Categories > Books > Relic > The Artist's Model
"The only saving grace of the present is that it's too damned stupid to question the past very closely."
- H.P. Lovecraft, "Pickman's Model"
A shadowy form swept confidently through the darkened halls of the Museum of Modern Art. It was close to midnight, and stillness of the building seemed exaggerated by the unexpected movement.
The guard nodded to him as he passed. In a movement calculated carefully to convey spontaneity, the man stopped, checked his pockets, and let out an exasperated sigh. "Left my keys upstairs," he explained, and the guard nodded again. No questions. Nothing out of place. It was perfect.
Still, he felt a curl of fear in his stomach as he bypassed the route to his office and headed instead through the galleries. He knew exactly where he was going, knew exactly what painting he was going to stand in front of, and still it came almost as a shock to have it laid bare before him in the dim light.
He stopped and crouched at a spot he had found to be just out of reach of the room's security camera, which was angled high and wide to show all of the paintings on the walls. Carefully, he set down his attaché case and checked his watch. There would be a two minute gap in the museum's security system that night, as the cameras rolled tape over for the new month.
He smiled faintly as he watched the second hand tick. The museum had upgraded its security system several years earlier, but it had not faced a single serious threat of vandalism or theft in that period of time. And, true to form, security had become more relaxed and forgiving and-most importantly-unprepared for the new techniques of someone familiar with the aging system. As silently as possible, he began to remove the tools he had brought with him, checking his watch every fifteen seconds or so.
He felt strangely calm and at peace with the world, though he felt a slight twinge of remorse when he looked up at his intended target. /But it can't be helped/, the little voice in the back of his head rationalized sadly. /Sometimes the destruction of beautiful things is the only way to get a person's attention/.
The hands on his watch moved to the perfect moment. He waited an instant before launching himself at his target with far more grace than he ever managed in his day-to-day life.
When he had finished, he delicately kissed the shredded remains of the painting, smoothed back his hair, slipped his tools back into his bag, and strolled out of the museum with bright, shining eyes.
*
"I find it insufferably pretentious, myself."
Pendergast turned slowly to regard the young man who stood behind him, arms crossed and weight shifted into a parody of the stance of a thoughtful art patron. He thoughtfully cocked his head to one side and pursed his lips. "Do you?"
"You don't?"
"I don't know much about art."
"Bullshit." The man tossed him an overly sweet smile, which was dampened by the fact that his lips didn't curl up, instead merely stretching to the sides in something more akin to a grimace. "I've seen you before, at some of the other galleries in town."
Pendergast shrugged. "I've been told I should patronize the arts."
"Oh please. Next thing you know, you'll be telling me that you 'know what you like' or something else just as irritating." The man blew a strand of copper-colored hair out of his eyes and tapped the index and middle fingers of his right hand against his lips; it looked like a cry for a cigarette, or perhaps a pen to chew on. "And trust me, nobody in their right mind could ever like this."
"Why not?"
"Because it's a self-indulgent piece of crap that no one but the artist could love. It's an escapist's fairytale."
Both men regarded the painting for a moment in silence. It was a more brightly colored and illustrative work than any of the other paintings in the gallery, and yet the scene it showed had the same touch of the macabre as the other works. Two figures in police uniforms were posed in a fashion that echoed Michelangelo's /Pietà /; the reclining figure had evidently taken a shot to the torso and blood had seeped through the hands that cupped the wound. His partner held him tenderly, and the gaze between them was intimate, almost romantic. The entire picture seemed to tiptoe around the cliché of police brotherhood and sacrifice and masculine camaraderie with the addition of this odd, blood-stained layer of sexuality that writhed beneath the surface.
"What an odd fairytale," Pendergast finally said softly.
The man chuckled. "All fairytales are about blood, sooner or later." He drew his thick eyebrows together. "Seriously, though. Could you ever see this happening in real life?"
"I didn't know art's purpose was to reflect reality precisely."
"Oh, it isn't. Of course it isn't." The man laughed sharply and grinned. "But this is a sentimental fag's wet dream, nothing more."
"I'm sorry," Pendergast tipped his head inquiringly, his voice suddenly distanced, "I don't think I caught your name...?"
