The Collector stood back and looked critically at the young girl named Polina. A smile of satisfaction came to his face—she was absolutely perfect for this shot! In addition to her long, thin body she had long, thick nearly auburn hair that was essential to the integrity of the composition. Degas had chosen a girl of similar proportions for his painting, Woman Drying Her Feet and it almost looked as if the same girl had suddenly leaped off the canvas and into his studio.
The layout of the scene was simple: the girl was to sit in the chair and lean forward to dry her feet with a corner of the thick white towel she was sitting on. The perspective was from the girl's left side and slightly from the rear, showing the girl's body nearly in profile as she performed this everyday chore. She was to look as though she had just stepped out of the bath and for that reason the Collector had spritzed the ends of her hair with just enough water to make it look convincing.
The girl had been an absolute lamb throughout all of the stylizing and preparation for the session, from the application of makeup to her face and body to exhibiting the patience and precision required to be positioned in the chair at just the proper angle with regard to the rest of the set. At last he had gotten the lighting just the way he wanted it and was ready to get the session under way.
"I'm going to take a few test shots, Polina, so I'd like you do the following: lean forward with your left arm bent at the elbow, your forearm extended to your right and resting in you lap out of sight."
She looked at him in confusion and he reminded himself that her English wasn't all that good. He couldn't complain, though, for most of the Russian and Ukrainian girls were adequately adept with the English language and for that he was grateful. When he had initially acquired the girls, one of his biggest concerns was if they would be able to understand English and take orders from him.
"Here, let me show you," he said.
He stepped over to Polina and grasped her arm gently.
"Bend your arm halfway at the elbow like this. Now rest your arm on your lap like so. Great! Now lean forward and touch your toes with your forearm between your tummy and your thigh. That's it, perfect!"
He jumped back and stood behind the camera. While peering through the viewfinder, he zoomed out a little and lightly touched the shutter release button. The auto-focus engaged with a slight whir, instantly rendering a crisp image in the viewer.
"Fantastic! Now spread your feet a little farther apart and take a corner of that towel that's lying on the floor. I want you to act like your drying your left foot with the towel. That's it. Now hold it there!"
He clicked the shutter and the flash made a simultaneous poof sound. He fired again.
"Very nice! The only thing wrong is your back. You need to lean forward a little further so we can get a nice curve of your spine."
"Like this?" the girl said, glancing back at him.
The Collector peered through the viewer again. "Not quite that far. I need your hair to fall at a sharp perpendicular to the floor so tilt you head up just a little. That's it. Perfect!"
He fired three shots in rapid succession. Then he stepped back and looked at the copy of Degas' painting lying on a small table off the set, comparing it to the scene in his viewfinder. There wasn't enough shadow under her right leg. The light needed to be placed back a little further in order to lengthen the shadows. He adjusted the light accordingly until the shadows looked nearly identical. Satisfied at last, he concentrated on getting the composition as close to the original as possible, allowing for cropping later in Photoshop to the precise proportions of the painting.
Ten minutes later, he was finally satisfied with the results.
"We're done, Polina. Excellent job!"
The girl smiled. It was a beautiful smile, if somewhat forced. All of the girls' smiles were like that—forced and a tad insincere. He had learned to live with it. After all, they didn't really have a lot to smile about considering how suffocating their incarceration must seem to them. But then, he had made it as pleasant for them as he possibly could and had provided them with a safe, healthy place to live for the past six months.
A pity that all of that would soon change.
If he followed his heart and not common sense, he would keep all of the girls here indefinitely. But he knew that time simply would not allow him to do that. For eventually someone would find out what he had done and put a swift end to everything, including his own freedom. He wasn't about to take that risk.
"You may get dressed and join the others now, Polina. Thank you for your services."
"Yes, Master."
The Collector watched as Polina stood up and went over to where her clothes were piled neatly in a chair. She glanced at him innocently as she slipped into her panties and bra—which was more like a training bra than anything else. Her breasts were still developing and the only reason he had been able to use her for this shot was that her chest wasn't visible in it. He would have to use mature, large-breasted women for the remaining shots in Degas' bath series. This would involve acquiring a whole new batch of models. His Russian provider was going to be absolutely ecstatic—
Polina finished dressing and started to leave.
