The Hand of the Master

By Harry Buschman

Jasper lifted the canvas from the easel with a flourish. He eyed it critically, turning it a little this way and that. Then threw his head back and, to no one in particular, shouted "Is that good enough for you, Professor Winston. No? Well up yours!"

Whistling with satisfaction he walked the painting across the room to the north wall -- a strange sort of walk, legs backward jointed, like those of a maribou stork. The cloying scent of Brut followed him relentlessly. A skylight illuminated the north wall and he set the painting against it and looked at it critically. He was the best judge of his own work. Only Jasper knew the precise brush technique and the subtle blend of viridian and Prussian blue that Picasso was fond of in the period between 1910 and 1915, and in the north light of his studio 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 W. Bush.

Jasper Jones was not a forger, he had never copied a work of art. This particular series of portraits were of presidents painters did not live to see. He learned their technique, and he could paint precisely as they would have painted had they been living today in Soho. He boldly signed the name "JASPER JONES" to each and every painting and made no effort to pretend they had been painted by anyone else. In fact, he insisted his name on a painting gave it greater value than it would have had were it signed by the master himself. 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 "Claude Monet". No one would have been the wiser.

But that was too dangerous a game for Jasper -- that way lay madness and prison. Let someone else do that. There are too many scientific techniques to test 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 the forger would find himself up the river spending the rest of his 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 strange twisted way he kept their craft alive.

As a young student in New York under Professor Winston, and later at the Ecole de Beaux-Arts in Paris his teachers told him in no uncertain terms that he was an empty shell. All the technique in the world -- but with nothing to say. He was singled out as a kind of painting machine and exposed to his fellow students as a young man who might make a good living but would 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 public library on "Art" with a capital "A"? Professor Winston indeed! .... Professor of what?" Jasper went to the palette and dipped his brush in bright vermilion and 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 Splendide in Boston. Fifteen hundred dollars each unframed -- take that Professor Winston! Getting rich is the best revenge.

Then, he would be off to Barbados .... a week or two of reflection in the sun and the warm embrace of the hotels' amber-eyed secretary and an honest appraisal of what to 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, that was the next project .... and perhaps the last. A cinch! He would breeze through that in a month. After that, who knows! Life is a foil wrapped chocolate surprise every day.

Today, no one he remembered from that class of '56 at the Sorbonne could rub
two sous together -- and the T-shirted hippies 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, Jasper's harassed young assistant painted large and obscure cubist canvasses in the basement, he permitted her to use the space, and in return, she kept his studio clean and well supplied. She answered the phone in a low and throaty voice and submitted dispassionately to Jasper's occasional sexual demands.

"You can't be finished already, Mr. Jones .... ," then, she noticed the Picasso and gasped .... "A miracle .... really Mr. Jones, an absolute 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 crap Vanessa, get Goldberg over here with his frames in the morning,
I need a week or two in the sun then we're off to the Pacific Theater." 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 for Vanessa. The smell of Brut still lingered in her basement bedroom as though some strange and exotic animal had slept there. She recognized Jasper was a user .... a user of the masters and a user of her as well. It occurred to her that sex with Jasper was not really different than sex with Picasso, or Monet or even Grandma Moses if she had been available on 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 one above the other on the basement floor. Vanessa had rigged 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 an inverted Sistine Ceiling, so to speak. 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 his shop and pored over the samples of mats and moldings, then they would give up in despair and ask Goldberg to do
what he thought best. But Jasper was special .... he was a big commercial account and merited personal service. Whatever the price was, Goldberg knew Jasper would pay and pass it along.

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 nothing for you? Jasper, I never worry, he grinds it out like a sausage machine .... but you my dear, you are a conundrum down there in your basement."

Vanessa had no breakfast. She was cold, artistically stretched out, and in truth she was damn sick and tired of the Creation, Jasper Jones, and Goldberg too for that matter. She pointed to the series of presidential portraits stacked in the corner.

"There's the hotel contract, Goldberg. I think there's fifty. Were there fifty presidents? .... it doesn't matter, 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, how nice of you to be early. I knew you would be .... 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 since last night."

Goldberg rubbed his hands together. "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 dollars?"

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

Jasper would not stoop to bicker with anyone, but he was savvy enough to know
that Goldberg was making a fortune. Knowing his own profit made Goldberg
look like a piker, was all the consolation he required.

"You cannot frame Vanessa," Jasper readjusted his paisley muffler, "her work is large scale .... you could sooner frame Mount Rushmore. 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 waistcoat and snapped open the cover. "Handle it Vanessa, you know where the presidents are .... be careful with the Picasso, it may still be damp. Are my tickets waiting at Kennedy? Good." He smiled for the first time this morning; and then it broadened as he peered through the gallery window at his chauffeur standing by the Lincoln Town Car filing his nails.

