The Hand of the Master

Jasper lifted the canvas from the easel with a flourish. He eyed it critically, then threw his head back and shouted "Up yours Doctor Winston!"

Whistling with satisfaction, he carried it across the room. A queer walk, legs backward jointed, much like that of maribou stork in shallow water. The scent of Brut followed him. Near his north wall, illuminated by a skylight, he held the painting at arm's length. Only Jasper could judge it. Only Jasper knew the precise brush technique and the subtle mixture of viridian and Prussian blue that Picasso was fond of in that period between 1910 and 1915, and in that north light he thought it was just about right. No dealer in Soho would ever suspect that it was not a Picasso. Picasso himself might have been persuaded that it was his if he'd been around long enough to paint a portrait of George Bush.

Jasper Jones was not a forger; he had never copied a work of art. His subjects were those the masters did not live long enough to see. He had learned their technique, and he could paint precisely as they would have painted had they been living today in Soho. He boldly signed "JASPER JONES" to each painting and made no effort of subterfuge. In point of fact he truly believed his name on a painting lent it greater value. On the other hand he was not stupid. There had been occasions when he considered the possibility of forgery; a particularly successful painting of water lilies might well have been sold as an original just by signing it "Monet." No one would have been the wiser.

But that was too dangerous a game for Jasper. Let someone else do that. There are too many scientific tests to question a painting's authenticity. Too many simple ones as well -- cracking of pigment -- patina -- staples instead of tacks binding the canvas to the stretcher. Once caught, the game was over, and you'd find yourself up the river spending the rest of your life painting the walls of prison hospital wards. No! Jasper Jones was content to be an impersonator in the painting game. Why shouldn't he be content? He was wealthier than any of the struggling masters he impersonated, and in a strangely twisted way he kept their art alive.

As a young student in New York, and later at the Ecole de Beaux-Arts in Paris, his bearded professors had told him in no uncertain terms that he was an empty shell of an artist. All the technique in the world -- but with absolutely nothing to say. He was condemned as a kind of painting machine and exhibited to his fellow students as a young man who might make a good living but could never make living good for others. He thought of that now with a smile as he held his "Picasso" at arm's length under the skylight.

"Still teaching nights, Winston? Making thirty-forty thousand a year in some windowless art school on the west side...lecturing afternoons to old ladies in the library on "Art" with a capital "A." Professor Winston indeed! Professor of what?" Jasper went to the palette and dipped his brush in bright red, he carefully signed the Picasso'..."JASPER JONES." It would bring to a close the fifty portraits of the presidents that would be hung in the Presidential Suite of the Hotel Boston Splendide. "Fifteen hundred dollars each unframed -- take that Professor Winston! Getting even is the best revenge."

Next would be Barbados...a time for reflection, a week or two in the fragrant embrace of the hotels' amber-eyed secretary and an honest appraisal of what he might do with the rest of his life. The Captain's Savings Bank's series of great Pacific naval battles of World War II as they would have been painted by William Turner was next....a cinch! He would breeze through that in a month. But after that, who knows! Life offers a foil-wrapped, chocolate surprise every day.

Today, no one he knew from that class of '56 at the Sorbonne could rub two sous together--and the T-shirters at the Art Students League! Forget it, they were all doing graphics for television; taking orders from the likes of production assistants! "Professor Winston....Hah!"

"Vanessa, call Goldberg. Get him over here in the morning...the presidents are moving out." Vanessa was Jasper's unappreciated and sexually harassed young lady from the basement who painted large and obscure cubist canvasses. He gave her the space in return for her limited secretarial talent and her more advanced sexual abilities.

"You can't be finished already, Mr. Jones" Then she spotted the Picasso' and gasped "A miracle...really Mr. Jones, a veritable miracle! There's no question; it's a perfect example of the cubist style of portraiture in that seminal period that bridges the...."

"Cut the shit, Vanessa. Get Goldberg over here with his frames, I need a week or two in the sun then I must be off to World War II." He gave her a possessive pat...."Why don't you wash up, kid? You smell like a moldy basement...I'll show you a miracle."

Vanessa washed up and called Goldberg. The sexual interlude which followed was nowhere near a miracle. The smell of Brut still lingered in her basement bedroom as though some strange, exotic animal had passed through. Jasper was a user...a user of the masters and a user of her as well. It occurred to her that having sex with Jasper was not really much different than having it with Picasso, or Monet, or even Grandma Moses, had she been available this gloomy April afternoon.

