by Betsy Draine
“Quite possibly. Sometimes it’s not easy to tell. In the nineteenth century they returned to the wedge-in-groove method, which is why panels made in the eighteenth century tend to stand apart. That’s my clue as to this one’s age.”
“And this coating on the surface was caused by the varnish they used?”
“Yes. Now watch what happens when I apply the lightest dab of sunflower-seed oil.” There was a bowl filled with clear oil sitting on the table alongside another bowl containing a darker, thicker liquid, and a row of small instruments lined up waiting to be used: a pair of scissors, tweezers, wads of cotton wool, and a thin scalpel. Al soaked a ball of cotton in the clear oil and very delicately swabbed the icon, using even, vertical strokes from top to bottom and bottom to top. He replaced the cotton ball several times during this operation. As soon as he had finished, I could see the figures in much clearer outline, as though I were looking through a transparent tinted glass.
“Now for the next step.” Al used his scissors to cut a small rectangle from a soft flannel cloth and soaked it, holding it by a corner with tweezers, in the bowl of the darker liquid. “The solvent,” he explained, “is specially formulated for this purpose. I’ll start by applying it here.” He gently draped the patch of cloth over a section of the Virgin’s robe, flattening it with a piece of glass of the sort commonly found in a frame for a photograph.
“Toby, would you bring over that dictionary, please?” Toby picked up a heavy book that was sitting on a chair and brought it to the table, where Al placed it atop the glass, as a weight. “Perfect. Now we give it a chance to work.” After a few minutes, he removed the dictionary and the glass, and, with the tweezers, carefully lifted the patch of cloth from the icon. A good portion of dark gook came up with it. Quickly now, he discarded the dirty cloth and applied a new cotton ball dipped in solvent. The result was astonishing: the remaining elements of black substance were absorbed by the swab and vanished as if by magic. A rectangle of bright color sprang to life.
Al pronounced the procedure a success. “Let’s do the rest.” Meticulously, he repeated each step of the process, covering the surface of the icon with swatches of cloth soaked in solvent and pressed under glass by the weight of the book.
When each swatch was removed, the surface beneath it was covered with loose swirls and flakes. These were swabbed away by fresh cotton balls dipped in solvent, although here and there traces of varnish still adhered to the surface in the form of sticky moist tendrils. Working carefully, Al scraped away the remaining traces, using the side edge of the scalpel and additional cotton wads. Before long, the image was completely transformed.
Now the Virgin’s robe appeared in rich purple, that of the baby Jesus in bright yellow clasped by a green sash. The Virgin stared directly at the viewer, with large, round eyes, her face meant to convey compassion, as she cradled Jesus in her right arm. She pointed to him with her left hand. His hand, in turn, rested on her neck. The colors, though bright, were flat, and the facial expressions, now that they were clear, seemed slightly forced.
“Much better,” said Al in a tone of satisfaction. “No masterpiece, but we’re not finished yet. We’ve only taken off the top layer. Now comes the really interesting part.” Much to my shock, he began to repeat the entire process, this time spreading a section of solvent-soaked cloth right over the newly cleaned surface. “Underneath we’ll probably find another layer of dried oil, and when that’s removed, an older painting, and a more interesting one, unless I miss my guess.”
We looked on in fascination as Al continued his operation step by step. Gradually, as the newer paint dissolved, another layer of black varnish appeared, partially mixing with the surface pigments. Al treated the section again with solvent and replaced his plate of glass, now smudged and oily, on top, anchored by the weight of the heavy dictionary. “This time we wait a little longer. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all,” I said. Al is one of the few people I know who still smokes, in his case, a pipe. He owns a large collection of handsome pipes in all shapes and sizes, and they anchor him to an earlier time. After all, how many men smoke pipes these days? He walked over to his pipe rack, chose one with a well-chewed stem, scooped some tobacco into it from a pouch, tamped it, and struck a match. He slowly drew a few contented puffs. The aroma that filled the room was pleasantly familiar.