"Where's my kiss, dear?" he said.
She looked at him sheepishly and moved toward him. The Collector leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
"Now you run off and join your friends."
She smiled, curtsied (just as he had taught her to) and left the room.
The Collector turned off the studio flash units and removed his camera from the tripod. He picked up the copy of Degas' painting and left the studio.
As he ascended the massive curved stairway to the second floor, the Collector felt a trace of sadness realizing that the ballerina dancer series was virtually finished. It was a cold hard fact he had been trying to avoid dwelling upon, wishing to stay focused on his work instead. The entire project had been like a breath of fresh air, and the results were even better than he could ever have imagined.
He had in fact become a true master as a result of his labors. Certainly not in the same league as Edgar and the rest, but a master in his own right, nonetheless.
If only Mother could see me now! he thought. She would be so proud!
He arrived at the top of the stairs and headed left toward his study. He glanced down momentarily at the imported marble-floored foyer and adjoining library of this wonderful mansion, delighted that he had such a beautiful place in which to work and live.
The Collector had never been lacking of anything as a child growing up. His father had been the CEO of a prominent investment firm and his grandfather an immensely successful stockbroker in his day. Summer jaunts to the French Riviera and the family's private island in the Caribbean had been standard fair for him throughout his childhood. The family's wealth and social stature had fine-tuned his taste for the good life and by the time he had graduated Oxford, he felt the world was at his feet.
Art had always been his greatest passion. Studying the master painters was an obsession of his very early on and something he had eventually become an expert at. He could identify nearly every important piece of artwork from the Impressionist period as well as most of the other periods in Western culture. The Collector's personal art collection had grown through the years and was displayed throughout the mansion. Among his collection of nearly sixty pieces were several priceless masterpieces, including a few obscure paintings by Degas. He had gone to great lengths and expense to insure that no one other than a chosen few were aware of his priceless collection, always insisting on absolute anonymity as a condition of purchase with his sellers. No one in the art world had even a clue to his vast collection.
And he planned on keeping it that way.
Some of the pieces in his possession were officially listed as either stolen or lost. A couple of them he had arranged to be stolen just so he could own them. Some of the other pieces were among those that only very few people knew existed, such as the Degas'. These were his pride and joy
and the mere thought of losing a single one of them literally sickened him.
Halfway through his MFA degree program, the Collector had become absolutely enthralled and obsessed with the French impressionist Edgar Degas. Not just his brilliant work, but his life, his philosophy of life, his very existence. Here was a man who had known what he wanted and always got it. The more he researched the master, the more of an affinity he felt toward the man. It came to a point that he could almost feel the spirit of Edgar Degas within his body, driving him to become the person he had now become.
There had been one serious setback, however. For as diligently as he studied and relentlessly practiced, he could not paint like the master. In fact, his talent as a painter could be compared to that of a below average high school student. This had not been an easy conclusion for him to accept.
As a result of this disappointing realization, the Collector entered what he called his "blue period"—a period of time that began with his own admission of having abysmal painting skills and ended only a couple of years ago. He had become so depressed during that period that he had nearly taken his own life on more than a few occasions. It had been nearly impossible accepting the reality that he had come as far as he had at emulating Edgar Degas—from being the son of a wealthy businessman to owning one the of most extensive private collections of art in his time—yet had been unable to acquire the most important quality of all: the ability to paint like a master.
Then, like an angel from the sky something suddenly entered the scene that had proven to his salvation: photography. If he couldn't paint like the master then he would do the next best thing: create his art with his camera. Along with some help from Adobe Photoshop.
And this he now knew was his fate, what he had been put on this earth for. Degas had dabbled with photography himself in his later years, but had known that his true calling was painting. So it was only natural that the Collector take up the slack left by Degas and become the photographer that the master couldn't be. And how had Edgar Degas become such a great painter in the first place? He had spent much of his early career copying other famous painter's works. Duplicating their styles right down to their distinctive, individual brush strokes.