Well, he was gone now. She had the evening to work on her mammoth cubist interpretation of the "Creation." Seven giant panels, each six feet wide and twelve feet long, so large they were stacked flat on the basement floor. Vanessa had rigged up a child's swing above them in which she sat suspended from the first floor beams. From this precarious position she could cover the entire seven days of the Creation, one day at a time. It was a modern day Sistine Ceiling in reverse. Occasionally Jasper would come down and ridicule her. "Hah!...the trapeze artist!. At it again? What nonsense, Vanessa. Who do you expect will buy this rubbish when you're done?"

The following morning, Goldberg, sensing a killing, was there early. He was a very exclusive framer. Artists came to him and pored over his samples of mats and moldings. They would usually give up in despair and ask Goldberg to do what he thought best. But Jasper was special...his was a commercial account and merited personal service. Whatever the price was, Jasper would pay and pass it on.

Vanessa had spent a sleepless night caught up somewhere between the fifth and sixth day of the Creation.

"Vanessa, darling...how is it with you? How is it I never frame anything for you? Jasper, I never worry; he is like a sausage machine...well we won't go into that. But you my dear, you are a conundrum down there in your basement."

Vanessa had not had breakfast. She was cold, artistically stretched out, and in truth she was damn sick and tired of her Creation, Jasper Jones, and Goldberg, too. She pointed to the series of presidential portraits stacked in the corner.

"I think there's fifty, Goldberg. Were there fifty presidents? It doesn't matter, I think the contract was for fifty."

Jasper arrived, looking for all the world like Aubrey Beardsley...slouch hat, flowing muffler and cigarette holder. "Goldberg! Dear man, so nice of you to come at my bidding...and Vanessa, she is as beautiful in the morning as she is in the evening...you may take that as a compliment, my dear if you wish, although it infers that your appearance has not improved."

"I tell you what, Jasper. A big job, but I gear up and I'm done by Wednesday. No Fed "X", no UPS, I spring for the crating and shipping myself. $500 apiece."

"That's..." Jasper pushed his slouch hat back on his head. "Is that $25,000?"

"Yes," Goldberg smiled innocently, "and you pay me when they pay you...and for dear Vanessa, I throw in a freebie for you."

Jasper was above bickering, but not so far above it that he didn't know Goldberg was making a fortune. But knowing that his own profit made Goldberg's look like a piker was consolation enough.

"You cannot frame Vanessa," Jasper readjusted his gaily colored muffler. "Her work is large scale...you could sooner frame the Sistine Chapel Ceiling. It has always amused me that her talent diminishes in direct proportion to the size of her canvasses." Jasper removed a gold watch from his gray westcoat and snapped open the cover. "Handle it, Vanessa, you know where they are....be careful with the Picasso; it may still be moist. Are my tickets waiting at Kennedy? Good." He smiled for the first time this morning, a smile that broadened as he peered through the gallery window at his chauffeur standing by the Lincoln Town Car.

"Life is good, Goldberg, and getting better." He turned to Vanessa. "Dear Vanessa, the place is yours. It would be helpful if you would straighten up the studio before I return. See to the fresh supplies...stretch some canvasses, 30 by 40 inches should suffice, I think. Check on the Alizarin Crimson, my dear...the Pacific Theater was a bloody one." He flung the muffler over his shoulder and walked like some strange predatory bird to the gallery door. "Thank you all," he said. "Thank you, Pablo. Thank you, Claude, Thank you too, Vincent...you have been most kind!"

When he had left, Goldberg shook his bald head and turned to Vanessa. "A most distasteful man...a Schlemiel. How can you stand him, Vanessa? He is a man I would not wish on the daughter of my worst enemy."

"A place to work, that's all. I've had the whole basement to myself...there's no way I could have put the 'Creation' together without that basement."

Goldberg sighed. "Pitiful. May I use the phone, Vanessa? Thank you." Goldberg called the trucking company to get the paintings to his shop. "In twenty minutes, excellent, I'll be at the front door." He hung up and turned to Vanessa. "May I see this 'Creation' of yours, Vanessa?"

