it might be slightly less evil to be convicted of stealing a Michelangelo than a widescreen TV. And the clientele for whom thieves boost famous artworks are not mere pawn shop owners, but rather people who wear ascots while perusing Wine Connoisseur. That or Dr. Evil. And everyone knows that well-dressed criminals are a breed apart.
But in the case of the Easthampton bear, it seems highly unlikely that a Bond villain-type circled the scene of the crime in a high-tech helicopter, laughing while stroking a cat. The same urge must be present, however. And it’s that urge that I find so weird. Why steal something that brings aesthetic pleasure to many people in order to hoard its pleasures for solo viewing? Its aesthetic pleasures aren’t going to run out somehow if it’s viewed by more people. You can show it to your friends, but then you have to hire expensive hitmen if you think they might tell the police you have Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” above the foosball table in the basement.
Maybe the whole art heist thing would decrease if we changed the nature of art museums. The guards can be fairly annoying, shooing you away when you’re merely admiring impasto from close enough to breathe on it. Perhaps those who would pay thieves millions to obtain private viewings should be allowed to pay museums for private viewings after hours, complete with catering service, comfy chairs, and large conference tables at which to plan world domination. Surely something can be done to prevent the current practice of thievery.
It also must be tough to make it as a greenhorn art thief—nobody’s impressed if you lift, say, a poorly exposed black and white landscape photo from a coffee shop. So how do you let the bigshots of the heist world know, “Hey, I’m here, ready to steal only the finest in Renaissance brushwork”? Was the bear theft the debut of an amateur?
And most importantly, where is the bear now? Has some misguided miscreant installed it in a back yard somewhere to frighten crows? It is, apparently, chrome. It shouldn’t be that hard to spot. What pleasures are to be gained from the obtaining of this bear? It’s highly likely our thief or thieves will want to show off this find, and that’s probably what will lead to the solving of the crime.
But what of the urge to own? What’s going on? Most of us learned at some point that owning something decreases the love affair that leads to obtaining it. It’s the basic cycle of American consumerism, and it’s the fading of the love affair that so often leads to further hoarding, on and on until the credit card bursts. Has the bear in our sights fallen victim to American zeitgeist?
Perhaps the model of public artwork was poorly understood by our criminal(s), and the need to own proved irresistible. If that’s true, the bear will probably turn up in a dumpster or an empty lot, its “owner” having found the reflections of his or her face in the bear’s chrome increasingly shabby.
Whatever the case, Easthampton deserves to get its bear back. One thing should work in our favor: this was a baby bear. There’s a very angry chrome mother of a bear out there waiting. And I’m glad it’s not waiting for me.