Chapter 3
Trying to follow her father’s advice of, “Act like you belong, without being a cocky know-it-all,” Mackenzie strolled as confidently as she could into the main hall of the Cloisters and told the receptionist that she was there for her first day of work in the objects conservation department. She wondered if new experiences like this would ever stop feeling like the first day at a new school. Doesn’t that terrifying feeling in the pit of your stomach go away once you become an adult? As far as she was concerned, it hadn’t disappeared yet. The receptionist welcomed her and told her to wait while she rang someone in that department to take her through.
About two minutes passed before a smartly dressed man with sandy blond hair and steel blue eyes emerged from behind one of the thick granite walls to greet her. With his muted, chestnut brown suit, a periwinkle blue dress shirt with a deep gold woven silk tie, he reminded her of the American blue bloods that frequented uptown Manhattan. They wore tailored suits with a casual ease accented with a touch of boredom. Dr. Simon Davidson was the conservator in charge at the Met. She had met him several times during her internship two years ago, as well as during her job interview for this position.
“Mackenzie, it is wonderful to have you on board full time. Welcome to the Cloisters,” he said with delight.
“Thank you Dr. Davidson,” she replied, “I wasn’t expecting the conservator in charge to be here to greet me on my first day.”
“Nonsense, I wouldn’t have it any other way. By the way, Dr. Davidson is only for interns. Please call me Simon,” he said and escorted Mackenzie casually through the main hall and into the Romanesque hall. “We don’t bring on many new conservators, so I always want to be on hand for their first day, help them get settled and all.”
“I’ve only been here a few times and I actually never saw the center during my internship. I only worked at the main building,” replied Mackenzie as they continued forward.
“Yes, occasionally we have interns here at the Cloisters, but because the center at the Met is so much larger, that’s where most of the internships are located. Are you familiar with the history of the Cloisters?”
“Well, I’ve read about it and I visited it once while at NYU, but I’m certainly no expert.”
“Tell me what you know while we walk and I’ll fill in on any gaps,” he said.
Okay, here we go, she thought. I’ve only been here three minutes and I already have my first oral exam! Fortunately, Mackenzie prided herself on being meticulous, and had researched the history of the buildings.
“From what I’ve read, the Cloisters is a branch of the Met devoted to the art and architecture of medieval Europe, dating from the twelfth through the fifteenth century. The building, as well as the cloistered gardens, is made up of five medieval French cloisters that were disassembled and then reassembled here in Fort Tryon Park between 1934 and 1938. The cloistered gardens are populated with plants that would have been prevalent in Medieval Europe.” She paused, waiting to see if this would suffice. She had a habit of data dumping when put in situations like this, though she was trying to break it if possible.
Simon grunted as they continued down the hallway. She decided to add a bit more to her description.
“I also recall that the museum and the adjacent park were created from an endowment by John D. Rockefeller, Jr., who also donated most of his private collection. Not only did Mr. Rockefeller buy the land for the Cloisters, he also purchased several hundred acres of the New Jersey Palisades on the other side of the Hudson River and donated them to the state of New Jersey to help preserve the view of the museum.” She paused again, wondering if that would satisfy Simon.
“Very impressive,” nodded Simon. “I expected that you would have done your homework. That’s one of the things that impressed us about you.”
Phew, she thought. I’m glad I did my homework, too! She would have hated to blow the first question asked of her. She wondered if she should have mentioned that the Cloisters held over five thousand pieces of artwork in its collection. She decided to keep that information handy just in case Simon asked.
They made their way to a wooden doorway secured with a modern security system that Simon opened by swiping his ID card. “I have an ID card waiting for you at your desk.”
They walked through a small hallway, down a flight of stairs, through a large set of doors and into a large, well-lit modern room with a series of workstations on wheels. My gosh! she thought, this is like a playground for restorers. Three large crescent-shaped lunette windows let in steady light from the west. Overhead fixtures with daylight-balanced fluorescent tubes evened out the lighting. The cork flooring and stained oak laboratory cabinets were designed to mimic the original look and feel of the Cloisters offices of the 1930s. These contrasted nicely with the ultramodern X-ray radiography system for object imaging, the Zeiss Axioplan modular microscope and Zeiss Stemi steromicroscope, both connected to a series of MacPro computers and digital imaging cameras.
Six people worked at various workstations in the large room. There were two paintings, both of which seemed to be thirteenth century French gothic, and a small gold-and jewel-encrusted cross under restoration at three separate stations. Near a large window two people leaned closely toward computer screens. Another individual carefully reviewed what appeared to be an old manuscript propped up and supported on one of the work stations. All of them were focused so intently on their work that they didn’t look up when Simon and Mackenzie entered the room.
From Mackenzie’s standpoint, coming in relatively unnoticed was a blessing. She hated drawing attention to herself, especially on days like today. Would they accept her? After all, she was only in her mid-twenties and most of these people looked like they had been doing this for twenty years or more. She worried that she’d say something stupid and sound like an idiot or, even worse, try to sound really smart and come across like a freshly minted know-it-all. What did Simon think of her? She didn’t want him to question his decision to hire her. She knew that this was a great position and that there had been a lot of qualified candidates. Why had he chosen her over all of them? She always felt like this in new settings, with new people.