The man's smile became decidedly lopsided, and he stuck out his hand to be shaken. "Avery LaMarck."
Pendergast was momentarily taken aback; his placid expression froze for a moment, and he did not extend his own hand. "I see." He recovered almost immediately, however, taking LaMarck's hand and pumping it solidly up and down several times. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid you caught me somewhat unaware. My name is Aloysius Pendergast."
"Aloysius! What a perfect name. It's the name of the teddy bear in /Brideshead Revisited/, in fact."
"Is it?" Pendergast clasped his hands together behind his back, immediately stiff and formal once again. "I'm afraid that I last had the pleasure of reading that novel when I was in school."
"Shame, shame. Such a classic." LaMarck leaned against the wall beside the painting and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "But I'm sorry. Am I disrupting your viewing pleasure?"
Pendergast glanced back at the painting and over his shoulder at the rest of the small, dark SoHo gallery. "Not too terribly. Though I am curious as to why you would want to turn a patron against a piece of your own artwork."
LaMarck let out another laugh, short and nervous. "I don't know. Wouldn't want to start thinking I was too good, would I?" When Pendergast didn't respond, he continued on. "Or maybe I just thought you were looking at it a little too closely."
"Too closely?"
"Well, I wouldn't want you to steal away my little fantasy, would I?" He sighed looked up at the ceiling, letting his head fall back against the wall with an audible 'thud!' "Such as it is." Pendergast tilted his head to one side, puzzled. LaMarck shrugged, rolled his shoulders back, and stretched his head to one side, exposing the sharp relief of his sternomastoid muscles. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he suddenly looked incredibly weary. "You were looking at it a little too closely. It's such a piece of crap. Really, you don't want anything to do with it. I just put it in because I was short a couple of paintings and had to have some filler." He gestured toward the front of the gallery, sweeping his arm in a wide arc. "As you can see, it doesn't entirely fit with the theme I was aiming for."
"Yes." Pendergast turned briefly to regard the other paintings that hung on the walls of the gallery; most of them were high contrast, bordering on monochromatic with only brief, violent accents of color, and portrayed figures so humanly imperfect as to seem almost alien in structure. "Actually, I find this piece interesting because I myself am in law enforcement."
"You are?" LaMarck looked genuinely surprised. "Well, that's sure a kick in the crotch." He raised one eyebrow, suddenly suspicious. "You aren't NYPD, are you?"
"FBI, in fact. But I have worked with the New York Police Department on occasion."
"Fascinating. So have I, actually." LaMarck's smile twitched slightly as Pendergast again cocked his head, politely showing interest. "Yeah. Wouldn't believe it to look at me, right?"
"Did you work in forensic art?"
"Bingo."
"Well, I can believe that, actually." Pendergast gave a nod to the painting before him. "Your work has a strong grounding in human anatomy that I'm sure was advantageous in that field."
There was a slight pause. "Yeah. Uh, thanks." LaMarck cleared his throat. "Anyway, please tell me that you aren't here on the job."
Pendergast smiled thinly. "No, no. In fact, your show was recommended to me by Charles DuChamp."
"Oh, wow. You know Charlie?"
Pendergast winced slightly at the diminutive form of his friend's given name. "He and I were friends when we were children, in fact. We still keep in touch."
"Ah, yeah. I should have guessed from the accent," LaMarck replied. "I don't actually know him all that well myself, really. I've only ever run into him a couple of times thanks to the whole art scene."
"I see."
"I like his work and all. It's just not really... I mean, it's obviously nothing like what I'm interested in." He gestured toward the paintings in the rest of the gallery. "But I can respect his technique." Pendergast nodded in understanding. "Why did he tell you about my stuff?"
Pendergast turned slightly to follow the sweep of the man's arm, slowly surveying the art that had been placed upon the stark white walls. "He thought I'd find the subject matter intriguing," he said quietly. "That your subjects were rarely touched upon, but the humanity you afforded them even rarer still."
LaMarck stared at him speculatively for several moments. "Damn," he finally said. "Well, that's kinder than the reviews I usually get, anyway." He paused to run his hand nervously through his hair. "So, does it live up to the hype?"
"In many ways, yes." With one hand, Pendergast gestured toward the painting in front of him. "This one, however... well, it was a surprise." There was a moment of silence, and then he continued in a hushed, almost confessional tone. "It reminds me of a man I worked with several years ago."
