by Tim Marquitz
“We’re all wounded Robert,” Kolbe said as his eyes flared with a red pulse. “The wounds of sin. You’ve seen so much evil Robert that it had left you scarred well before I sought you out. You were my perfect victim and killer. Your wounds are closed now Robert, you’re free—and so am I.”
Robert closed his eyes and let Kolbe take his soul and when he reopened them, he was Dante and the denizens of Hell welcomed him with open arms.
Sturm und Drang
Jeff C. Carter
The peaty smell of the Danube River reached Luca before he crossed the Carpathian Mountains. The sunrise raced ahead of him and splashed against the walls of Pressburg Castle before settling along the capitol’s peaked red roofs. The glittering Danube hugged the city and carried silhouetted fishing boats along the border. The chill in the air dissipated and Luca frowned. He preferred the harsh intensity of winter to the airy grace of spring, but at least there were holes in his boots and a raw hunger in his belly to make him feel alive.
He passed by the iron gates of the Summer Archbishop’s Palace, where Georg Rafael Donner had his sculpting studio. Luca had come to the capitol to find a patronage like that. The life of a vagabond was one of truth and passion, but he could transform neither into art without resources. He strolled along the cobblestone lanes, admiring the baroque and gothic architecture, which was superior to the clean and dainty art of the recent Enlightenment.
Luca was gazing at a forlorn gargoyle perched on a cathedral when he collided with a female beggar. She was the first supplicant he had seen all day, and he smiled to greet a fellow pauper. One side of her face was morose, hanging slack from an ugly divot in her forehead. The flaccid muscles drooped, reminding Luca of his paralyzed grandmother. The other half of the woman’s face gripped a wide and leering smile. He watched the deep set grooves of her cheeks and waited for the grin to move, but it too was fixed and immobile.
Luca’s hands flexed, eager to sketch or sculpt the warring extremes of emotion etched upon the poor woman’s face. The dynamic chaos of her features was more compelling than any naked strumpet or bored Venus. If only he had the materials to sculpt her! He drank in the details of her face until tears welled up in her eyes and she buried her face beneath a ragged shawl. She fled down Schanz Strasse and turned the corner. Luca called out after her and gave chase.
She was gone, vanished into the shadow of the cathedral. He looked up at the frozen sneers of the gargoyles and sighed. The rich scent of pork goulash and warm potato pancakes set his stomach quivering. A rosy cheeked man stepped out of a restaurant and pulled his fine red wool coat about him to ward off the returning chill.
He regarded Luca as he buttoned his collar.
“Sculptor?”
Luca gasped.
“How did you know?”
The man grinned wide and his eyes crinkled with delight.
“You have the arms of a farmer, but the build of a bookworm. I too had that figure, once upon a time.”
He thumped his round stomach and laughed, and Luca did too. The old man extended a hand from a ruffled sleeve and Luca shook it. The hand was strong and callused.
“Professor Messerchmidt.”
Luca bowed.
“It is good to meet you, Sir. I am Luca von Klinger, your humble servant.”
Luca eyed the old sculptor’s silk shirt and gold figured waistcoat. He dressed like a gentleman. Luca wondered if the man could introduce him to any nobles or clergymen. The Professor scrutinized him in turn, eyes narrow and jaw thrust forward in contemplation.
“How would you like to serve as an apprentice?”
Luca pretended to consider the idea. He was seeking patronage, not instruction.
“Not to me, of course, but rather for my brother.”
Luca startled.
“Do you mean…is your brother Franz Xaver Messerschmidt?”
The Professor cocked an eyebrow.
“You know of him?”
“He is a genius! His sculptures are more primal and human than anything the lifeless Neo-classical movement could ever produce.”
The Professor smirked.
“He would be the first to agree. He lives outside of town. He does not have much, but I would pay you a handsome salary to look after him.”
Luca nodded. What kind of apprenticeship was he talking about?
“My only condition is that you must not tell him I sent you. You cannot mention me at all.”