Toby meanwhile was looking closely at the icon under treatment. “When you talk about finding an older painting, how old do you mean? How far back do icons go?”
“To the beginnings of Christianity,” said Al, “but I’ll spare you the lecture. ‘Icon’ is the Greek word for image. The veneration of icons began in the eighth century and flourished under the Byzantine Empire, which in turn influenced the Russian tradition.” He blew some smoke toward the ceiling. “The ‘golden age’ of icons dates from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, about the same time as the Renaissance in the West. The best examples from that period are worth a fortune.”
That didn’t jibe with what Harry Spears had said. “Really? The auctioneer at Morgan’s told me there isn’t much of a market for icons. Was he wrong?”
“I’ll say. That may have been true before the fall of the Soviet Union, but these days the new oil billionaires will pay huge sums for old icons, especially rare ones. Collecting is a mark of prestige. Even the Russian mafia is involved. Think about it. There aren’t many new Leonardos floating about, but it’s still possible to uncover icons from that era that have never been equaled in terms of color or line.”
“That’s what’s always puzzled me,” I admitted. “There doesn’t seem to be much progression in the tradition. Why is there so little variation in the style of icon painting from one century to the next?” In fact, I had avoided studying icon painting precisely because the tradition struck me as repetitious.
“One reason is that the Church had rules as to what you could or couldn’t paint.” Al peered into the bowl of his pipe, which apparently had gone out. It was always doing that. He relit it. “Another is that later painters were in such awe of the early masters that they imitated their compositions, so their work tends to follow set patterns. It’s the quality that differs. It’s true that by the time you reach the nineteenth century, much of the production is mechanical. That’s why the excitement lies in peeling back layers of time. When you start cleaning an icon that’s really old, say one from the sixteenth century, you may have to remove three or four layers of overpainting before you get down to the authentic work.” Al laid his pipe in an ashtray and reached for the dictionary he was using as a weight. “Now, this one here isn’t as old as that, but I think it may be ready. Let’s see what we have.”
Al lifted the soiled glass and started working again with fresh cotton balls dipped in solvent. Once he was satisfied with the result, he gently lifted any remaining flakes of residue by gliding the edge of his scalpel at a low angle to the surface in a delicate movement. He repeated this process until the entire icon had been treated. Then, using clean balls of cotton, he swabbed the surface one final time until it glowed. “There!”
At first I thought we were looking at the same painting freshly renewed, just as the dull hood of a car seems newly painted after a rainstorm. But in another moment I realized that not only were the colors brighter, but the composition had subtly changed. Whereas the previous Virgin stared out at the viewer, cradling Jesus in a presentational pose, the Virgin in this painting looked tenderly into her infant’s eyes, her head turned to the side, toward his. Jesus in turn looked into his mother’s eyes, his fingers resting trustingly on her shoulder. The facial details of both figures were more convincing, compared to the first painting, and the brushwork more complex, as in the intricate design of the hem of Mary’s robe.
“It’s a different painting altogether. I believe it’s the Mother of God of Feodor,” Al exclaimed, with brio. “The original belongs to the Temple of St. Feodor in Kostroma. This version clearly was done in the eighteenth century.
You can notice elements of realism as the result of influences filtering in from the West. At the time, the style was controversial. Brighter colors and more detail. Oh, yes, I think the museum will be pleased.”
“That’s amazing,” said Toby. I could tell he was getting into it. “But now how do you know there isn’t still another painting underneath the one you’ve removed?”
“I don’t,” said Al, evidently content with himself. “There’s a remote chance that there’s even an earlier image under this one, but the risk of ruining the icon would be too great. Now that I’ve got an eighteenth-century panel with an eighteenth-century image, it’s time to stop.”
“Say you didn’t stop. How would you know for sure you’ve gone too far?” Toby persisted.
