A Trick of the Eye

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  Trick of the Eye

  Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  Dedication

  For my mother

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  The sign on my door reads, TROMPE L’OEIL, INC. For a reasonable price I will paint a variety of illusory images on any compatible surface. I paint “faux” finishes—faux marbre, faux bois, faux tortoiseshell, faux bamboo—as well as architectural effects—niches, columns, windows, doors. I can fill a room with animals, birds, and people, with swags, ribbons, and clouds. My object is to arrest and amuse my viewers by leading them away from reality and making them look twice, if only for an instant, at the beauty of illusion.

  Mine is a narrow and exacting occupation, best executed calmly. I don’t slap paint on untreated canvases the size of bedsheets. I don’t try to find myself through art, nor do I wait for inspiration. I don’t look for glory or immortality. I’m a craftsman, and each day I try to do a craftsman’s job. I’ve made my peace with anonymity. I’m content without being happy.

  My name is Faith Crowell. I’m thirty-nine years old and am, to use a word which appeals to a perverse streak in me that favors things archaic and anachronistic, a spinster. I’ve never been to the altar, though once I came so close I bought a wedding dress. But that’s another story. There have been times when, walking home to an empty apartment in the twilight, I’ve thought about that time, thought about how different my life would have been had I married. Once inside my little home, however, surrounded by the chintz, the cat, and the bric-a-brac that are often the accoutrements of single women living alone in large cities, I feel quite fortunate. I cook a light meal, enjoy a glass of wine, and read, until I drift off with my dreams.

  I’m up by seven. I don’t need an alarm clock, for habit is the best alarm there is. I have a light breakfast, bathe, dress, and put a plate of food down for my cat. I’m on my way to the studio no later than eight-fifteen.

  My studio is on the third floor of an unassuming, rent-controlled brownstone ten blocks from my apartment. I enjoy walking there in the morning when passersby seem filled with purpose and energy. I see the same faces again and again—the shopkeepers, sanitation workers, commuters. We sometimes recognize one another and exchange a friendly nod without words, which suits me perfectly.

  I share the building with several tenants, most of whom I rarely see. Should I pass one of them on the stairs, I make it a point to greet him or her cordially. As New York City is not the sort of place where people drop in to borrow sugar or have a cup of coffee, contact with my neighbors is minimal—which is also fine with me.

  I live in the city because that’s where my work is, but I could just as easily live in the country, and plan to do so one day. It’s a way of looking forward to something. I have a limited life, defined by my work and a few friends. I’m more solitary than most, but judging from the appalling amount of neurosis and unrest in the world, I consider myself well-off.

  Once, some years ago, I began waking up frequently in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. Hot fingers of panic kneaded away at my insides as I dwelt on the futility of life—mine, in particular. I’d get out of bed, pace the room, stalk my mirror in the half-light, wondering who that wild-eyed creature streaked with fear really was. Come morning, I’d feel as old as death. My technique suffered. Business went downhill. Finally, I had to stop working altogether. The nervous, so-called “artistic temperament” has no place in trompe l’oeil.

  This slump was deep but temporary. After a time, I managed to pull myself together. I stopped expecting too much from life. I began to think of my time on this earth as one leg of a long journey, and view myself as a person in transit. I began to accept life’s odd turns and disappointments as the seasoned traveler accepts the surprises and inconveniences which are an inevitable part of any trip.

  I resumed painting. To my astonishment, my technique had not suffered but improved. There was new depth to my work. Others noticed it, too. Soon, commissions abounded. Now my little trompe l’oeil business is a great success, capitalizing as it does on the fashion of making things appear to be what they are not.

  My clients aren’t in the habit of visiting my studio. Most of my commissions are arranged over the telephone by a decorator. I was therefore surprised when I answered the downstairs buzzer on an unseasonably warm day in April and heard the voice over the intercom say: “Frances Griffin to see Miss Crowell.”

  Everyone who knew anything about connoisseurship had heard of Frances Griffin. She and her late husband, Holt Griffin, had been great collectors when there was an abundance of important pictures and furniture available to collect. The Griffin Collection was one of the very best, assembled in the decades just before and after the Second World War when masterpieces were frequently on the international market, before export rules became more stringent. After Holt Griffin died, Frances Griffin gave many of their paintings to museums, including the finest Titian in private hands. The Griffins and their collection were well-known to anyone with the slightest interest in art.

  Holt Griffin was the scion of an old, rich New York family who, unlike most of his kind, had gone on to distinguish himself on his own, in a long diplomatic career. The money, I happened to know, came originally from the manufacture of manhole covers, and then was poured into real estate. In the late 1800s, Elias Holt, the great-grandfather of Holt Griffin, had founded an ironworks, the chief product of which were the heavy gray metal disks used to cap the sewers of New York. I know this because I tend to know these kinds of details—dainty, irrelevant bits of gossip which serve no purpose whatsoever and are exquisitely extraneous to everyday life.