“Why not?”
The Professor’s forehead bunched into a knot and the corners of his eyes and lips drooped.
“We have had a falling out. In truth, my brother is losing grip on his reason. I have been aware of this growing confusion for years. I did everything in my power to protect his reputation, but when he applied for a post at the Academy where I teach, I could cover for him no longer. I informed them his appointment would be a detriment to the institution. When he found out, he swore never to forgive me.
“It is my fondest hope that an apprentice might rekindle his desire to teach and sharpen his faculties. Who knows? You may even lead him back to the Academy.”
Luca weighed the situation. This was better than a patronage. He could earn money at the feet of a true master. Who cared if the old man was irrational? His passion and intensity was surely part of his genius.
They settled the details over coppery sweet Hungarian wine and breaded pork schnitzel. He bade the Professor farewell and left the capitol, following the shadow of Pressburg Castle as it stretched across the plain like a black road. The Messerschmidt estate was an old brick house nestled in the arms of the Carpathians, perched above the Danube.
There were sounds of a heated exchange inside the dark house, and Luca wondered if the Professor had changed his mind and somehow arrived before him. His fist hovered in front of the door, unsure whether he should knock, or if the knock would even be heard above the din.
The door flew open to reveal Franz Xaver Messerschmidt.
His face resembled the Professor’s, yet lacked any of his brother’s lively expression. Only his dark eyes moved, squirming restlessly in his pale blank face. The eyes crawled along every crease and contour of Luca's head, probing with the invasive manner of a blind man’s fingers.
Luca tried to keep his face similarly neutral, lest it betray his building discomfort and ruin this opportunity before it began. Messerschmidt clutched his shoulders and rose up on his toes to get a closer look. His head bobbed and circled to inspect Luca from every angle.
Luca grit his teeth to keep his face composed. Messerschmidt dug his fingers deeper into Luca's shoulders and pressed his face nose to nose with him. His rank breath blew into Luca’s nose and he recoiled. His poise slipped and his head jerked to the side, eyes clamped shut and nose wrinkled in a spasm of revulsion.
The old sculptor released him.
"You'll do."
He shuffled inside, leaving the door ajar.
Luca rubbed a forearm across his face to clean away the film of sour breath and nervous sweat. He entered through the ante room and froze.
The studio beyond was a crowded amphitheater. Hordes of silent screaming faces occupied every inch of the studio. There were pale reliefs in plaster, gray stone busts and shining casts of bronze. Every emotion was displayed a dozen times over, each in its most extreme incarnation. Foreheads, eyebrows and mouths bloomed in ecstatic joy, crumpled in abject grief and imploded in volcanic fury.
“Have you studied the human face? Do you truly understand it?”
Luca nodded, overwhelmed by the crush of bizarre and evocative masterpieces.
“The face is not a mask of flesh pulled taut by ropes of muscle. You cannot capture real emotion in stone. I tried to bring my sculptures to life. I tried!”
A queer pattern of geometry emerged from the yowling, grinning, sobbing, growling faces. They were arranged in series on a variety of different platforms. Dozens of heads were mounted on gears that rotated on a spinning wheel. One set of faces was set
in a complex hive of angled mirrors. There was even a cluster of chimeras, with fused faces gawping from every side of their head.
“Have you studied anatomy, boy?”
Luca started to answer when Messerschmidt cut him off.
“Then you have learned that even if you peel the tissue from the skull and put it back in your own arrangement, you will not capture the essence of expression.”
Messerschmidt dug his fingers into his own face and pulled his flesh into several grotesque caricatures of emotion.
“You must subdue the spiritus vitales, the very essence of movement in the living body. How many expressions do you reckon there are?”
Luca jumped on the question.
“Surely there are an infinite number.”
“No! There are sixty-four canonical grimaces. These are the keys to the spiritus vitales. Once you master these, you may control the body. You may even appease…forces beyond the body.”
