Guest Writer - Billy Dall
1969 - 2009

Sadly, Billy was taken from our lives way too soon...the big guy will be missed!

This is his story...


 

 

Rabbecca
By Billy Dall
© Billy Dall


By the time I needed to get some real life experience for my doctoral dissertation in art history, I was resigned to the fact that my internship would be less like Indiana Jones, and more like Gary Indiana. There were many hours ahead shuffling papers, cataloging items, and running errands for the curator. The prospects were less than thrilling but quite necessary. Of course, not everything in life goes as planned.

In the winter of 2002 the museum received a large donation from an anonymous benefactor, which changed my life forever.

The snow was falling hard that day. The usually busy streets were eerily vacant, save the occasional snow plow. The chill drove through my coat, worn well from years of faithful service to a perpetual student. A strange calmness had covered the city, changing a bustling metropolis into a Norman Rockwell. I trudged down to the museum around 4 in the afternoon. I had been there for 14 months already, so the routine was well established. I shook off the snow, hung my coat on the back of my chair and shoveled through my papers to find the stack of mail Lisa was sure to have left on my desk. Among the bills and junk mail was a letter from London. 44 Marlowe Lane London, England EC3R 4NE, to be specific. Later I would learn the address does not exist. The envelope stood out because it was one of those air-mail envelopes with the red, white and blue border. I hadn’t seen one of those since I was a kid. I decided to open this one first.

To Whom It May Concern,
On December 3rd you will be receiving several large crates via private shipper. These crates contain some of the greatest works created in the 19th century. My conscience can no longer allow me to hide the awful truth. Do with them what you will, but I wash my hands of them.

The letter was not signed.

I quickly glanced at the calendar, November 29th. They would be here soon.

The following week, everyone who worked at the museum was there early on the 3rd. There were rumors the crates contained priceless artifacts which had born curses upon their owners, or they were filled with stolen paintings of European masters. Some skeptics grumbled that the whole thing was a hoax and we were wasting our time, a few of them however, were there on their day off.

The day seemed to drag on endlessly. We attended to menial tasks to pass the time until the arrival of our mystery objects. Dr. Lemming, the head curator, was shuffling papers from one side of his desk to the other. Dr. Theodorus Lemming had been the curator for over 25 years and would gladly stay another 25. He was a slight man with a full head of gray hair. His round wire rimmed glasses constantly slid down a rather prominent nose. While he enjoyed fine clothing, and had a penchant for bow ties, his scatter-brained demeanor often left him looking disheveled. Dr. Lemming truly loved his job. When I was hired he told me “Art, my son, is the life blood of society. While commerce and government may be the heart and head, it could not survive without art.” I myself was dusting a shelf in a part of the library that saw few visitors, when the bell at the delivery dock rang. I walked hurriedly trying not to seem too anxious. Dr. Lemming was already lifting the large door to the delivery bay by the time I arrived. A gruff, stocky man was pushing a clipboard in Dr. Lemming’s direction. I peered over his shoulder to see the same address on the invoice that was on the letter, but still no name. Dr. Lemming signed for the crates, and the hauler swung up the back door to his truck. There they were. 4 crates, each about 7 feet tall, and one smaller box, about 2 feet square. Without a word he transferred the containers to the loading dock, and then slammed the truck’s door shut and drove away.
The crowd mulled around, clamoring with excitement. Small groups of people gathered around each crate. Crowbars were lifted when Dr. Lemming politely asked that nothing be opened until he had a chance to devise a plan. We all waited anxiously as he stood and scratched his chin. Eventually he decided we should move them down to the vault in the basement. Then we would open one at a time, so that everyone could focus on the same thing. After we had hauled them downstairs, he arbitrarily choose one, then pried the door open. After he peeled away the straw used for packing there was an audible gasp from the crowd. It was a Rebecca Borland.

<entry, Bourdeau’s Art Catalog> Rebecca Borland; born 1863 died 1898. Ms. Borland was a struggling sculptor in her youth, but gained national attention at the age of 25 with a showing at London’s Watershed Gallery. Her works were heralded as the most realistic and disturbing images to have graced the London art scene. Rebecca was known as a highly impassioned artist for her age, and despite being a woman in a man’s field she thrived and earned the respect of peers and critics alike. The striking feature of her work was that each statue presented her subject with a distorted face, seemingly captured in a death throe. It was said that if you stood close enough, you could hear the screams of terror. Rebecca was the toast of London society, presenting at least one statue a year until her untimely death in 1898, under strange and unexplained circumstances.