  Though Holt Griffin had supplied the money, it was Frances Griffin, the woman climbing my three flights of stairs at that very moment, who had the eye. Everyone acknowledged her to be the guiding hand behind the acquisitions. She was one of those legendary figures of style and taste whose name evokes awe, even in the most privileged circles. I didn’t know much else about her except that having been a great collector and hostess, she was now a recluse, known for her aversion to parties, publicity, and people.

  I stepped out into the dingy hallway and saw a figure climbing the stairs—a slim, impeccably dressed woman with a girlish manner and a sprightly walk. Her eyes were clear and inquisitive, set in a grainy but handsome face. I knew she must have been around seventy or seventy-five years old, but she didn’t look it. She was very well-preserved and had the air many rich people have of not being wholly real. Her perfection of dress, her aura of contained graciousness combined with her seeming obliviousness to the hallway’s unappetizing details—the broken stairs, chipping paint, and acrid smell—made her seem like a polished actress playing a part.

  “How do you do?” Mrs. Gr
iffin said, extending a tapered, discreetly manicured hand to me as she reached the landing. “I’m Frances Griffin.”

  “It’s a great pleasure, to meet you, Mrs. Griffin. I’m Faith Crowell,” I replied, aware that my voice had deferentially lowered an octave.

  She was wearing an elegant pale green wool suit with a matching hat, carrying white kid gloves and a black patent leather bag. Her feet, noticeably small, were encased in plain patent leather pumps with low heels. A gold pin in the shape of a fish, studded with green and pink peridots, was jauntily affixed to the right side of her jacket.

  I invited her into my studio and offered her a cup of tea, which she graciously accepted. We sat, rather stiffly, on two of the twelve gilt ballroom chairs I had scheduled to faux bamboo that week.

  “I have heard, Miss Crowell,” she began in a voice tinged with a patrician mid-Atlantic accent, “that you are very good at what you do.”

  I thanked her. As I am not a believer in false modesty, I replied that I was indeed proud of my work. She squinted while opening her purse, extracting from it a pair of glasses which she put on. She looked around the studio.

  “Yes,” she said, focusing on several pieces I had either finished or was in the process of finishing—a bureau, a mirror, a small mantelpiece—“I can see that you’re good.”

  She peered at me over the top of her glasses.

  “The trick is to lighten reality, isn’t it?” she observed.

  “In life and in art,” I said, smiling.

  She chuckled.

  “Your work is very painterly. I especially like the faux marbre. That piece,” she said, indicating the small mantelpiece. “It’s lovely the way you’ve done it. I like faux marbre in any case, don’t you? It’s much less ponderous than the real thing. Real marble can be so cold in a room.”

  “Yes, I agree. Though people still pay a lot of money for it.”

  “Real tortoiseshell, on the other hand, is lovely and warm,” she said. “But you can’t get it anymore.”

  “Faux tortoiseshell is very difficult to do well. If I’m not careful it all winds up looking like some awful leopard skin.”

  “You’ve done it very well there.” She nodded to the red-and-black faux tortoiseshell mirror drying against the wall.

  “Thank you. I just finished it yesterday. Third try. It’s not too bad now.”

  “There’s always been a market for the faux—whether we could get the real thing or not.”

  “That’s why I’m in business, I suppose.”

  “So many real things are impossible to come by these days. Lots of the things we once took for granted are gone,” she sighed. “You do have a lovely, light touch . . . Yes, lovely . . .” She glanced around the room another time. “I’d like you to come and do some work for me at The Haven.”

  Like a queen issuing a royal command, she did not hesitate at all when speaking to me. She seemed to understand the power of her request, and to know what an honor it was considered to work for her. Many would have done it, simply to get a glimpse of the legendary house on Long Island which had never been photographed for a book or displayed in the pages of the fashionable decorating magazines.

  “I’m honored,” I said. “Of course I’d love to work for you.”

  Smiling at me as if she’d expected no other response, she removed her glasses, folded them carefully, and put them back into her purse.

  “It’s quite a large job. You’ll have to be there full-time for some months.”

  “Oh dear, I don’t know if I can do that.”

  She went on as though she hadn’t heard me.

  “It’s a ballroom. I built it for my daughter’s coming-out party many years ago. I want to redo it, to see it again, fresh. It’s never too late to see things fresh.”

  Though she spoke casually, I couldn’t help sensing a certain intensity beneath the surface of her conversation. She toyed with the patent leather strap of her handbag, twisting it around her fingers. She stared hard at me every so often as if she were trying to recall something, or memorize me, or see deeper into me. It felt odd.

  “I’d have to give up all my other work. That’s a bit tricky.”

  “Why don’t you come round and see me tomorrow? I’ll show you what I want done. Then you can make your decision.”