"Does it really?" LaMarck asked, allowing some of the harsh bravado to drop from his voice. He stepped forward, regarding Pendergast with keen, contemplative interest.
"Yes," Pendergast said finally, his voice soft and subdued. "It really does."
He and LaMarck stared and one another for a moment before LaMarck and cleared his throat and averted his eyes. "I have an idea. Okay, more like a little proposition." Pendergast cocked his head attentively to one side. "Look this may sound a little weird, but I could really use a model with your, um, 'coloring'. But unfortunately models with any degree of albinism are almost impossible to find."
"Go on."
LaMarck smiled almost apologetically. "I've been using myself, since I'm pretty pale, and doing a lot of guesswork... but it's just not working out. Different skin tones react totally differently depending on the lighting conditions." He paused to study Pendergast's expression. "It wouldn't be a formal thing, you know, I really just need someone to sit for me while I do a color study for the series I'm working on now." Pendergast nodded thoughtfully. "But my idea is, you come and sit for me when you have time and I'll let you have that painting. If you want it, I mean."
"It sounds very worthwhile," Pendergast said as he subtly checked his watch. "Unfortunately, my work tends to take up most of my time, and I often have trouble coordinating schedules. Would now be a convenient time?"
LaMarck let out a short back of laughter. "What, right /now/?" Pendergast nodded. "Well... okay. I mean, my apartment is just down the street, but I'd also have to set up my stuff and everything."
"That's not a problem."
"If you're sure. I'm definitely not going to be done with you until at least midnight, though. Assuming we leave now." LaMarck still sounded doubtful.
Pendergast smiled slightly. "I have a car on call, actually, and this is one of the few times I'm going to be completely free in the next month at least. Besides, I think I'd like to see what you come up with."
"Sure. It's really just going to be practice for me, though."
"Well, then." Pendergast reached out and fingered the edge of the painting with proprietary interest. "I suppose that I'll have to be in it for the bribe."
"Probably a better deal for you," LaMarck said as they began toward the gallery's exit. "Me, I'm just ecstatic that you've given me an excuse to get out of here early."
- H.P. Lovecraft, "Pickman's Model"
A shadowy form swept confidently through the darkened halls of the Museum of Modern Art. It was close to midnight, and stillness of the building seemed exaggerated by the unexpected movement.
The guard nodded to him as he passed. In a movement calculated carefully to convey spontaneity, the man stopped, checked his pockets, and let out an exasperated sigh. "Left my keys upstairs," he explained, and the guard nodded again. No questions. Nothing out of place. It was perfect.
Still, he felt a curl of fear in his stomach as he bypassed the route to his office and headed instead through the galleries. He knew exactly where he was going, knew exactly what painting he was going to stand in front of, and still it came almost as a shock to have it laid bare before him in the dim light.
He stopped and crouched at a spot he had found to be just out of reach of the room's security camera, which was angled high and wide to show all of the paintings on the walls. Carefully, he set down his attaché case and checked his watch. There would be a two minute gap in the museum's security system that night, as the cameras rolled tape over for the new month.
He smiled faintly as he watched the second hand tick. The museum had upgraded its security system several years earlier, but it had not faced a single serious threat of vandalism or theft in that period of time. And, true to form, security had become more relaxed and forgiving and-most importantly-unprepared for the new techniques of someone familiar with the aging system. As silently as possible, he began to remove the tools he had brought with him, checking his watch every fifteen seconds or so.
He felt strangely calm and at peace with the world, though he felt a slight twinge of remorse when he looked up at his intended target. /But it can't be helped/, the little voice in the back of his head rationalized sadly. /Sometimes the destruction of beautiful things is the only way to get a person's attention/.
The hands on his watch moved to the perfect moment. He waited an instant before launching himself at his target with far more grace than he ever managed in his day-to-day life.
When he had finished, he delicately kissed the shredded remains of the painting, smoothed back his hair, slipped his tools back into his bag, and strolled out of the museum with bright, shining eyes.
*
"I find it insufferably pretentious, myself."
Pendergast turned slowly to regard the young man who stood behind him, arms crossed and weight shifted into a parody of the stance of a thoughtful art patron. He thoughtfully cocked his head to one side and pursed his lips. "Do you?"