After Dr. Lemming quickly opened each of the crates to establish that each of them had a Borland sculpture, he assigned teams of three people per piece to authenticate them. He opened the smaller box and found an unorganized mass of papers. He handed me the mess and told me to “sort it out”.
4 or 5 days passed since the statues had arrived when Dr. Lemming asked me what I had found among the papers. I lied and told him there was nothing of interest. I told him so far I had only found some old newspaper clippings about various Borland shows and receipts for materials, but that I was still sorting things out. He seemed a giddy school boy when he told me that so far 3 of the 5 works were already authenticated as genuine Borlands, and the remaining two looked promising. He asked that I finish as soon as possible. I promised I would, but I knew I would report to him little, if anything, that I found in the papers. They told a tale so alarming and grotesque that I could barely get through 3 pages at a time.
In spite of the disheveled appearance upon opening the box, the papers were quite organized. They were a collection of diary entries and letters.

My Dearest Jonathan,
I fear my love for the arts is waning. My muse regularly deserts me, in search of a more deserving soul I am sure. What ever shall I do? I feel truly alive when my fingers work the clay and my people come to life. I must find inspiration! I simply must!
R.B.

Dr. Lemming continued to give me updates on the statues and ask if I had found anything of note among the papers. I always told him the same thing; nothing yet sir, but I’m working on it.

March 15th, 1886
The most difficult part is the face. Hands, arms, legs, feet, these are all rather angular and linear. But the face… How can I capture the true contours and shadows which bring emotion to the subject? I need to study faces, real faces. It is the only way.
Reb.

Dr. Lemming let me know that the 4th statue had been authenticated. The last one was sure to be a Borland. He spoke with the excitement of a young boy the eve before Christmas. His excitement was tempered by my report. I told him that it was unlikely I would find anything pertaining directly to Ms. Borland or her works in the stacks of papers. I was at once enthralled and repulsed by Rebecca. As her story began to unfold, I became less and less timid about reading. I often brought papers home, staying up until early morning taking in her accounts.

Elizabeth,
How is your painting coming along? Oh how I wish I could join you in France. I am struggling ever so with my work. I have decided to take a new approach; I am going to study the intricacies of facial features of real people and try and reproduce them inch by inch. Perhaps working on the parts will provide me with the whole that I am seeking.
Love always,
Becca

July 20th, 1886
I have begun to use my sister Kathleen as a model. I spend hours simply studying her face; every line, every pore, every fold, every curve.
Reb.

August 1st, 1886
I have finished the sculpture of Kathleen’s face. Oh the sad end! I worked furiously, my fingers electric with my love for her and my art. I could feel the breath from her mouth, the heat from her cheek. I did not look up from my stand for hours, knowing that this would be my finest work. Long after the sun had set, and the candles in my room had melted away I laid myself to bed, too exhausted to feel my excitement of seeing the piece in the dawn of a new day. When I awoke, the morning sun had not bore me a gift of beauty, but a hideous caricature of what Kathleen should be. Oh the sad end!
Reb.

October 17th, 1886
Kathleen is young, and not prone to true emotion. This was the problem. I need to find a new model.
Reb.

Dr. Lemming was growing irritated with my progress, or lack there of. I felt that if I didn’t present him with something he could use, he would take the entire box and sift through the papers himself. I set aside several letters and diary entries that were bland an offered no hint of Ms. Borland’s scheme. I offered these sacrifices to Dr. Lemming and he was satisfied;

Jonathan,
My Love, when will you return to me? I am quite proud of your service to Her Majesty, but I yearn for you in ways that she does not. Besides, am I not ten times as beautiful? Oh my! Don’t I sound the silly girl? Well, of course, I am a silly girl.
Be safe, and come home soon,
Love always,
R.B.

April 26th, 1886
It is woman’s imperative to create life. While I await the return of my Jonathan to marry me and create life within my womb, my hands and clay shall be surrogate.
Reb.

July 12th, 1886
I had a lovely brunch with mother and Kathleen. I am pleased to see that my little sister is growing into a beautiful woman.
Reb.