She had worked with conservators for a while now and knew that they tended to be very focused individuals that some might call shy, aloof or even detached. She didn’t think of herself as shy or aloof, but she did enjoy the quiet, the smell of the turpentine, the glues and oil paints, and the ability to get lost in what you were doing for hours at a time. She didn’t interpret the lack of reaction as rude or standoffish. It was exactly what she had expected. Everything she had hoped for.
Simon apparently knew how Mackenzie felt and proceeded to explain, leaning towards her in a clear tone that was a bit louder than a library whisper, like the commentary at a golf tournament. “I’ll introduce you to each of them later and you’ll have time to get to know and work with them all, I’m sure. They’re a very diligent and hard working group, and they all love their work. I think you’re going to learn a lot and enjoy working with them.”
He proceeded to give her a short account of the various individuals working in the room.
“That man with the somewhat graying beard in the white polo shirt and jeans is Charles van Arden. He works almost exclusively on reliquaries, especially crosses, chalices, and the like. He’s also very good with paper products, vellum, parchment, and old books. He’s a bit brusque when you first meet him, but he’s really a teddy bear when you get to know him. Are you a Yankee fan?” asked Simon.
“My dad is an avid Yankees fan and he started taking me to games when I was about six. So, yes, I guess you could say that I’m a fan,” replied Mackenzie somewhat sheepishly.
“Well, Charles is a diehard fan. I’m surprised he doesn’t wear pinstripes to work. Ask him about going to see Mickey Mantle when he was a boy and you two will get along fine.”
Mackenzie nodded. Sounded just like her father. He and Charles would probably have pl
enty of stories to share over a couple of beers.
Simon directed their focus to the next workstation where a petite woman sat. Mackenzie guessed that she was probably in her late forties, but could easily have been older. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and held in place with a delicate blue satin ribbon. Her skin was smooth and very light brown, like an acorn. She wore a cream-colored short sleeve blouse that was tucked into a pair of black slacks and a simple pair of canvas slip-ons that matched her blouse. In front of her was a portrait of what looked to be a Venetian merchant, probably from the fifteenth century.
“That,” Simon continued, “is Ariadne Estrada. She works predominantly on early Renaissance oil paintings, although she’ll dabble in some other mediums on occasion. She is also a leading expert on authentication. We get a lot of work coming through here from various auction houses and she takes almost all of them. She’s very thorough and you two will hit it off quickly. A word of warning: she has pretty strong opinions on things and doesn’t enjoy being disagreed with. Fortunately, she’s right most of the time,” Simon paused and smiled, “just ask her.”
Mackenzie tried not to laugh out loud.
“That painting looks Venetian,” she nodded towards the large canvas in front of Ariadne.
“Yes, good eye. It’s a Gozzoli from 1453. It’s a painting of a wealthy merchant who commissioned a portrait of himself, which, as you know, was quite common amongst wealthy Venetians at the time,” replied Simon without hesitation. “There’s a fair amount of sun damage and a great deal of oxidation. Several of the original colors have washed out due to overexposure. We just got that in about a week ago and started working on it.”
“The same Gozzoli who painted the Journey of the Magi fresco for the Medici?”
“One and the same,” replied Simon.
He led her slowly around the room and made informal introductions, engaging in some small talk with each person without interrupting the other restorers, who remained focused on their work. While she didn’t particularly enjoy meeting new people or being thrust into new situations, she’d learned to deal with them and usually did all right. She always remembered what her father had told her before her first day of high school when she could barely make it out of her room: “You often can’t control what happens to you,” he had said, “but you can control how you respond to it.”
Simon led Mackenzie to the final workstation, which was just to their left.
“Mackenzie Ferrara, I’d like to introduce you to Anthony Bataglia,” Simon said in front of a thin, olive-skinned man who appeared to her to be in his early thirties. He was sitting in front of a large wooden panel with a paintbrush and multicolored palette. He was slightly built but at the same time seemed to have a sinewy strength that you see in lightweight fighters or distance runners. He wore a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up just below his elbow, tucked into a faded pair of jeans with worn-out knees. She figured that he had worn them out himself because he didn’t look like the type of guy who went to the store and bought distressed jeans. He had a full head of dark brown, almost black hair that seemed to flow effortlessly. It was neatly kept but his bangs hung well over his forehead, which he had parted and pulled back slightly.
He stood and reached a delicate hand out to Mackenzie. “It’s a pleasure to have you with us.” His eyes were green and they looked deeply into Mackenzie’s as he greeted her. They were captivating, almost hypnotic, like they were looking through her.
“The pleasure is mine,” said Mackenzie, somewhat breathlessly, wondering if he had this effect on every woman he met.
She looked at the panel that Anthony had been working on and had to steady herself. “Is that Lippi’s Madonna with Child?” she asked, shocked to be two feet away from the fifteenth century masterpiece, not mounted on a museum wall but on an easel.
“It is,” replied Anthony calmly with a hint of an Italian accent. “I’m impressed that you were able to identify it so quickly. Most people are not that familiar with Lippi.”