"Life is good, Goldberg, and getting better every day." He turned to Vanessa.
"Dear Vanessa, the place is yours. It would be helpful if you straightened up the studio before my return. See to 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 a strange predatory bird to the front door. "Thank you all," he said. "Thank you, Pablo. Thank you, Claude, Thank you too, Vincent . . . I don't know where I'd be without you!"

"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, His 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 and 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 of the circle. 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 .... can we see them all together here?"

"I don't know, maybe up in Jasper's studio, 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 continued to stare at the sixth day. It was incredibly rich in detail, it seemed to change as he looked, and he noticed things he didn't see the first time. If the panels lying under this one were as beautifully 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 that be, this was the last 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 .... 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, 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. Only the frames were left. 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 Botticelli's. That's how I got into the framing business, did I tell you?" Vanessa seemed to have fallen 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 cylinder almost twenty feet in diameter. When the door was closed, the only illumination was that which came 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 the little one. It may still be wet .... don't shmear, okay.? 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. Simon 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 created.

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

Why not something in its own image? Something to claim dominion over this wild world. But what was its image? It was a figure, a cubist figure .... nothing more. It must be something all creatures will fear and love. The figure would rest now and wait for tomorrow. Tomorrow would be another day. It chose a cool and quiet garden. One far removed from the killing 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 comatose eyes of Adam stared back at him distractedly, 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 again. 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 okay. 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 an orthodox man. My father was orthodox. They had burned all the synagogues and he would pray at home, in everybody's way .... with supper 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, he is the curator of Guggenheim. A museum of great distinction but worthless 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 now 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 a 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 to you 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? Okay, no later than that, 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? He is not capable of such a thing! 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 as though 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 for what's ahead. Your future is bright and there are pitfalls everywhere."

It had been an inspiring morning for both of them and a kinship sprung up
between the elderly Jewish artisan and the twenty-two year old snip of a girl who might well have created the most compelling work 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 waited 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 fantasy 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 curators." 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 everyone in the art world. The Guggenheim Museum was one of the architectural marvels of the age, but filled with some of the world's most appalling examples of modern painting. 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 emphasized his grayness. His hair was a mixture of both gray and silver and as closely shaven as a tennis ball. Suspended by a broad gray ribbon, he wore a silver monocle which seemed to make one eye appear twice the size of the other.

"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 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! Such a chance to take! Would he be called on 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 know 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 flower. Only Adam lay alone -- on his back in the middle of Eden. He looked up at the Creator. "May I call you Winston? You are the Creator, are you not? I think you've forgotten something, Winston. I am alone here -- you cannot leave me alone, it is incomplete if I am alone." The Creator could now be seen 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 achievable 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 -- use her, use her -- 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 paint his face, it .... it seemed sacrilegious somehow. But it's the spitting image of Professor Winston."

Kingston's monocle had fallen out of his eye moments before. 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 a Creation."

Goldberg still examined 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 first six days. It affected each of them differently. Vanessa did not venture to paint God in her father's image, yet she was ready to accept Professor Winston as her artistic Creator. Simon, in the twilight of his years, finally saw what had been denied to him 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 fling 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 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 bitter 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!" He turned back to the painting again. "So this is Art with a capital "A" over which little Vanessa has labored so long in my basement. This is where my "Prussian" blue has gone .... how many tubes Vanessa; twenty .... thirty? Couldn't the Master create a universe with a little less Prussian Blue?"

"You are the author of this charade? Hah! You write your Bible 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 the Master 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 up at it cynically. "Hah! Winston, is that you up there? 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 that nothing can
be good without a touch of evil."

In later years, Vanessa, Simon and Sherman could never swear to the fact they
caught the scent of brimstone at that moment. None of them had ever smelled
brimstone or witnessed 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 was suddenly snatched from their sight, he was replaced by a stench that could only have 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, and none were there to write of the events as they occurred, but it seems logical to assume that it was accomplished with finesse and finality. The second Creation, given a jump start by Vanessa Eden and then made up of bits and pieces 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 un-tenured professor with a limited attention span is probably a poor substitute for God. In the end we do the best we can with common clay.

After the unpleasantness with Jasper Jones was finished and a 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. Miracles did occur. Some crutches were left behind, many people were mesmerized and led out of the building in a state of trance. But like everything else in New York, the novelty wore thin. But there are still occasions when a visitor, (usually from out of town) will swear he or she sees strange figures moving inside the "Creation." Figures which are not illustrated in the complimentary brochure.

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

© Harry Buschman 1998

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