Kathleen,
Perhaps this Sunday you can come to my gallery and sit with me while I work. I’m hoping you can bring me some inspiration.
Becca

Dr. Lemming was thrilled with the papers I had given him. If he only knew… He asked if I had found any more insights into Ms. Borland’s personal life, adding that he had a wonderful idea for exhibiting the pieces; he wanted to put together a time line placing her written words with her sculptures and present them as a visual biography. I told him I thought that was a wonderful idea and I would suffer through the mostly banal writings to find him some that he could use. He was more than pleased. I was beginning to enjoy my game.

October 20st, 1886
I have taken to smoking a pipe while I work. I rather enjoy this affectation.
Reb.

October 31st, 1886
The ghouls and goblins are playing in the shadows tonight. It is a reminder that death is an inevitable and motivating part of life. Some say you are no more alive than the instant before you die. This is a time of truest emotion. This is the moment I should capture in my sculpture. An artist’s job is to show the world itself through her own eyes. I cannot offer unto the world my vision if my own eyes have not seen. For the veracity of my art, and my own heart, I must stare down the Specter himself. I will call to him and keep my fateful appointment.
Reb.

The words seemed to leap off the paper; “keep my fateful appointment”. My mind was a whirlwind contemplating her meaning, which would soon become clear to me.

November 12th, 1886
His name was Robert, or William, or some other such thing. He was the most wonderful model! I hope that now he can appreciate his importance. South of Ferry Street, along the river, there are several encampments of vagabonds, and small groups of young beggars, but this one, Robert I think it was, had ventured off alone. His face was positively lit when I offered him hot food and a warm bed. The invitation was simple and his acceptance overwhelming. He practically danced all the way to my studio. He sat quietly devouring a bowl of soup and 3 rolls while I proffered my suggestion. He was so grateful for the morsels that he had hardly finished before he jumped up, ready to become the figure I would study. I had strung a crude noose over a beam in the ceiling. I asked him to stand on the table with the rope around his neck. As he stood, I repositioned him several times so that eventually he was baring his weight on his throat but balanced enough on his toes to allow him to breathe. I explained that I needed the exact positioning to give me the proper perspective. He gave no objections, but still I was fearful that at the moment of consummation he would fight the muse, so I bound his hands behind his back. I could have splayed him open right then and there and I would have heard not a peep of opposition, he was so trusting. I paced around him, telling him what a fine job he was doing. I was mesmerized by the site! He was soon to experience the most thrilling moment in his life, and I would capture it for all of eternity. I sat at my clay and thinned out the framework. Robert, or William, stood silent, smiling, perched on his toes. As the time neared for his debut I could hardly contain my excitement. My smile had never been so wide. I slowly moved the table away from him. He hadn’t noticed at all until the full force of his lithe body was pressed upon his neck. Suddenly his grin turned quizzical and his eyes widened in my direction. He mumbled something, but his words were lost in my excitement. I furiously worked the clay. He began to kick and twist. I had to pull his leg so that he faced me. It occurred to me that the ordeal might be over all too quickly, not giving me enough time to study his face and transform the clay. I needed time. I cut off a piece of the clay and soaked it. When it was quite malleable, I moved the table over closer to him, climbed on top. We stood face to face, and I could see that the instant of enlightenment was upon him; his mouth gaping, his eyes about to pop from his skull, he knew he was going to die; this was the face I needed. I quickly took the clay and pressed it into his face, careful not to let his features relax. I had to exert quite a bit of pressure to form the clay tightly to every line and valley in his skin. If I could not study his face for the needed amount of time, I could at least have a fairly representative death mask. Not long after I had pushed a large piece into his mouth his body stopped convulsing. I stepped down off the table and reached for some whiskey. I caught my breath, and the pins and needles in my skin had settled. I gazed upon him, twisting from the beam. His face was perfect within the clay! It was quite breathtaking; certainly ten fold better than I could have done without him as the base. It wasn’t just the image that needed to be maintained, it was the subject as well. This was the life in my vision, the mirror of society through my eyes! Without his struggle, it was much easier encasing the rest of his body in the material. Thin layer upon thin layer I applied the clay, making sure to carefully trace the layer before. After a few coats, the sculpture was pliable enough to pose, and stiff enough to hold it while the next layer was added. When I was done, I sat back in gleeful admiration of my work. It was, as near as it could be, to perfect and I was tired.
Reb.