That's when the Collector knew he was on the right track. Instead of attempting to copy Degas' work by painting them, he would go a step further and recreate his canvasses by setting up the scenes down to the most minuscule detail and photograph them!
Everything had suddenly fallen into place—even the idea for his pen name. One of Degas' most famous portraits was named "The Collector," a painting of a man sitting at a desk holding a print in his hand with a portfolio of artwork at his feet and art pieces adorning the wall in the composition. The Collector's take on this piece was that Degas was symbolizing himself in the painting, expressing his personal passion for amassing an impressive collection of art.
Ironically, while researching this particular painting the Collector discovered that there was a different title sometimes used for the piece: "The Amateur." He had never been able to find out why this was so—all he knew was that he had suddenly experienced an epiphany. He knew what he wanted to be known by, for this alternative title for the piece symbolized all that had gone down in his life. Finally acknowledging his own inadequacies at last and his fervent desire to turn those inadequacies into something strong and positive—indeed, a force to be reckoned with.
But would he be able to share his gift to the world in his lifetime, or would his art not be appreciated until after his death? This had become a dilemma of sorts—something that the Collector struggled with on nearly a daily basis.
The problem was obvious: if someone were to ever view his images, there was a very good chance that his crimes would be discovered. Someone would eventually come along and connect the dots between the models and his images. And as bad as he wanted to share his work with the art world, doing so would be absolute folly. He did not want to go to prison, that he was certain of.
So he had for the most part conceded that his art would be for his own pleasure only. But this had not always been easy to accept, which is why he occasionally found himself letting his guard down and taking risks. Like the website he had just started. He eventually planned on posting all of his best work on that site, anonymously of course, and without advertising it. His pride and ego had gotten to him one day so he had sent the URL to a couple of trusted friends to get their opinions—people with whom he knew that his secret would be safe. But that was to be the extent of his sharing and it had to remain that way.
Or did it? Was it possible that his careful planning and low profile was enough to let him have his cake and eat it too? After all, he had gone to great trouble and expense to use models that were absolutely faceless and nameless in this country. In fact, they were half the world away from their homes and certainly nobody would ever see any of their faces on a milk carton! And due to the very nature of impressionism—the muted colors and suppressed details—he had been able to mask their identities through simulated brush strokes in Photoshop. Their features were literally obscured by this technique to the extent that even their own mothers would have a tough time recognizing them.
Time will tell, he thought. First thing's first. He had finished photographing the dance/ballerina series and would spend the next few weeks modifying the remaining images in Photoshop until he was happy with them. In the meantime, he would call Yuri again and confirm that he was done with the girls. He would also show him the body type that he would need for the bath series by sending him a few examples of Degas' paintings. He would need four women, full-figured with milky-white skin, which shouldn't take Yuri’s recruiter nearly as long as it had to obtain the young girls. This was a good thing because he wanted to get started on the new project within the next couple of months or so at the latest. He was pumped!
As much as he loved Harold, he knew that the man would never be able to fully understand him or his art. When he had first told Harold of his plan to re-create Degas' dance/ballerina series, his loyal companion had been thrilled to see him up and enthusiastic for something after such a long time. But when he informed Harold that he did not want to hire local schoolgirls to be used as models but instead planned on using European girls smuggled into the country, he thought the old man was going to have a coronary! It had taken quite a while to calm Branson down before he finally let him in on the rest of his plan, which was to have the girls stay here at the mansion 24/7 until the project was finished.
The Collector could still see Harold's reaction as clearly as if it were only yesterday: at first he had simply stared at him incredulously, unable to speak for several moments. Then he had recovered enough to ask why in the world he couldn't just hire a few girls to model instead of taking such, quote "ridiculously absurd and illegal measures just to shoot a few photographs?"