Messerschmidt trailed off and put his fingers to his mouth like a frightened child. Luca shifted uncomfortably before prompting him from his stupor.
“Your Muse must be insatiable.”
The old sculptor chewed on a fingernail.
“My muse is a demon.”
His eyes jerked up as if seeing Luca for the first time.
“Fetch me wax from the store in town and fresh clay from the river bank. Order stone from the quarry! We must be ready to work at an instant’s notice. Our hammer and chisel cannot waver!”
Luca swallowed.
“Master…the sun has set. I cannot do those things until morning.”
Messerschmidt looked out the window and scratched his chin.
“I had not noticed. Light the lamps. Clean the studio. When you have finished, assemble an armature for a heavy statue. Make it as strong as possible.”
He tucked an illustrated book under his arm and scurried away.
Luca shook his head. This storm of intensity was what he had expected from a genius. There was much to learn. He lit the oil lamps scattered about the house. He found a larder with sheep’s milk cheese and sausage, and after a hasty meal, located the broom.
He swept plaster dust and chunks of marble across the floor of the studio. He felt exposed as he worked and avoided the staring faces as he made his laps with the broom. The lamp light pulsed across the crowd, making their mouths stretch and eyes bulge. He wondered if this is how the doomed slaves of the Coliseum felt, trapped and awaiting the arrival of the gladiator.
Building the armature provided a pleasant distraction. He found plenty of strong steel beams and bolts to support a large block of stone. He searched for a wrench among the hammers and chisels. There was a wealth of saws, drills and knives. Luca had yet to see any wood carvings in the studio, but the master was doubtless skilled in every medium. In short order, he assembled the beams with the proper dimensions to lock a heavy stone head and shoulders into place.
A gurgling shriek like a boiling kettle reverberated through the chalky dust of the studio. Luca grabbed a hammer and ran towards the sound, following the trail of grunts and gasps through the unfamiliar house.
He arrived at a black oak door. The massive slab of wood sealed the doorway and muffled the sounds within. Luca shuddered to think how loud the screams must be on the other side. He pounded on the door.
“Master Messerschmidt!”
The awful cacophony continued. Luca shouted again and struck the door with the hammer but it was no use. He pressed his face to the ground and peered through the gap at the bottom of the door.
He could see feet pacing back and forth. There were discernible words now in German, Greek and a wholly unknown language. He could not make out the meanings, but the rhythm of chanting was unmistakable. Messerschmidt repeated the stretches of Greek in the same way each time, as if reading from a book, breaking only to interject with a pained squeal or plea for mercy in sobbing German.
Luca pulled his ear away from the gap and pushed his eye as close as his cramped ear and nose allowed. He caught a glimpse of ivory faces. The chamber beyond was ringed in busts crafted with a mastery Luca had never witnessed in his life. The luminous marble had the flawless texture of human flesh and hair. Each distorted expression was a beacon of emotion, projecting a precise mental state through the stone like a pitch from a struck tuning fork.
Tears welled up in Luca’s eyes. Whatever madness had gripped Messerschmidt, it was worth it. This was the pinnacle of transcendent art.
The stream of Messerschmidt’s wails ran dry and he collapsed to the ground. Luca slapped his palm against the door once more and directed his voice through the crack. The sculptor did not respond, but his face was placid and his chest rose and fell in a peaceful cadence.
Luca did not sleep nearly so well. He found a soft bed, but every time he closed his eyes, the masterpieces of the hidden room burned in his mind. He fantasized about the power to imprint fleeting human nature onto immortal stone. Was it possible to learn such techniques? Would Messerchmidt pass on his secrets?
He left the house at dawn for the capitol. As he walked in the shade of the chestnut trees, the more plebian and rational parts of his mind woke to nag him. Was it worth his sanity to make great art? Had he seen what was there, or had his unnerved mind concocted a fantasy in the sideways glimpse through a sliver beneath the door? Could Franz Xaver Messerschmidt teach him anything, or was he just a mad man obsessing over the same motifs?
