Art of Murder

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  'Are you threatening me?' Clara asked.

  Gerardo raised an eyebrow.

  'I'm simply trying to tell you that Justus is the boss, after him comes me, and that you are at our complete and absolute disposition. And that if you want to be painted by a maestro from the Foundation, the best thing is for you not to upset the assistants, got it?'

  A vibration, a shudder of pure art ran through her body. For the first time she felt a certain apprehension at Gerardo's words, and she liked the feeling. She had been painted with another fine brushstroke, and the fact that she was completely naked added the appropriate dark tone. She crossed her ankles, stirred in her seat, and muttered as she looked away from him:

  'All right.'

  'I hope you'll be more friendly to Justus from now on, OK?' She nodded.

  'I didn't hear your reply,' he said.

  This new pressure from the brush pleased her as well. She hastened to respond. 'Yes, all right.'

  Gerardo rolled his eyes back and stared at her in a very odd way. Neither of them said anything more.

  She tried 'being more friendly' during the afternoon session. They had posed her on tiptoe, like a ballet dancer. Time went by. As she was standing up, she could see herself in the mirrors. One of them only reflected half her anatomy, a split silhouette, a chaos of lines and volume. They left her like that for quite a while until Uhl suddenly came up behind her.

  Right from the start, she returned his kiss, more ardently than he had begun it with. Her tongue darted in Uhl's dark mouth, she clasped him in her arms and pressed her naked body against his clothes.

  It was like being stung by a bee. The painter tore himself from her and left the room. He did not approach her again all afternoon.

  So, if I yield, everything stops, she reasoned. And if I don't yield?'

  This second option scared her a lot. She decided she would try it.

  She was excited, but that night she collapsed into bed like a dead weight. She suspected it was because of all the pills she was taking. When she awoke, she presumed it was Thursday 29 June. She felt ready for a fresh assault. She could not remember anything that had happened during the night: it was as though she had passed out. She had gone to sleep with the blinds drawn again, and if any security guard had come near to the house, she had not been aware of it. And besides, she was beginning to forget her nocturnal fears, because the daytime ones were taking all her attention.

  That morning they sketched her standing up, bending over backwards. They were difficult poses, and the timer settings seemed to her eternal. It was midday before she managed to really control her trembling limbs, and the pain in her vertebrae became nothing more than the passage of time. To her surprise, Uhl had not bothered her again. She wondered if the way she had given in to him the previous afternoon had brought things to a complete stop.

  After lunch, Gerardo invited her for a walk. This surprised her a little, but she decided to accept because she wanted to get some fresh air. She put on a robe and a pair of padded plastic sandals, and the two of them walked down the gravel path to the front hedge. Then they went out on to the road.

  As she had thought, the scenery was very pretty by daylight. To the right and left there were more gardens, hedges and red-roofed houses. In the distance there was a small wood, and before it the main road their van had travelled along. Clara was delighted to see the unmistakable outline of several windmills on the horizon. The scene was like a typical postcard from Holland.

  'All these houses belong to the Foundation,' explained Gerardo. 'It's here we make sketches of most of our models. We prefer these surroundings because we can be on our own. Before all the sketches were done in the Old Atelier, in the Plantage district of Amsterdam. Now though we make the sketches here, and if necessary we do the shading in the Atelier.'

  Gerardo was behaving as though he felt liberated. He rested his hand gently on her shoulder whenever he wanted to point something out, and smiled wonderfully. It was as if the work atmosphere inside the house was even more exhausting for him than for her. They walked along the roadside listening to the soundtrack of a civilised countryside: birdsong mixed with the distant rumble of machinery. Every so often, a plane ploughed the sky with its brief roar. The muscles of Clara's back ached a little. She thought it was probably due to the difficult poses she had been put in that morning. She was worried, because she did not want anything to go wrong at the sketching stage. She was thinking all this when Gerardo spoke again.

  'This is a rest period. An official rest, I mean. Do you understand?'

  'Aha.'

  'You can talk freely.' 'Fine.'

  She understood perfectly. Some painters she had worked with used phrases like this to emphasise that the hyperdramatic work had been interrupted. Sometimes with human canvases it was necessary to make a clear distinction between reality and the blurred outlines of art. Gerardo was trying to tell her that from this moment on, he was he, and she was she. He was saying that he had left his brushwork behind and that he wanted to go for a walk and chat for a while. After that, everything would begin again.

  But Clara was confused by the decision. Breaks were common practice in every HD painting session, but it was important to determine exactly when they were taking place, because otherwise the entire painterly construction could be destroyed in an instant. And this moment did not seem very suitable. The previous day, the same young man she was now out strolling with had told her threateningly that she should accept the sexual harassment of his colleague. That had been an especially intense piece of brushwork, but it was also extremely fragile, a subtle outline that could be ruined if it were not allowed to dry. She wanted to believe Gerardo knew what he was doing. And this rest period might well be make-believe, too.