Had the look on Harold's face not been so comical, the Collector would have been angry for his assistant's lack of tact. Besides not knowing anything about the artistic process, his dear old friend was making light of something that was going to involve a hell of a lot more than just "shooting a few photographs." But poor Harold was clueless. He had no idea that in order to copy something and make it look authentic you must begin with something that is authentic. He didn't understand that a few silly American schoolgirls simply couldn’t hold a candle to the real deal. Degas had originally painted European girls who had class and charm—who possessed a sort of presence that no American could ever convey to the viewer.
Furthermore, these girls had to be totally dedicated to their work, formally trained in dance, custom outfitted, made-up, stylized and be ready to pose for no less than a hundred shooting sessions. This would require them to remain on site in standby mode—ready to go whenever he was ready to go. Hiring American girls that had been dropped off by their mothers for an hour at a time after school was simply not going to cut it.
Not to mention the likelihood of their mothers’ insistence to hang aro
und throughout the shoots to make sure that their precious child wasn't molested or abused in any way.
Although he had explained all of this to Harold, it still took him several days to finally accept it. But then, god love him, he had eventually embraced the project fully and in fact been become a great support to him throughout the process. He drove into the city once a week to purchase food, clothing and supplies and never complained about all of the measures he had to take to avoid arousing suspicion among the locals. He saw to it that the girls did their chores around the house in a timely fashion and monitored their movements whenever they were allowed out of their room. In fact, Branson kept everything operating smoothly so that he was free to do his work without having to worry about anything interfering with it.
The Collector entered his study, sat down at the computer and connected the camera through a USB port. After the images appeared on the screen, he began the proofing process, comparing each image to the copy of Degas' painting until he found the right one. Having narrowed his choices down to three, he stared at the young girl and marveled at how well she had performed for him. Such a sweet young face, such a classic adolescent body. In fact, she would be perfect for—
Like a bolt of lightning, an idea suddenly came to him. And it was absolutely brilliant!
Nearly out of breath, the Collector double-clicked a folder on his desktop, located the file he wanted and dragged it into Photoshop. It was a photo of a sculpture by Degas, the one and only sculpture he had ever publicly displayed: The Little Dancer of Fourteen Years.
He then placed one of the images of Polina beside the picture of the sculpture. It was uncanny. The girl had nearly the exact same body and facial features as the girl in the sculpture. Long and thin arms and legs, thin waist with just the slightest of curved hips, nearly flat-chested . . .
Could this girl not be the perfect model for his absolute favorite work by Degas?
Then suddenly, reality reared its ugly head.
He could not sculpt. He couldn't even create a decent pinch pot!
So what made him think he could create a copy of this magnificent work of art?
Then it hit him—an idea so bizarre and absolutely wicked that he could barely contain himself!
Degas' original sculpture had been made of wax, so how hard would it be to simply pour hot wax over the model Polina in the nude? The result would be a life-size perfect replica of the young girl! Then he could create a ceramic cast from the wax sculpture, just as Degas' heirs had done to the wax original after his death, and then pour molten bronze into the cast. How hard would that be? After cleaning up the imperfections he could then dress the bronze figure in a cream-colored silk bodice, a gauze tutu, and fabric slippers, just as had been done to the original. The result would be his own true masterpiece—the pièce de résistance of his career— truly original and for once, not a fucking copy!
The only catch to this brilliant idea would be the certain death of the girl. And as regrettable as that would be, she would in a sense never really die, for she would be immortalized in bronze. To be looked at and enjoyed for future generations.
Does it get any better than that?
And not only would the girl have a permanent place in history, he would be sparing her a fate that would certainly be much worse. He was not so naive to think that the Russian smuggler would be getting these girls another cushy modeling gig. No, they were destined to become common prostitutes, sex slaves to be robbed of their innocence and youth.
Such a pity. But lucky for Polina, she would be spared this horrible fate.
His hands now literally trembling from the sheer exhilaration of this brainstorm, the Collector suddenly took a deep breath and a moment to come back down to earth. Of course he realized the horrific risk he would be taking if he were to follow through with this undertaking. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea after all. He would have to give it some time to air out and wait for a vibe to push him one way or the other.
But it was certainly food for thought . . .
The Collector Page 32