He found the markets downtown and ordered fresh stone from the quarry. He bought wax, linen and plaster as well as sundried domestic supplies. He searched the streets for the Professor, hoping for some amicable diversion before he had to return to the studio. Some part of him wanted to tell the Professor that he could not accept the apprenticeship.
A familiar figure crossed his path on Turnergasse in front of Grassalkovich Palace. Luca recognized the tattered shawl wrapped around the woman’s face, hiding its conflicting halves. He stepped softly, careful not to frighten her away again.
She stopped to rest on the edge of a marble fountain. The cloth fell away from her face as she counted the meager coins in her dirty hands. In the center of the fountain, a statue of Venus glared down on her. The contrast of the beggar’s broken face and the imperious, flawless sculpture was almost too much for Luca to bear.
Art should not belong to perfect saints and beautiful demigods. It should represent the ugly and unreasonable people who created it. That was his responsibility and his calling. He turned on his heel and headed back to the studio.
When he returned, Messerschmidt was inspecting the armature. His mouth was wrapped around a steamed dumpling and chewing methodically. He offered one to Luca and then turned to check the cleanliness of the floor and shelves.
Luca clutched the warm bread and waited for Messerschmidt to say something. In the bright morning light, the old sculptor looked like any another teacher, down to the drops of plum jam on his shirt.
Luca cleared his throat.
“I have the supplies you requested.”
Messerschmidt smiled.
“The clay and stone?”
Luca clenched his fists.
“Forgive me. The stone has not arrived yet.”
“The day is young. I will be sketching in the garden.”
“Master, I was wondering if you could teach me about the faces. The canonical grimaces?”
Messerschmidt looked him up and down.
“Give me something I can work with, and I shall teach you.”
He left the studio and Luca punched his palm in excitement. He noticed the stack of reference books he had dusted that had been too dark to read by lamp light. There was De Humani Corpis Fabrica, the indispensible book of anatomy by Vesalius, da Vinci’s exhaustive Studies for the Libyan Sibyl, and a rare edition of Two Flayed Men and Skeletons, a compendium of illustrations showing bodies with their skin and muscles carefully peeled away.
At the bottom of the stack, Luca found a weathered book that he did n
ot recognize. It was entitled Tabula Smaragdina, and it radiated secret knowledge. Luca could not decipher its ancient Greek text, but he flipped through the jaundiced pages anyway.
The book was filled with Egyptian hieroglyphs and detailed illustrations of ghoulish mummies. Perhaps this was an early reference on anatomy. There were also handwritten notes in German in some of the margins. These made no grammatical sense, yet they were reminiscent of the strange chants Messerschmidt had bellowed the night before. He placed the tome back in the pile, eager to preserve the peace of the day.
The back of the estate abutted a steep precipice over the muddy Danube. He placed his feet carefully as he navigated the steep and narrow path to the river bank. If he did not return with the clay before the shadow of the Carpathians swooped in, one false step would be his last.
When he returned with the heavy buckets in his trembling arms, he found the fresh cut blocks of stone waiting at the front of the house. He put his aching body to the task of hauling the sharp slabs of white marble into the studio.
He smiled at the collection of faces. They were becoming old friends, each with their unique personality written clearly across their features. He anticipated crafting his own coterie of characters with the techniques that Messerschmidt would soon impart.
Luca gathered the ropes from the blocks of stone and dumped them in piles out back. He smashed his toe and nearly tripped over a toppled sculpture lying in the tall grass. The half of the face exposed to the dying light glowed with a delighted smile. He cleared away the grass to look at the rest. It was black with dirt and shadow. Some part of his mind recognized the face with a fierce urgency, but he could not summon a name.
The sun was behind the cloak of the Carpathians now and the mysterious sculpture was growing dim. Luca knew that if he did not place the face it would haunt him until morning. He returned with an oil lamp and crouched over the sculpture. He scrubbed away the soil with his shirt. It was blank, but not unmade. It was a fully sculpted face without expression.