  After a short silence, Gerardo looked at her intently. They both smiled.

  'You're a very good canvas, sweetheart. I'm talking from experience. First-class material!'

  'Thanks, but I see myself as fairly ordinary,' lied Clara. 'No, no; you're very good. Justus thinks the same.' 'You two aren't so bad either.'

  She was feeling increasingly uneasy. She would have preferred to go back to the house at once and resume the hyperdramatic tension. This idle conversation with one of the technical assistants frightened her. She refused to believe that Gerardo wanted to have the kind of boring exchange such as: What do you like doing, and what do you enjoy? She could only put up with Jorge talking that way, but Jorge was her everyday life, not art.

  Stay cool, she told herself. Let him take the reins. He's a Foundation painter, a professional. He's not going to make any false moves with a canvas.

  'Justus is better than me,' Gerardo went on. 'Seriously, sweetheart: he's an extraordinary painter. I've been an assistant for two years now. Before I was training to be a craftsman. Justus had just been made a senior. We became friends, and it was he who recommended me for this job. I've been very lucky, they don't take on just anybody. And I never liked painting ornaments. What I'm into are works of art.'

  Aha.'

  'But what I'd like most of all is to become an independent professional painter. To have my own studio and canvases. Canvases like you: good, expensive ones.' Clara laughed out loud. I have lots of ideas, especially for outdoor works. I'd love to be able to devote myself to making outdoor works for collectors in hot countries.'

  'So why don't you? It's a good market.'

  'You need money to set up a studio like that, sweetheart. But one day I'll do it, believe me. For the moment, I'm happy. I'm earning lots of money. Not everyone gets to be a technical assistant in the Van Tysch Foundation.'

  Clara was no longer irritated by Gerardo's smug tone. She saw it as part of his overall commonness. What she did find increasingly hard to take was this conversation. All she wanted to do was to get back to the house and go on with the sketching. Not even the delightful countryside and the fresh air could lift her spirits.

  'What about you?' he asked.

  He was smiling at h
er.

  'Me?'

  'Yes. What is it you want? What's your greatest aim in life?' It did not take her a second to think of a reply. 'To have a great painter create a masterpiece with me.' Gerardo smiled again.

  'You're a beautiful work already - you don't need anyone to paint you.'

  'Thanks, but I was talking about masterpieces, not simply something pretty. A work of genius.'

  'You'd like someone to create a work of genius with you, even if it was ugly?'

  'Aha.'

  'I thought you liked being pretty'

  'I'm a canvas, not a catwalk model,' she said, more sharply than she had intended.

  'Of course, nobody's denying that,' Gerardo said. The two of them fell silent, then he turned towards her again. 'Forgive me for asking, but might I know why? I mean, why are you so keen for someone to paint a great work with you?'

  ‘I don't know’ she said sincerely. She had stopped to look at the roadside flowers. A comparison occurred to her. 'I guess a caterpillar has no idea why it wants to become a butterfly either.'

  Gerardo thought about it.

  'What you've just said is very pretty, but not strictly true. Because a caterpillar is destined to become a butterfly whether it wants to or not. But that's not true of works of art. We have to make believe.'

  'That's true’ she admitted.

  'Have you ever thought of leaving the profession? Of just being yourself?' ‘I am myself.'

  Gerardo turned to look at the trees along the roadside.

  'Come on. I want to show you something.'

  All this is a trick, thought Clara. A trap to darken my colour. Perhaps Uhl is hiding somewhere, and now ...

  They crossed the ditch and walked into the wood. He held her hand as they descended a steep slope. They reached a polygonal clearing hemmed in by trees with shiny leaves and dark chestnut trunks that looked as if they had been varnished. There was a strange, unexpected smell in the air, which somehow reminded Clara of that of newly made dolls. And then an odd noise: an artificial tinkling, like the breeze might make as it stirred the glass of a baroque chandelier. For a moment, Clara looked all round, trying to discover where this strange noise came from. Then she went closer to one of the trees and understood. She was fascinated.

  'We call this part the Plastic Bos, the "plastic wood"‘ Gerardo explained. 'The trees, flowers and grass are all artificial. The sound you can hear is made by the leaves on the trees when the wind catches them: they're made of a very fragile material that makes them sound like slivers of glass. We use this place to sketch outdoor pieces the whole year round. It means we don't have to depend on nature. Winter and summer are exactly the same: the trees and the grass here are still green’

  'It's incredible.'

  'I'd call it horrible,' he replied.

  'Horrible?'

  'Yes. These trees, this plastic grass ... I can't bear it.'

  Clara looked down at her feet: the carpet of thick, pointed artificial grass looked very soft. She took off a sandal and tested it with her bare foot. It was soft and springy.

  'Can I sit down?' she asked.

