Stéphane Bréitwieser is probably the most prolific art thief of all time, pulling off more than 200 heists with his girlfriend as his accomplice on most of them. Stealing from crowded museums, frequently in broad daylight, his collection was worth an estimated $2 billion. Stealing for aesthetic sake alone, he never sold a piece, displaying his stolen art in his attic bedroom. He felt unstoppable. And then everything came to a sudden end.
Fortunately, this book also came to an end. I have no idea why Michael Finkel is under the impression that Bréitwieser is a sympathetic individual; he has got to be one of the most selfish, self-centered, self-absorbed, self-entitled whiny man-children I have every read about. Not that his mother or his girlfriend were any more sympathetic, as they are two more people whose entire thought process is summed up in “Bitch, bitch, bitch, whine, whine whine. It’s all about me and getting mine, mine, mine.” Bréitwieser obviously got his superiority complex from his mother (his martyr complex as well). And his girlfriend acts as if she’s the true victim in all of it, not a mostly willing accomplice who actually encouraged him several times. But that’s all right, Finkel makes excuses for them all. He finds the three of them (but especially Bréitwieser), utterly charming and expects you to find him just as delightful. Never mind that thanks to the three of them, there are priceless pieces of art that are now known only through titles and maybe some photographs. I also found it depressing how actually easy it is to steal from museums; I just hope this book doesn’t give anyone any ideas to go on their own crime spree.
I would pair this book as a non-fiction companion to Murder on Canvas; two books about art with incredibly unsympathetic people, written in extremely poor style.