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.