"You don't?"
"I don't know much about art."
"Bullshit." The man tossed him an overly sweet smile, which was dampened by the fact that his lips didn't curl up, instead merely stretching to the sides in something more akin to a grimace. "I've seen you before, at some of the other galleries in town."
Pendergast shrugged. "I've been told I should patronize the arts."
"Oh please. Next thing you know, you'll be telling me that you 'know what you like' or something else just as irritating." The man blew a strand of copper-colored hair out of his eyes and tapped the index and middle fingers of his right hand against his lips; it looked like a cry for a cigarette, or perhaps a pen to chew on. "And trust me, nobody in their right mind could ever like this."
"Why not?"
"Because it's a self-indulgent piece of crap that no one but the artist could love. It's an escapist's fairytale."
Both men regarded the painting for a moment in silence. It was a more brightly colored and illustrative work than any of the other paintings in the gallery, and yet the scene it showed had the same touch of the macabre as the other works. Two figures in police uniforms were posed in a fashion that echoed Michelangelo's /Pietà /; the reclining figure had evidently taken a shot to the torso and blood had seeped through the hands that cupped the wound. His partner held him tenderly, and the gaze between them was intimate, almost romantic. The entire picture seemed to tiptoe around the cliché of police brotherhood and sacrifice and masculine camaraderie with the addition of this odd, blood-stained layer of sexuality that writhed beneath the surface.
"What an odd fairytale," Pendergast finally said softly.
The man chuckled. "All fairytales are about blood, sooner or later." He drew his thick eyebrows together. "Seriously, though. Could you ever see this happening in real life?"
"I didn't know art's purpose was to reflect reality precisely."
"Oh, it isn't. Of course it isn't." The man laughed sharply and grinned. "But this is a sentimental fag's wet dream, nothing more."
"I'm sorry," Pendergast tipped his head inquiringly, his voice suddenly distanced, "I don't think I caught your name...?"
The man's smile became decidedly lopsided, and he stuck out his hand to be shaken. "Avery LaMarck."
Pendergast was momentarily taken aback; his placid expression froze for a moment, and he did not extend his own hand. "I see." He recovered almost immediately, however, taking LaMarck's hand and pumping it solidly up and down several times. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid you caught me somewhat unaware. My name is Aloysius Pendergast."
"Aloysius! What a perfect name. It's the name of the teddy bear in /Brideshead Revisited/, in fact."
"Is it?" Pendergast clasped his hands together behind his back, immediately stiff and formal once again. "I'm afraid that I last had the pleasure of reading that novel when I was in school."
"Shame, shame. Such a classic." LaMarck leaned against the wall beside the painting and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "But I'm sorry. Am I disrupting your viewing pleasure?"
Pendergast glanced back at the painting and over his shoulder at the rest of the small, dark SoHo gallery. "Not too terribly. Though I am curious as to why you would want to turn a patron against a piece of your own artwork."
LaMarck let out another laugh, short and nervous. "I don't know. Wouldn't want to start thinking I was too good, would I?" When Pendergast didn't respond, he continued on. "Or maybe I just thought you were looking at it a little too closely."
"Too closely?"
"Well, I wouldn't want you to steal away my little fantasy, would I?" He sighed looked up at the ceiling, letting his head fall back against the wall with an audible 'thud!' "Such as it is." Pendergast tilted his head to one side, puzzled. LaMarck shrugged, rolled his shoulders back, and stretched his head to one side, exposing the sharp relief of his sternomastoid muscles. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he suddenly looked incredibly weary. "You were looking at it a little too closely. It's such a piece of crap. Really, you don't want anything to do with it. I just put it in because I was short a couple of paintings and had to have some filler." He gestured toward the front of the gallery, sweeping his arm in a wide arc. "As you can see, it doesn't entirely fit with the theme I was aiming for."
"Yes." Pendergast turned briefly to regard the other paintings that hung on the walls of the gallery; most of them were high contrast, bordering on monochromatic with only brief, violent accents of color, and portrayed figures so humanly imperfect as to seem almost alien in structure. "Actually, I find this piece interesting because I myself am in law enforcement."