  “Mrs. Griffin,” I began slowly, “I’m very flattered by your offer. May I ask you—how did you happen to pick me?”

  She hesitated for a moment.

  “Well, I heard about you from a couple of friends of mine.”

  She named two of my richest and grandest clients. I was always amazed how small this world of the extraordinarily rich was, like a private country incorporating all nationalities. The titanically rich, like royalty, all seemed to know one another, or know of one another, no matter where they were from. And because many of them led their lives in the fairly constant pursuit of luxury, pleasure, and material possessions, they passed the finest craftsmen and the finest dealers and the finest designers, florists, and chefs along to one another like precious objects in an elaborate, ongoing potlatch festival. I had no illusions about my place in their world. In their world, an artisan was a commodity.

  “Also,” she continued, “it seems we both share a passion for Paolo Veronese. I read a fine article you wrote on the Villa Barbaro. It was very well written, and appreciative of an artist I adore.”

  She alluded to a piece I had written some years ago for an obscure art journal, Chiaroscuro, on the celebrated Villa Barbaro in Maser, near Venice. Paolo Veronese’s whimsical trompe l’oeil mural there was a great favorite of mine. The revelation that she’d read my article appealed to my vanity.

  “I’m so pleased you liked the piece. I love that villa. I remember the first time I stood in the great hall and looked up at that marvelous gallery of pets and birds and people staring down on me from their painted balcony. They were so bewitching I almost swore they were real.”

  “My daughter,” she said suddenly. “My daughter was very enthusiastic—like you.”

  I let the comment go.

  “You’ll come and see me tomorrow?” she asked, poised on the edge of her chair.

  “Of course I will, though I have to think seriously of what your wonderful offer means in terms of my life.”

  She glanced once more around my cluttered, airless studio.

  “Well,” she said in a rather imperious tone, “it would certainly mean a change.”

  With that, she rose from her chair. I walked her to the door.

  “Please forgive me for being so hesitant,” I said, opening the door for her. “It’s just that since I spend my life painting over surfaces, I’ve gotten used to examining them very carefully. Perhaps too carefully.”

  “Well, you think about it.”

  “I’ll walk you downstairs.”

  “Oh, no thank you. I can see myself out. I’ll expect you tomorrow, then, at, say, four o’clock? We’ll have some tea. Here are the directions.”

  She handed me a printed card with a drawing of the house on one side and a map on the other. I didn’t let on that I already knew where the house was.

  With that, she left.

  That night I walked home in an uncharacteristic funk, feeling apprehensive, as though Frances Griffin were Fate’s harbinger. I honestly didn’t want to interrupt my routine by accepting such a commission. On the other hand, the chance to work with this extraordinary woman was a great professional opportunity. And, I confess, I did feel the lure of her glamour.

  Long ago I made peace with the fact that mine was a well-ordered, uneventful life, grisaille as opposed to color-plated. I’d come to understand the difference between the climates of loneliness and of solitude: The former was oppressive and humid, the latter cool and invigorating. I abhorred the popular view that people who live alone and work alone remain isolated from
life’s great experiences. For me, the key to appreciating life was imagination. Without it, even a privileged life could be dull. With it, one could make a feast of straws.

  Fortunately for me, my art was more of a craft and therefore less volatile, a friend as opposed to a lover. My moments of loneliness were, I suspect, less intense than those of my more creative colleagues, though, of course, I’d had my share. I felt one such moment creeping up on me now. I knew I needed to talk to someone.

  There was only one thing to do. I bought two artichokes, an extra veal chop, and a tarte tatin from the local French bakery, and telephoned my dear friend, Harry Pitt, on the likely chance he would be free for dinner. He was.

  Harry Pitt, like me, led a reclusive life, preferring to spend time in the company of his books, pictures, and Mr. Spencer, his miniature schnauzer, rather than with people. Harry was in his seventies and a bachelor. In his heyday, he’d been a noted art dealer, esthete, and an escort of fashionable women of a certain age when they were, as one wag delicately put it, “between men.”

  He was nearly bald now, and rotund, having led the high life at splendid luncheon and dinner parties. He was a repository of superfluous information about superfluous people, which, of course, made him wonderful company for me. He knew about things like Mrs. Augustus Blodgett’s couture shroud, and the Prince de Greve’s penchant for paying boys in the slums of Rio to have their teeth extracted so that they could better perform fellatio on him.

  Harry knew everything about everyone in society, and he enjoyed regaling me with the salacious tales of “social life’s rich pageant,” as he dubbed it. I’d passed many a hilarious evening with Harry while he sat perched like a pasha on the tasseled silk pillows of his couch, fingering the long white silk scarf around his neck, smoking a cigarette in a black lacquer holder, pontificating about society as it had once been and as it was now. He’d spent most of his life singing for his supper in the company of the rich and celebrated and, for some reason, had come to the conclusion that the majority of people will behave badly sooner or later given the opportunity.