"You can only see the sixth day, I'm afraid. It's the top one. Six feet wide and twelve feet long...." she paused at the basement door, "What's wrong with me Goldberg? I never should have started it." She was near tears. "Who would ever exhibit such a thing?"

"Tut-tut, my child! It is an enormous subject, no? I would not expect to see it painted on the head of a pin. Let us go downstairs and see your 'Creation'. We can schmooze, eh?....a heart to heart. There must be something we can do."

"Gros Gott!" marveled Goldberg as he stood awe-struck at the foot of the 'sixth day'. "Let me see, let me see....that was the day He put man together, no?"

"Yes, the work was done. On the seventh day, He rested."

"You have used a cubist style. How clever of you! It is probably closer to the truth than Michelangelo with his goyim Adam." Goldberg was agitated. "I must see these together, Vanessa. How can that be done?"

Vanessa had intended the six panels to be viewed together in a tight circle. The seventh panel would be black and be hinged as a door. Each of them would stand on end and the viewer would stand at the axis, in this way the entire creation would surround him. She explained this to Goldberg, who began to bubble with excitement.

"Kingsley," he shouted. "Kingsley at the Guggenheim! He would do this! It would draw enormous crowds...miracles could occur, Vanessa! You have a gold mine here! I must see the others....how can we see them all together here?"

"Jasper's studio I guess, that's the only place with a ceiling high enough to stand them on end."

Goldberg was beside himself. "Good! The men with the truck. They'll be here any moment. They can bring them upstairs. Do not worry, Vanessa, Jasper is in the sun for two weeks; by that time your name will be in lights."

Goldberg stared at the sixth day. It was incredibly rich in detail. It seemed to change as he looked, or maybe he noticed things he didn't see at first glance. If the panels lying under this one were as painstakingly done...but of course they would have to be, he was looking at the last one! If the inspiration had not flagged...but how could it, this was the final one!

"I am truly impressed, Vanessa. I had no idea you had this unique talent. Where did you study?"

Vanessa was sitting in a folding chair tilted back with her head against the wall. Her eyes were shut and she was close to napping. "I studied in a small Tech school in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Then, when my father died, I came to New York and got a part-time job at Fox Television. I wanted to paint so I went to the Art Student's League uptown. Professor Winston was still teaching there, a great teacher. I heard so much about him back home in Bethlehem."

She squeezed her eyes together and ran her fingers through her long black hair. "One night Jasper came to lecture on plagiarism, and he...well, he got me down here to Soho, showed me the basement. I had the idea to paint something really big, you know, really cosmic."

Goldberg stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looked at his watch. "What can be keeping them...the truck men, I mean." He turned to Vanessa. "You were wrong to listen to Jasper, Vanessa. But still, how I envy you. I have always envied people of talent. In Warsaw where I was born, I haunted the National Museum. It had been stripped bare by the Nazis. Some of the things came back after the trials...but not the good things. The museum was a shambles, an artistic junkyard. All that was left were the frames. You could walk through the galleries...nothing there but frames. The Germans had cut the pictures out, rolled them up and shipped them home, all the Caravaggios, the Botticellis. That's how I got into the framing business, did I tell you?" Vanessa seemed to be asleep. "Vanessa, what is that light over the stair?"

She roused herself and stood up. "Oh, that's the front door -- someone's at the front door."

Goldberg seemed reinvigorated. "It's the truck men, the truck men!" He started up the stairs. "Come, Vanessa! Your life's about to begin!"

The panels barely fit in Jasper's studio. Each of them interlocked with its neighbor and the seventh panel was hinged to the sixth. It served as the door which sealed the entire sweep of the Creation in a cylindrical form almost twenty feet in diameter. When the door was closed, the only illumination came through the open circle at the top from the north skylight.

Goldberg had gathered the presidential portraits in one corner of the studio, "Now, then, here are the paintings -- there are fifty. My assistant will be waiting for you. Mind the little one, that's a Picasso...what am I telling you! Picasso! What do you know from Picasso? Anyway, mind it. It may still be wet...don't shmear, O.K.? Now go!"

He mopped his brow and turned to Vanessa, "Now my dear --- it is time to see."