I spent my days at the museum furiously going through the papers, sorting out those I could give Dr. Lemming and those I would take for myself. I trudged through my duties at work, fortified with the thoughts of returning to my reading. The diary was morbid beyond the depths of social understanding, but I was thoroughly drawn to them. I often lapsed on assignments and misplaced things. I couldn’t think of anything but Rebecca Borland. During a half hearted conversation with Dr. Lemming, he told me that the first statue to be authenticated was of a young boy, approximately 13 to 15 years in age. He was naked, hands bound behind his back, and slightly bend over at the waist. His head and neck were stretched forward, making his eyes bulge forth and his mouth drop wide open. The second was a young girl seated in a chair, her hands folded on her lap. Her head was tilted over the back of the chair, almost to the point of falling off her body. The third piece was a portly man, arms down at his side, his mouth congealed with a mass, and his face slightly skewed. I gave Dr. Lemming some more letters;

My Dearest Johnathan,
I hope you are well my dear, I still miss you terribly. But, you should not worry about me for I have lost myself in my sculpting. I have found joyous inspiration and have been working at a fevered pace. I cannot wait for your return so that I can share my passion with you.
R.B.

Kathleen,
Thank you ever so much for your help and support. The bust of your face is one of my favorites and I will treasure it, and you, forever. Please tell mother I won’t be home for several months as I have become filled with the spirit, and it moves me to create.
Love, Becca

At home, I would draw the shades and boiling some tea in preparation for my reading.

March 20th, 1887
I have shown my boy to several galleries about town. Most of them are impressed, but insist I have more pieces before they will offer me a showing.

June 10th, 1887
Life is about dichotomy. Black and white, yin and yang, boys and girls. Lauren could not have been more perfect. It really is a shame that so many children roam the streets without anyone to care for them, no friends and no family. As before I offered her some food and she gladly came to my studio with me. After we ate, I offered her a beautiful Sunday dress that I had outgrown some time ago. I cleaned her up and dressed her. She was so beautiful, so innocent. I hoped that she would understand the situation enough to offer me enough emotion to capture, and she did not let me down. As she sat drinking a glass of milk, I stood behind her braiding her hair. She laughed as my hands ran through her locks, pulling them back to expose her neck. I picked up a knife and drew it across the entirety of her throat and her blood began to shoot. She was fading even quicker than my first, so I grabbed the sheet of clay from the basin in which it was soaking and pressed it to her face. She was beautiful! A peaceful scream forever painted upon her face.
Reb.

It all seemed a bit fantastic. I suppose it was entirely possible that Ms. Borland had crafted these stories after she had rendered her sculptures as a way to make them seem more real. No one could be so cold, so callous. They had to be fiction. Either way, there was something special about Rebecca Borland.

September 28th, 1887
The pair need a provider, someone to watch over them. I had spied an itinerant rascal begging in an alley one night. I had reservations about inviting him to my studio at first. Adults were more likely to know others, and it was possible that someone would recognize him. I was also concerned that someone of his girth would not die easy, thus putting myself into jeopardy. I watched him for several nights, thinking of the best method to use for his introduction to his maker. He hardly ever fraternized with the encampments, sleeping in random doorways each night. During the day I visited the library and read books on various poisons. I was confident I had formulated the best plan possible, and so approached him with the same offer I made to my two darlings. He was a bit hesitant at first, but his hunger overcame his apprehension and he soon acquiesced. At the studio, I prepared a very hearty stew for him and mixed in copious amounts of a concoction I had compiled from my research. He sat hunched over, shoveling the food down his gullet. I was becoming a bit anxious as he was nearly finished and there was no sign of poison’s effects. I stood up quickly, quite annoyed at his obstinance and stomped away from him. He must have sensed something was wrong because he stood up, his mouth half full of a piece of bread, and creaked an inquisitive “Miss…” right before he grabbed his chest. I turned quickly to see him stumbling backward. I was quite relieved! I ran to him, trying to feign concern, asking him what was wrong, but I suspect that he was less than convinced with my display. When it was blindingly clear to him that he was about to die, his faced displayed a clarity of understanding that I could not have hoped for, I think he caught a glimpse of the smile washing across my own face. He lunged at me as I grabbed for the clay, but his chariot sped blindingly and he hit the floor, face first. The thud was a solid boom that reverberated through the studio, it was magical, but I hadn’t had time to capture him! I was unsure what to do next. I rolled him over and saw that death, that sweet bird of release, had preserved it for me, taking his final breath from his body before he could shake the look from his face. The thud was still shaking in my bones, sending shivers of glee through my whole body. I placed the moistened clay on a spot on the floor just in front of him. Whit quite a bit of energy, I was able to hoist his body to a standing position, carefully aim, then let him go… THUD…a direct hit to the clay! I am alive with my art! I have crafted each piece with passion and truth. The gods themselves are speaking through my fingers.
Reb.

