Modern Art

by Tal Vinnik

On a foggy Wednesday, I strode into the Sistine after a week's excursion for a small project in a chapel in Sicily. I waved hello to the ceiling workers, whom I had grown to like despite their occupational efficiencies. They were endearing, like the dancing frog from the only Bugs Bunny cartoons. Concettina was looking at my work affectionately. She turned at the sound of my footsteps.

  “Bonjourno, Signor Garner.” Unfortunately, following my fall, our conversations had returned to the formality with which we began. “I hope your trip went well. Something happened while you were gone which I wanted to have talk with you about.” I panicked. If anyone had figured it out, it would be her.

  “Bonjourno. What happened?” Her face abruptly turned serious, which confirmed my fears. Running out of the Vatican again would have been an absurd gesture, so I stood my ground. “Two days ago...oh, it's horrible. Two days ago, the wife of the patron funding this restoration came to Brazil because her husband heard you had done some work on 'The Daughters of Jethro,' which is his favorite piece. Olivier, one of the guards, he heard a scream come from over here.” I swerved around to see if a guard was on his way to arrest me. Getting caught was something I anticipated, but perhaps not so fast. She was waiting for a cue to continue, but did so anyway when I looked at her blankly. “When he came, the wife was on the floor, almost dead. Stroke, poor woman.” My eyes widened as this was certainly not the turn of events I was expecting.

  “Here?” I asked. She nodded, gravely. “That's... horrible? That's horrible.” I tried to keep the relief from my voice, but some slipped through; the things we say in our grief.

  “Si. She lay there, and then died right in his hands while waiting for the police. He was so scared. He was on me, crying for an hour.” I could only imagine the consolation that gave Olivier. She looked at my feet where I figured the woman expired, and stepped back.

  “Did she say anything? How is her husband?” If it was the man's favorite piece and his wife noticed something, it was certain that he would as well.

  “Nothing. Not a word. Her husband is flying over after the funeral. I hear he can barely afford it. He poured half of his money in paying for the restoration of the walls and then his company started failing. Maybe your work can bring just a little happiness to him.” The only joy I could bring him would be through my painful death. It was only then that I realized that it wasn't the Vatican who paid for this part of the restoration. At least John Paul had good taste. I contemplated my options, leaving my work on the rest of the fresco, looking on the daughters for hours. The chapel was strangely emptied when Concettina walked over.

  “Signor Garner, Charles.” I looked up. I hated these moments alone with her. “Can I ask you a question?” Again, my blank expression signaled for her to continue. “You've never shot up here, have you?”

  “Shot up... what?”

  “I am not stupid. I heard glass. Why would have run out so fast if not?” Perhaps, I had given her too much credit. Still, the patron was on his way.”

  “No. In here? Of course not. Some things are sacred. And, I have to tell you that I'm done. I'm clean. I'm really, truly clean.” She nodded her head, perhaps half-believing me at best.

  “That is great. But please, you should go. I know you like to work late, but this place... we're a very...what's the word? Like Stevie Wonder?”

  “Blind?”

  “No, never mind. The live aren't alone is all.” She began to walk away when I didn't respond as I waited to be left alone with the ghost of the patron's wife. When her steps completely faded, I retriever little test tubes that were hidden in my inner coat pocked.

  The daughter on the right was finished, so I set my sights on her companion on the left. I dabbed a brush in the tube filled with paint I had painfully concocted to match the lights parts of the hair. Her eyebrows seemed the most problematic to me, rounded in an impossible fashion. Easily removed. Since I would have no time to let anything dry, let alone even think of layering, I put the correct eyebrows on first and painted over the others. Next, the nose sloped unnaturally onto the girl's face like a caveman's, which could only be solved by constructing an entirely new one, dabbing into the vial for the skin. After I was able to correct her face in its shape and complexion, I traveled down to the neck, which although barely visible, looked unnaturally elongated, so I painted a thicker one over some of the girl's hair. I continued until I reached her outstretched hands, which reminded me of an imp. Her feet? Her feet were almost as monstrous as the difficulty that it took to remove them. Although I despise admitting it, I have to give praise to Botticelli for his use of shadow, which made the task of matching the original colors somewhat difficult. I thought of adding a layer of varnish to the painting as I usually would to match my portion better to the rest, but the paint was far too wet. The painting would end up looking worse than it had started. Unsatisfied with my rushed work, but sure this was going to be the best I could do that night, I traveled back into Rome at about three in the morning after chatting briefly, nervously, with a colorful Swiss Guard. The few belongings I had were quickly tossed into a suitcase. Exhausted, I had the first full night of sleep I had since first arriving in Italy and awoke at six at night that day.

  I began returning the messages of various museums that had called to see where in the world my techniques weren't known and where I would still be able to work. Somehow, no one had called asking me to pay in damages. No, nearly every call was the same:

  “You brought something out in so and so artist that we had never seen before. Could you come back to do some more work for us?”

  Still, my exposure in Rome was imminent and I figured I could finish only one, perhaps two more jobs, before the consequences caught up to me. I listened to the artists each museum quoted, but all of them were too... good. A poor time to peak in my field. Any idiot could restore a talented artist, but to restore someone truly terrible takes someone of my caliber and boldness. That was why I put my hopes on a call to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Any changes I would make to modern “art” would be noticed, but the success would be worth whatever punished they would inflict on me.

  “Yeah,” the young girl on the line began. “We had this fire last week at a special exhibit. It was kind of devastating. We got some great referrals for you and were hoping you could stop by, tell us what the damage is and if you can do anything.”

  “Well, in my experience anything is salvageable. Who's the artist?”

  Her answer had me on a plane in less than 24 hours:

  “Picasso.”

  ###

  About the Author

  Tal Vinnik resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan, biding his time before fame and success. This is his first published work. He has written several short films including Convenience and had a lead role in the award-winning short film, Heart. Most recently, he was the voice behind the iConsent mobile application.

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