Vanessa unlatched the seventh panel and they stepped inside. It was nearly eleven, and a soft spring light filtered down from the skylight above. Somehow the space they stood in seemed larger than it should be; they felt surrounded by a measureless emptiness. Just left of the door could be seen the separation of matter from the void, dark from the light, and the land from the sea. Numberless stars were forming from swirling luminous gas. Blind, groping fish appeared in the turgid sea below and fed upon each other -- some crawled upon the dry land and fed upon the life living there. Every living thing fed on every other living thing. The sensation of being in the center of things--at the center of the universe--was compelling. Goldberg felt dwarfed and bewildered, and even Vanessa couldn't believe what she had accomplished.

Over and above this tumultuous spectacle and looking down from the firmament with intense interest was a figure of tragic beauty. It may well have been man or woman, fish or fowl, insect, bush, or tree. It was a figure of great presence but no recognizable form, and it cared deeply for the awesome thing it had begun below.

The tragic figure could not leave the Creation in such a chaotic state. Five days had passed, and the frenzy of feeding alone ruled this riotous and rampaging world. There must be reason! Something must still be done. It searched for a solution. It could not seek advice. It was alone, and it must find that reason without help from any source. Too much had been wasted already -- other worlds were waiting.

Why not something in its own image? Something to claim dominion over this unruly world. But what was its image? It was a figure, a cubist figure...nothing more. It must be something they will fear and love. The figure would rest now and tomorrow would be another day. It chose a cool and quiet garden. One far removed from the fields of feeding. No turbulence here--a land of milk and honey.

Another day! Yes, the Creator would need another day. It rested a bit. Just a bit; it couldn't waste much time, there were other worlds to work with. It rested, and the sixth period of light began....

Goldberg stared at Vanessa's interpretation of the first man. The tortured eyes of Adam stared back at him abstractly, like a man waking from a deep sleep. "My God, girl. How did you ever conceive of such a work? I am not a person to give praise lightly...but this is an absolutely unique and original work." He seemed to lose his balance in the dark. "Please, Vanessa...I need air...I have no sense of where I am; there is no floor under me."

Vanessa took his arm, opened the seventh panel, and together they stepped through into Jasper's studio. Goldberg stumbled over to one of Jasper's blue velvet chairs and sat heavily. Vanessa was upset as well. She had only seen her Creation one panel at a time, hoping that when she had finished, there would be some sense of continuity. But she hadn't counted on the full consequence of it in totality. Its likeness to the Bible's Creation had been frighteningly real.

"You O.K., Mr. Goldberg?"

He stared back at her questioningly, looking like a man who's lost something and can't remember what it was. "The Adam...there is something vaguely familiar...I am not a religious man, Vanessa. No. Not orthodox. My father was orthodox. They had burned the synagogues, and he would pray at home, in everybody's way...while supper was on the stove....while we would listen to the radio. Papa would pray. I think he only came home to pray.

While I can, Vanessa...in my breast pocket. You have it? Yes, that's it...a small book. Look up Kingsley--the curator of Guggenheim. A museum of great distinction but lousy art. It is a private number, very few people are privileged, you know? Not even Jasper has this number. As God is my judge, Vanessa, this work of yours will stand under the magnificent dome of the Guggenheim museum! Will you dial the number for me?"

"Are you sure you're all right, Mr. Goldberg. You look pale; can I get you something?" Vanessa had already pulled herself together. Her tiredness was gone, her breath came quickly, she was flushed and exhilarated. The months of work were done and the results exceeded her wildest dreams.

"Mr. Kingsley? Simon Goldberg is calling, will you hold for him please?" Goldberg took a deep breath as Vanessa handed him the phone.

"Sherman? Simon. I have just seen the most remarkable thing. A painting you would not believe." He listened a moment, then continued. "I did not say such a thing when I framed for you Cezanne's "Potato Eaters", did I? No, I did not! But now I say it, Sherman. It is more than a painting; it is a religious experience. People will not be the same after. I want it to be in the rotunda of the Guggenheim under your magnificent dome." Goldberg grew redder and waved his free hand like a conductor.

"Of course I'm excited! Who would not be excited! I want you should come here, Sherman. You must see it now! What time this afternoon? No later, I warn you--it must be seen under a north skylight. You know the Jones studio in Soho? Yes, Jasper Jones. No, of course not, are you crazy? The name is--a shiksa, by the way--Vanessa...." he turned to Vanessa. "Mine Gott, Vanessa, do you realize I don't know your last name?"