Mackenzie smiled, still somewhat awestruck by the painting as well her introduction to Anthony. “Well, most people didn’t write their master’s thesis about late fifteenth century Florentine artists. I’ve always been impressed with Lippi, and this is one of my all time favorite paintings. I thought it was at the National Museum in Washington.”
“It was,” said Simon, “but it needed some work and Anthony is perhaps the world’s foremost restorer of medieval Italian tempera paintings.” He leaned forward slightly to look more closely at the painting and then continued. “We made a deal with them. Anthony restores the painting, and we get to display it at the Cloisters for two years. What’s two years for a painting that is over five hundred years old?”
“I hope to finish soon,” said Anthony, returning to his stool and grabbing his brush.
“Please,” said Mackenzie quickly, “I’m sorry to have interrupted you. I’m a little overwhelmed by being this close to the painting.”
Anthony turned a slow glance to her and said calmly, “I think you will like it even more when the restoration is finished. There is still much to do to get it back to how it was originally painted by the artist.”
“I can’t wait!” said Mackenzie, hoping that she didn’t sound like a schoolgirl who was just asked out by the starting quarterback.
As Simon and Mackenzie walked away she whispered to Simon, “He seems so young, and yet he’s restoring a fifteenth century masterpiece.”
Simon smiled at her with a knowing look. “I know, he looks like he’s only a few years out of graduate school but he’s here with us as a master conservator who comes with impeccable credentials and a personal recommendation from the director of the Ufizzi himself.” He turned to Mackenzie. “I know the word genius is tossed around freely these days, but I have never met a better painter.”
“You mean as a restorer?” Mackenzie clarified.
“No, I mean I’ve never met a finer artist,” corrected Simon. “In all honesty, I don’t really know why he is a restorer. He should be painting masterworks on his own. His understanding of light, of what the artist was truly trying to say is something you can’t teach. It’s a gift.” Simon stopped and looked at Mackenzie and said quietly. “Everyone here is very good at what they do. You will learn a lot from each person. But whenever you can work with Anthony, do it. If you are as good as I think you are, you will learn the most from him.”
She hoped she wouldn’t have to wait long to work with him, although she wasn’t sure how she’d respond if he looked at her the way he did today. She actually thought she heard her knees knock together when he shook her hand. Hopefully, he hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t expected to meet such an incredibly handsome man at the Cloisters. The fact that he was also a phenomenal painter pushed her over the edge. Her experience with restorers at the Met had left her with an image of a group of crusty, self-absorbed introverts who made librarians seem like game show hosts.
Chapter 4
Mackenzie stood to Anthony’s side and focused a beam of light onto the painting laid out on the workbench in front of them. Anthony gazed fixedly under the large circular magnifying glass at the painting lying flat and secure on the worktable.
One of Berlinghiero Berlinghieri’s greatest works, Madonna and Child, painted in 1231, rested snuggly in a white cushioned mat on the workbench. Despite being widely considered Lucca’s greatest artists and one of the greatest of the late pre-Renaissance Byzantine artists of Italy, only about half a dozen of Berlinghiero’s works remained. The graceful, flowing blue robes of the Madonna along with her furrowed brow, the pouting lips and the pleading expression of her eyes, created a timelessly mournful expression.
Like almost all pre-Renaissance paintings, the Christ Child’s head was proportionately that of an adult. He and his mother stared off into the distance towards some unseen object or person to the left of the painting. The dramatically long sinewy fingers of the Madonna pointed towards th
e Christ Child, drawing attention to him. He in turn raised his right hand, specifically his index and middle finger in benediction. On the back side of both of the Madonna’s hands the artist had used an abstract, almost leaf-like pattern to indicate that this image was from another world. Both mother and child had two-dimensional circular halos around their heads, as opposed to above them, as would be the norm in later paintings. As with most Byzantine icons, the background was gold leaf, to indicate the grandeur and majesty of the individuals in the painting.
“A little more to the left. Focus in on her right elbow,” Anthony directed. “Good. Do you see that?” he asked, pulling back from the large magnifying glass so Mackenzie could look.
Mackenzie looked intently through the glass.
“It looks like the paint is flaking away in the lower left corner, right at her elbow. There’s also some discoloration there, where it has faded compared to the paint around it.”
“Exactly,” agreed Anthony. “Why do you think that is the case?”
“I don’t know. It looks like it’s a bit thicker there than in some of the other places,” noted Mackenzie.
“What about the brushstrokes? Notice anything?”
“Yes,” she paused. “They seem wider and straighter than the others around them.”
“What does that tell you?” he prodded.
She pulled back from the table and looked at Anthony.
“It looks like someone tried to repair this area but didn’t do a very good job.”
He nodded, “Do you know why it is flaking?”
“Well,” reasoned Mackenzie, trying to come up with the right answer on the spot. “It would seem that the paint isn’t binding correctly to the medium for whatever reason.”
“It is not for whatever reason,” corrected Anthony. “There is a very specific reason why the paint is not binding and is now starting to pull away. Any ideas?”
Painter of Time Page 2