"You are?" LaMarck looked genuinely surprised. "Well, that's sure a kick in the crotch." He raised one eyebrow, suddenly suspicious. "You aren't NYPD, are you?"
"FBI, in fact. But I have worked with the New York Police Department on occasion."
"Fascinating. So have I, actually." LaMarck's smile twitched slightly as Pendergast again cocked his head, politely showing interest. "Yeah. Wouldn't believe it to look at me, right?"
"Did you work in forensic art?"
"Bingo."
"Well, I can believe that, actually." Pendergast gave a nod to the painting before him. "Your work has a strong grounding in human anatomy that I'm sure was advantageous in that field."
There was a slight pause. "Yeah. Uh, thanks." LaMarck cleared his throat. "Anyway, please tell me that you aren't here on the job."
Pendergast smiled thinly. "No, no. In fact, your show was recommended to me by Charles DuChamp."
"Oh, wow. You know Charlie?"
Pendergast winced slightly at the diminutive form of his friend's given name. "He and I were friends when we were children, in fact. We still keep in touch."
"Ah, yeah. I should have guessed from the accent," LaMarck replied. "I don't actually know him all that well myself, really. I've only ever run into him a couple of times thanks to the whole art scene."
"I see."
"I like his work and all. It's just not really... I mean, it's obviously nothing like what I'm interested in." He gestured toward the paintings in the rest of the gallery. "But I can respect his technique." Pendergast nodded in understanding. "Why did he tell you about my stuff?"
Pendergast turned slightly to follow the sweep of the man's arm, slowly surveying the art that had been placed upon the stark white walls. "He thought I'd find the subject matter intriguing," he said quietly. "That your subjects were rarely touched upon, but the humanity you afforded them even rarer still."
LaMarck stared at him speculatively for several moments. "Damn," he finally said. "Well, that's kinder than the reviews I usually get, anyway." He paused to run his hand nervously through his hair. "So, does it live up to the hype?"
"In many ways, yes." With one hand, Pendergast gestured toward the painting in front of him. "This one, however... well, it was a surprise." There was a moment of silence, and then he continued in a hushed, almost confessional tone. "It reminds me of a man I worked with several years ago."
"Does it really?" LaMarck asked, allowing some of the harsh bravado to drop from his voice. He stepped forward, regarding Pendergast with keen, contemplative interest.
"Yes," Pendergast said finally, his voice soft and subdued. "It really does."
He and LaMarck stared and one another for a moment before LaMarck and cleared his throat and averted his eyes. "I have an idea. Okay, more like a little proposition." Pendergast cocked his head attentively to one side. "Look this may sound a little weird, but I could really use a model with your, um, 'coloring'. But unfortunately models with any degree of albinism are almost impossible to find."
"Go on."
LaMarck smiled almost apologetically. "I've been using myself, since I'm pretty pale, and doing a lot of guesswork... but it's just not working out. Different skin tones react totally differently depending on the lighting conditions." He paused to study Pendergast's expression. "It wouldn't be a formal thing, you know, I really just need someone to sit for me while I do a color study for the series I'm working on now." Pendergast nodded thoughtfully. "But my idea is, you come and sit for me when you have time and I'll let you have that painting. If you want it, I mean."
"It sounds very worthwhile," Pendergast said as he subtly checked his watch. "Unfortunately, my work tends to take up most of my time, and I often have trouble coordinating schedules. Would now be a convenient time?"
LaMarck let out a short back of laughter. "What, right /now/?" Pendergast nodded. "Well... okay. I mean, my apartment is just down the street, but I'd also have to set up my stuff and everything."
"That's not a problem."
"If you're sure. I'm definitely not going to be done with you until at least midnight, though. Assuming we leave now." LaMarck still sounded doubtful.
Pendergast smiled slightly. "I have a car on call, actually, and this is one of the few times I'm going to be completely free in the next month at least. Besides, I think I'd like to see what you come up with."
"Sure. It's really just going to be practice for me, though."
"Well, then." Pendergast reached out and fingered the edge of the painting with proprietary interest. "I suppose that I'll have to be in it for the bribe."
"Probably a better deal for you," LaMarck said as they began toward the gallery's exit. "Me, I'm just ecstatic that you've given me an excuse to get out of here early."
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