I had given Dr. Lemming all he was going to see from me. He had enough to present his time line, and would never appreciate the words Rebecca had left for me. He was, after all, a curator, a critic, not an artist. Rebecca had left for me her dissertation and it filled me with delight and awe. Three weeks before the museum was to open its presentation of Rebecca’s work, I decided to inspect the pieces. I offered, one evening, to be the “sweeper”. It is the sweeper’s job to make sure the museum is properly shut down for the night; close all the doors, shut off all the lights, lock up on the way out. When everyone else had gone, I performed all my responsibilities but instead of leaving, I locked the building down tight and headed towards the basement.
There they were; the little boy, his sister, their fat protector, and the final piece, a woman, finely dressed, holding a bouquet of flowers.

February 3rd, 1888
My opening is to be in the spring! I can hardly believe it. The owners of a gallery down town are absolutely in love with my work and are just as excited to show it as I am. They fawned over the children, and doted on George. Their favorite, and to tell the truth mine as well, is Mary. She is the finest work I have created yet, and rightfully so as she was the hardest subject to capture. I had been contemplating several situations, none of which seemed worthy of my talent. The subjects I spied were less than becoming and I could not devise a method befitting my creativity. One evening, as I sipped some warm cognac and smoked my pipe, my muse delivered right unto my door, Mary. She had come begging for food and so I bid her entrance, offering her a warm dish. She agreed without hesitation. I sat her down and went to the kitchen and prepared her some eggs. As I was cooking I contemplated using the remainder of the poison I had lying around, but I quickly realized that repetition so early in my career was beneath me. She sat quietly as my eyes darted around the studio looking for the right inspiration, but nothing came to me right away. When the meal was cooked, I slid the plate in front of her and sat at her side. I stared and studied her face as she hungrily lapped up the eggs and toast. She never said a word as she ate, even though I sat mere inches away, smiling, laughing softly. When she was finished, she slid the plate over, looked up and said “thank..” and in an instant my hands were wrapped around her throat. The look of surprise was utterly fantastic. Once she realized what had happened she began to struggle. I tried to hold on, but she fought fiercely, and I let go as a wave of uncontrollable laughter shook me. She ran for the door. I chased her, picking up the poker from the fireplace. Before she could open the door I swung and connected squarely to the back of her head. She fell to the floor and I grabbed her feet, dragging her back towards the table. She continued to struggle as I turned her on her back, grabbing again for her throat. Somehow she managed to grab a candle stick and hit me smartly on my left arm. I released her, but only for a second before I was once again at her neck. She put up quite an effort! I could feel her breath slowing, and her grip weakening, but my clay was not near, and her face was relaxing. I relented and crawled to the basin. She began to cough and sputter. I retrieved the clay and returned to Mary. I straddled her at her waist. I slowly pulled the clay closer to me as I stared into her eyes. She looked relieved, thankful to be catching her breath. I smiled, bent over and kissed her cheek. As I sat back up, I slipped the clay over her forehead and let it sit there as I returned my hands to their chore, and throttled her. Then there it was!! The final glimmer of total understanding in her eyes! Beautiful!! I slid the clay the rest of the way down and pressed firmly with my thumbs. Mary had given me the finest example of the emotion I sought, and so I felt I owed her thanks. I dressed her in one of my finest gowns, and placed a dozen daises in her hands.
Reb.

As I sat with Mary, I saw in her vacant eyes the genius and passion of my dear Becca. It was right there, in front of me, at my finger’s touch. The life she created for the world to see. The life which shows us all at our truest moment. The faces were just as she had described them; honest, vulnerable, and pure.

It was just about two years ago that I ended my work at the museum. The Rebecca Borland exhibit was a big hit, and earned Dr. Lemming quite a bit of respect. The sculptures still stand in the museum. The letters have never left my home. A week from now is my big opening at the Fortes Gallery in SoHo. Many people have compared my sculptures to that of my lovely Becca. If they only knew…


© Billy Dall

 


 

 

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