by Tal Vinnik
My output was as good as it had ever been and my hand invariably steady; weeks passed with many ignored phone calls from prior clients, but without any incidents. There were only ten brushes in my satchel, so I went over to the scaffold to see if they had anything, just in case. No one seemed to hear me in the din of it all, so I took it upon myself to climb up to them. I realized how close I was and I was awestruck; right below Adam and God, fingers almost touching, and I couldn't help but think in spite of myself of the alien film Spielberg released three year prior. As my hand moved up with my finger drawn, about to make a T with the fingers of God, the first man, and me, it became obvious to me how lazily Michelangelo had treated the ceiling: the distance the piece is typically viewed from masked the fact that three of Adam's fingers appeared to be almost random streaks of paint.
“Eh, vous. What are you doing?” My hand quickly retreated. I turned toward the bald Frenchman, lifting up my badge for him to see. He laughed and said, “Ah, oui.” He whispered, “I could not help myself either. In maybe two years we clean all the damage out anyway. It's okay. Go ahead.” He surveyed the area to make sure no one was watching, ignoring all of the people below us whose eyes were directed right at us. I felt too self-conscious now to give it another go. “D'accord,” he went on. “You can wait for me to leave.” He looked down at my badge. “Mon Dieu, are you the same Garner I am thinking of?” His mouth was agape and my face turned rosy. “I admire your work very much. I would appreciate so much if you give me, us, any tips you have.” I scanned my mind for anything I could dole out to him.
“Huh, I don't think I know anything you don't. Right now I'm experimenting with a bit of a new technique. I'm afraid to use it on anything quite as beautiful as this yet. Once I get everything down perfectly, I'd be happy to give you some pointers.” His face lit up; it was like I told him the secret to alchemy. “Not that I think you need it. This looks like it's coming along quite nicely.”
It did not. The colors of the restored portion of the ceiling were so dramatic, almost neon-like, that it could not have been His original intention. I said nothing. If the Vatican took issue with this frog's choice, maybe I could finally get to the ceiling and get paid for quite an easy fix. A messenger boy yelled out and pointed up to me. I climbed down and he gave me a post-it note that said there was a call for me. When I asked him who it was, I think I frightened him with the urgency that was in my voice, and he meekly said that they were from “Neverland.” I ran to the nearest phone almost immediately to make the call and my fingers moved so quickly, it took a few attempts to dial the correct number.
A voice in a thick Dutch accent answered. “Hello, this is the Amsterdam mus-” I put down the receiver and walked away as conspicuously as I could.
Armed with a quart-inch, soft-edge brush, I returned to Moses. I experimented with various plasters to place in the cracks and chipped off a microscopic piece of the picture at the edge to send for chemical analysis. The uniformed like to think that art restoration is taking a sponge with some water and pressing it against the picture. A sponge is a wonderful tool, but restoration artists like to think of what we do more as a detective mystery; I was affectionately dubbed Columbo by the art community. Often, I would also imagine myself as a surgeon; one wrong move and someone's legacy could die. Countless pieces have been ruined by amateurs removing too many layers or using a chemical that would react with various forms of obsolete paints. My original intention was to make a very large portion of this trip a vacation, but with Botticelli's frescoes, my days, and parts of my nights, were taken over by my work.
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