“Well, if you get down to the gesso—that’s the primer—then you’re in the crapper, because that means you’ve gone and wiped out the original image. Goodbye, painting.” I was familiar with gesso. It’s a white, chalky mixture that artists laid down on raw wood as a primer to create a smooth surface on which to paint. “Once you expose the gesso,” Al went on, “there’s no going back.”
Toby nodded soberly. “But what if you’d found gesso underneath the layer you just removed? What would you tell the museum?”
Al raised his palms and contorted his features into an expression of mock horror, then confided with a grin, “Thank God for tenure.”
Toby laughed. “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”
“It’s just a saying. Besides, it never hurts to be polite.” Then Al looked at me, as if in warning. “But seriously, folks, it’s a delicate business when you’re dealing with an older panel, because the question always is when to stop. In this situation I was pretty confident, but yes, there’s an element of risk.”
“That would be the case with ours, then, if we found it, wouldn’t it?” I said.
“Exactly,” agreed Al.
Toby picked up the thread. “In our case, something you said earlier has been bothering me. If the same kind of supports were used in the nineteenth century as in the Renaissance, what makes you think our panel is any older than the nineteenth century?”
“I’ll show you. Let’s take another look at your picture.” Toby handed Al the photo showing the reverse of the panel. “See here?” Al asked, tracing his finger along the top horizontal wedge across the back. “This wood is of a lighter color than the rest of the panel, which suggests that these wedges are replacements of the originals. The early icon makers hammered their wedges into place but didn’t use glue, and eventually the strips became loose and fell out. You wouldn’t expect to find replacements in a panel of more recent construction. So my guess is that your icon dates back at least to the 1600s, if not earlier.”
I was thinking hard. “I can see why it’s so important to examine the panels. But there was only one photo of the icon in Morgan’s auction catalog, and the same was true of their catalog online. I checked. The picture was of the front of the icon, showing the angel. So how could anyone, say a prospective bidder, know what the back was like or that there was any reason to think this particular icon, listed with a low estimate at a secondary auction gallery, was much older and more valuable than its description?”
Al shrugged. “They couldn’t.”
Toby, who had been staring at the cleaned icon, looked up at me. “You’re right. That would explain why there weren’t lots of bidders. No one was interested.”
“With two exceptions,” I pointed out. “Charlie.” I waited a beat.
Toby finished my sentence. “And whoever killed him.”
4
ROSE CASSINI, the consignor of the icon, had agreed to meet with us the next morning at her home in Cazadero. On the way, we stopped off in Duncans Mills so Toby could hang a “closed” sign on his shop for the second day in a row. Wednesday morning is a slow time for business anyway, we rationalized. That done, we continued east for another few miles on 116.
The road that branches off 116 leading up into the hills to Cazadero is called the Cazadero Highway, but it’s a narrow country road, with a speed limit of thirty-five miles per hour. It weaves alongside Austin Creek through dense forest impermeable to the sun. And now it had begun to rain. They say it always rains in Cazadero—it’s officially the wettest place in the state. As we drove, mist rose from the pavement, the leaves dripped gloom, and the scent of sodden pine needles thickened the air. If you want to get away from it all and your favorite outfit is a poncho, then Cazadero fills the bill. Otherwise, I wondered, why would anyone choose to live in this sequestered hamlet? It’s got a fire department, a post office, two churches, a general store, an auto repair shop, a bakery, and a bar.
“How did she sound on the phone yesterday?” asked Toby as we approached the outskirts of town.
“Upset to think that her icon might have had anything to do with Charlie’s death. She never thought it was particularly valuable. She seemed willing enough to talk when I told her we were helping the sheriff.”
“Did you mention I was Charlie’s partner?”
“Yes, and she said anything she could do to help, she would.”
“Let’s hope she can. What are we looking for?”
“A small wood-frame house painted red, on the right side of the road just past the Cazadero sign. Slow down. I think that may be it.”