  'Of course, make yourself at home. Get comfortable.' They sat down together. The grass was an army of tiny, elegant soldiers. Nothing in the clearing jarred. Clara stroked the grass and closed her eyes: it was like sliding your hand through a fur coat. She felt happy. Gerardo on the other hand seemed increasingly sad.

  'Nothing will make the birds settle here, you know. They realise at once that it's all a trompe-l’oeil and fly off at once to real trees. And they're right, dammit: trees should be trees, and people, people.'

  'In real life, of course: but art is different.'

  'Art is part of life, sweetheart, not the other way round,' Gerardo replied. 'Do you know what I'd like to do? To paint something in the natural-humanist style of the French school. But I don't, because hyperdramatism sells better and gives more money. And I want to earn lots of money' He threw open his arms and exclaimed: 'Lots and lots of money so I can say to hell with all the plastic woods in the world!'

  'I think this place is beautiful.'

  'Are you serious?'

  'Aha.'

  He looked at her curiously.

  'What an incredible woman you are. I've worked with a lot of canvases, sweetheart, but none of them was as formidable as you.'

  'Formidable?'

  'Yes. I mean... as determined to be a complete canvas, from head to toe. Tell me something. What do you do when you stop working? Do you have friends? Are you going out with someone?'

  'Yes, I'm going out with someone. And I have male and female friends.'

  'Anyone special?'

  Clara was gently combing the grass. She merely smiled. 'Don't you like me asking you these things?' Gerardo wanted to know.

  'No, it's all right. There is someone, but we don't live together, and he's not really my "boyfriend". He's a friend I feel attracted to.'

  She smiled again, trying to imagine Jorge as her boyfriend. She had never thought of him that way. She went on to wonder exactly what Jorge was for her, what else they shared apart from their night-time moments. All at once, she realised that she used him as a spectator. She liked Jorge to know every detail of what happened to her in the strange world of her profession. She tried not to hide anything from him, not even its most vulgar aspects, or what Jorge considered as vulgar: everything she did with the public during the art-shocks for example, or her work for The Circle or Brentano. Jorge was taken aback at this, and she enjoyed watching his face at those moments. Jorge was her public, her astonished spectator. She needed constantly to leave him with his mouth open.

  'So when you're not a canvas, you lead a normal life,' Gerardo said.

  'Yes, pretty normal. What about you?'

  ‘I dedicate myself to work. I have a few friends here in Holland, but above all, I dedicate myself to work. And I'm not going out with anyone at the moment. I did have a Dutch girlfriend a while back, but we split up.'

  After that there was a silence. She was still convinced Gerardo was a skilful painter, but now she was almost certain this was a real break. What did he mean by talking to her sincerely? There could be no sincerity between a painter and a canvas, and both of them knew that. In the case of artists such as Bassan or Chalboux, who were followers of the natural-humanist school, the sincerity was forced, another brushstroke, a sort of 'now we're going to be sincere', a technique along with all the others. Yet here was Gerardo apparently wanting to talk to her as if she was someone he had met on a train or bus. It was absurd.

  'Look, I'm sorry, but isn't it getting rather late?' she said. 'Shouldn't we be getting back?'

  Gerardo looked her up and down.

  'You're right,' he finally admitted. 'Let's go back.'

  Then suddenly as they were getting up, he spoke to her in a different, urgent whisper.

  'Listen, I wanted ... I wanted you to know something. You're doing very well, sweetheart. You've understood the response right from the start. But keep on doing the same thing, whatever happens, got it? Don't forget, the key is to yield.'

  Clara listened to him in disbelief. It seemed incredible to her that he was revealing the artist's secrets to her. She felt as though in the middle of a gripping drama one of the actors had turned to her, winked, and said: Don't worry, it's only a play. For a moment she thought it might have been a hidden brushstroke, but she could see from Gerardo's face that he was genuinely concerned. Concerned about her! The key is to yield. No doubt about it, he was referring to her reaction to Uhl: he was encouraging her to continue on the correct - or at least the safest - path. If you continue to yield the way you did yesterday afternoon, he was saying, Uhl will stop. Gerardo was not painting her: he was revealing secrets, the solution to the mysteries. He was the unfortunate friend who tells you the end of the film.

  Clara felt as though he had deliberately tipped an inkpot over a sketch he had only just begun. Why on earth had he done it?

  The poses continu
ed all afternoon in complete silence. Uhl did not bother her again, but she had already forgotten him. She thought that Gerardo's slip was the worst mistake she had ever come across in her entire professional life: not even poor Gabi Ponce, who was not exactly subtle when it came to hyperdramatism, had been so crass. Even though she had suspected that Uhl's harassment was not for real, it was one thing to suspect it, another to know it for sure. With a single sweep of his brush, Gerardo had ruined the careful landscape of threats that Uhl and he had been painstakingly creating around her. Now any return to that make-believe was impossible: the hyperdramatism as such had disappeared. From now on there could only be theatre.