Vanessa, caught up by Goldberg's enthusiasm, stammered, "Eden."

"Vanessa Eden, Sherman ... I know, I know. Trust me, it is prophetic. Come, Sherman. Come quickly!" He hung up feeling he hadn't said all he wanted to say. "I know a place for lunch, Vanessa....West side. I cannot leave you here alone, I must tell you how to plan. Your future is bright and there are pitfalls everywhere."

It had been an inspiring morning for both of them, and a kinship had sprung up between this elderly Jewish artisan and this twenty-two-year-old snip of a girl who might well have created one of the most compelling works of art in the twentieth century. Eagerly they finished their coffee and walked out into the pale light of the spring afternoon. Without realizing it, they held hands as they walked back to Jasper's studio. It was an act of closeness, not possession. The affection of a childless father for a fatherless daughter.

The Creation still stood under the skylight. Neither Vanessa nor Simon were inclined to go in again. They still felt the effects from the first experience. It was daunting. "If it has one down-side, my dear, it is like all four operas of the 'Ring of the Nibelungen' seen back to back. Too much for mortal man to swallow." Simon winked and added, "But in the Guggenheim, where people come as some do to Lourdes, they expect to see miracles. Perhaps there should be music...what do you think--maybe we could get Andrew Lloyd Webber? I know it is a work of art, my dear, but you must admit it has elements of Disneyland as well."

"Please, Simon, I would just like to see this out of here before Jasper gets back."

The bell rang at the stroke of two.

"That has got to Sherman already. We are ready, are we not, Vanessa?" Simon hurried to the door. "Come in, come in, Sherman. You are not too late." He gestured toward the giant cylinder sitting under the north light of the studio. "There it is! Think of all the Guggenheim money you've thrown away, Sherman. Now! With one fell swoop you will be the most envied of art connoisseurs." He turned to Vanessa.

"And this is the young lioness, Sherman. From the moment this work stands under the great dome of the Guggenheim, her name will stand next to Raphael!!"

The caustic remark concerning Kingsley's poor taste as a connoisseur was an opinion shared by just about everyone in the art world. The Guggenheim Museum was one of the architectural marvels of the age but was filled with some of the world's most appalling examples of modern art. Only traveling exhibitions were worth going to see. It might be compared to the "Old Vic" in London, whose performances of Shakespeare are only palatable when visiting troupes come to play.

Kingsley was a gray man. Everything about him was gray. His suit, his shirt, his tie were gray. Touches of silver only heightened his grayness. His hair was a mixture of both gray and silver and as close shaven as a tennis ball. He wore a silver monocle suspended from his lapel by a broad gray ribbon. To keep it in his eye, he bared his upper teeth and flared his nostrils wide.

"All I see is the backs of canvasses, Goldberg."

"I will panel them in midnight blue, Sherman...all included in the price. Let us no more dilly with the dally. Shall we see what you came for?"

Kingsley paused at the seventh panel, and turned to look at Vanessa. "Do I know you, young lady?" He respected the professionalism of Goldberg but hated him personally, and now he was going to view the work of a nonentity! Would he be called on again to render a personal judgment?....so many of them had gone awry.

"No, Mr. Kingsley. I am completely unknown to you, and to just about anyone else you can think of, I imagine." Vanessa reached for the door pull and the three of them stepped inside.

The sixth day was now complete. All other species save that of man was begettable. Fish begat fish, bird begat bird, and every flower of the field contained the seed of a new generation. yet Adam lay alone, "A way a lone a last a loved a long."* He sat on his naked butt in the middle of Eden and looked up at the Creator.

"I think you've forgotten something, Winston. May I call you Winston? You are the creator, are you not?" The Creator had been created in Adam's image and they shared a common language. Tired as the Creator was, he realized there was still work to be done. Six days were too short; he should have set a more leisurely goal. Three people had just entered the Creation, perhaps one of them would do. "I see them too," said Adam. "The short one with the long dark hair ... see what you can do with her."

"Vanessa, that figure...next to Adam! that was not there before. It is you, is it not?"

"I don't remember painting that! And look! The figure up there, the figure of God! I could never bring myself to personalize it -- it seemed sacrilegious somehow. But I swear it's the spitting image of Professor Winston."