Toby eased up and pulled over. The house—a cabin really—was set well back from the street under a stand of pines. A shingle hanging from the roadside mailbox said “Cassini.” It had been a long time since the house had been painted. The siding was still recognizably red but faded. Moss clung to the roof. A rusty Dodge from another era sat on a dirt driveway in front of a small garage with a sagging door. The yard grew wild, but a big pot bursting with daffodils brightened the front porch.
Rain lashed the yard as we hurried to the door, which opened just as we gained the stoop. “Come in out of it,” Rose said as she waved us inside. “You can hang your things up here.” She pointed to a row of pegs next to the entrance. In contrast to the dilapidated exterior, the inside of the house was warm and welcoming. There were hand-loomed mats scattered on the pine floor and brilliant throws and blankets draped over the simple furniture, which consisted of wicker chairs, side tables, and a sofa. An old pine dining table was covered with an inviting tablecloth glimmering with gold threads and many shades of green. As I took things in, a smile rose to my lips, in response to which Rose said simply, “I’m a weaver. Do you like them?”
“Oh yes, they’re beautiful! Did you make all these?”
She smiled and nodded. She was used to compliments about her work. “A number of shops around here carry them. It keeps me busy.”
We hung our wet things on the pegs and she led us to the table, where a pot of coffee and a platter of brownies awaited.
Rose Cassini was still an attractive woman, though she looked to be in her late sixties, perhaps even a few years older. Like so many other local women of her generation, she retained the style of a flamboyant youth: long hair gone white, which she wore in a thick bun held by a silver clasp; dangling earrings, also silver, matched by a wide silver bracelet; jeans and a shaggy pullover; no makeup. Tall enough to look commanding, she had kept her figure mostly, had full lips, creased cheeks, and dark, inquisitive eyes that searched our faces as we pulled chairs up to the table.
“Help yourself,” she said, extending the platter to Toby, then me. “Made them this morning, so they’re fresh.” She poured each of us a cup of coffee.
“Thanks for agreeing to see us on short notice,” I said.
“Listen, I’m glad to have company.” Her manner was friendly and frank. “I have to tell you it was quite a shock when you called about this business. I mean the man who was killed. What was his name again?”
“Charlie Halloran,” said Toby. “We were partners.”
“That’s what your wife said. You know, I spoke to him on the phone right after the auction.”
Rose had m
entioned her conversation with Charlie when we’d agreed to meet, but then we spoke only briefly. “Yes,” I said, “I know he asked the auctioneer for your phone number. Can you tell us about it?”
“The auctioneer gave me his name and number and said the man who bought the icon wanted to get in touch with me. I was curious, so I called him.”
“Do you remember exactly what he said when you spoke to him, Mrs. Cassini?” I prompted.
“It would be Ms. Cassini, actually. But please call me Rose. Yes, I remember the conversation clearly enough. He was very pleasant, polite. He asked me what I could tell him about the provenance of the icon—you know, where I had gotten it—and whether I would mind telling him whether I was also the consignor of another lot that he had bought, which, it so happened, I was.”
The second part of her answer caught me off guard.
“What lot was that?” asked Toby. He was surprised too.
“The storyboards,” she said.
We both looked blank.
“You see,” Rose continued, “both lots were listed in the catalog as ‘the property of a lady’”—she made air quotes with her fingers—“which is the terminology they use in these auctions. I can tell you I got a good laugh out of that. Me, a lady? Anyhow, your friend wanted to know if I was the ‘lady’ in both cases. I told him yes I was, and then he wanted to know more about the storyboards and whether I had any others I might want to sell and whether I had any other icons I might want to sell, too.”
“This is the first we’ve heard about any storyboards,” said Toby. “Can you tell us what they were?”
“The sketches for The Birds, you know, the Hitchcock film.”
Toby pursued the point. “Charlie bought some sketches for The Birds at the same auction? And you were the consignor?”
“That’s right.”
He raised a finger to his lips. “Come to think of it, he did say something about buying some movie memorabilia. But he wasn’t specific. What did they look like?”