Kingston's monocle had fallen out of his eye moments ago. His mouth hung open, and his head bobbed up, down and sideways. He clung to Simon Goldberg for support. "Where am I," he pleaded. "This cannot be a painting...it will not stand still! I feel as though I am a witness to the Creation."

Goldberg was still examining the figures of the sixth day. He was convinced the new image was Vanessa, and as he looked at Adam he had the uneasy sensation that he was looking at himself as a young man. Perhaps that was why it had drawn his attention before.

To each of them, Vanessa's "Creation" was a separate and personal interpretation of God's beginning, and it affected them differently. Vanessa did not presume to paint God in her father's image, but she was ready to accept Professor Winston as her artistic Creator. Simon, in the twilight of his years, finally saw himself as a young man. Sherman Kingsley, with a lifetime of disastrous decisions behind him, had been offered a golden opportunity of reprieve. Each of them, lost in his and her own thoughts, did not see the seventh door flung open.

It was Jasper!

"What in God's name is going on here!! How dare you Vanessa....and you too Goldberg!" He slammed the door behind him. "Is that you, Kingsley? Guggenheim has finally booted you out...about time, I'd say!" The three of them were torn between this miracle of creation still under construction and the sudden satanic appearance of Jasper Jones.

"But you are in Barbados," Goldberg stammered.

"A cruel easterly wind with impenetrable fog, Goldberg. A socked-in third world airport. But why should I explain to you?...This is my studio, not yours, Vanessa; and you two," he stared coldly at Goldberg and Kingsley,."sucker fish...leeches of the art world!

So this is the Art with a capital "A" over which little Vanessa has labored so long. This is where my Prussian Blue has gone...how many tubes, Vanessa, twenty...thirty? Couldn't the Maestro create a universe with a little less Prussian Blue?

You are the author of this charade? Hah! You write it badly -- you give us light on the first day and the sun two days later!" He stalked, with his queer backward jointed gait from day one to six. "Six days, Vanessa! Surely Maestro Divina could have contrived this little deception between the salad and the entree!"

The warm light of the spring afternoon illuminated the figure of God. Jasper looked at it suspiciously. "Winston, is that you? Proud of yourself, Winston? Botched up another creation, haven't you? You're supposed to say, 'AND IT WAS GOOD'! But you can't, can you? You know it can't be good without a touch of evil."

In later years, Vanessa, Simon, and Sherman could not be sure that they caught the scent of brimstone. None of them had ever smelled brimstone nor been witness to a volcanic eruption. None of them were acquainted with the odor of sulfur. Heretofore, Jasper Jones and the fragrance of Brut seemed inseparable. But as Jasper faded from their sight, he was replaced by an aroma that could only come from hell itself.

Where had he gone?

Simon was the first to notice..."Behind you ... in the picture, Vanessa. It was not there before!"

"I had nothing to do with this, Simon...Mr. Kingsley, believe me!"

The new figure was a goat-like Satan, cloven-hoofed, covered in coarse black hair. It stood behind the figure of Eve and appeared to whisper in her ear. Its resemblance to Jasper Jones was unmistakable.

"Please God," said Vanessa, looking pleadingly at the figure of Winston, "Haven't you done enough?"

"Yes, finish already," begged Simon.

Kingsley was groping for the door, "The Foundation will be in touch shortly...I must leave now," he said to no one in particular.

There were few witnesses to the first Creation, but it seems logical to assume that it was accomplished within budget and on time. The second Creation, given a jump start by Vanessa Eden and then made up of bits and pieces that happened to be lying around, was less successful. An elderly Jewish picture framer and a devilish copy-cat painter do not make for great casting. But then, an arthritic, $35,000-a-year, tenured professor is probably a poor substitute for God. In the end you do the best you can with what you have.

After the unpleasantness with Jasper Jones was finished, and the thorough search for his mortal remains proved unavailing, Vanessa's "Creation" found its way to the Guggenheim. Its popularity was extraordinary for a month or two, but like everything else in New York, the novelty soon wore thin. There are occasions, however, when a visitor (usually one from out of town) will swear he or she sees strange figures inside the "Creation" which are not illustrated in the complimentary brochure.

We can only assume Professor Winston still has work to do.

*From the close of "Finnegan's Wake" by James Joyce, the greatest JJ of them all.

Copyright 1998