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Subject: {ASS} Duchess by Lord Malinov
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Duchess
by Lord Malinov
~~~
It was the late in the summer of 19-- when I first became acquainted
with Steven. Circumstance had provided us the opportunity to work
together, a collaboration which culminated in a slick bit of legal
craftsmanship which had all the hallmarks of a jurisprudential
masterpiece, at least when viewed by someone who could appreciate the
invisible strings we fashioned to manipulate a sensitive artistic
universe. Raising a toast of some rather exquisite champagne, Steven
and I indulgently acknowledged our own handiwork, well aware that
our finest accomplishment lay in the fact that no one outside
the room would ever really appreciate our delicate touch. If things
went as planned, we laughed, they would never even realize we had
been there.
One bottle from Steven's extensive cellars led to another, and we
spoke that day at great length, in ways our work had never allowed.
Working together had been a great joy for both of us, I like to
think, because Steven and I shared a sense of focus which meant every
working hour of those two months had been devoted solely to the task
at hand. I'm almost ashamed of the single-minded intensity that I
dedicate to my tasks, although I know no other fashion of approaching
a problem, but all too often the obsessive devotion I suffer in the
course of a serious project has cost me bitterly, both in my
professional and personal relationships. Yet with Steven, for once,
it had been different. He was every bit as concentrated as I had
ever been. With a grin, I might even admit that he could turn the
flame a notch or two further than I. How could I not enjoy the
company of a man who not only appreciated my tendencies, but
challenged me to demand more of myself? As neglected as our subtle
monument would be, I took great pride in knowing that Steven
understood. We raised another toast, and again, until the sun
slipped orange beyond the dark wooded acres of Steven's estate.
Those two months, dedicated as they were to the definition and
protection of the intangible property rights of visual artists,
taught me a great deal about a subject I had really never paid
any mind. I understood the vagaries of copyright in the abstract,
and had done the cursory rounds through several great galleries
during my travels, but before that summer, art remained a
decorative item for me. In fact, the work we did with the Foundation
did much to increase my exposure and augment my vocabulary, but
Steven provided the catalyst which turned on the light.
Champagne had led to Chablis which led to a Chardonnay "we simply
have to share", to a special unlabelled bottle from a tiny Swiss
monastery to a very old bottle of Scotch and the tenth hour of our
celebration had warmed my spirits into a pleasant sense of incautious
confidence.
"What it really boils down to," I said, pretending wisdom, "is that
much of the work that is being done in this country derives again
from European influences." Steven smiled, distracted. He put down
his glass and leaned forward, his high brow slightly wrinkled.
"I don't think we go very far describing an artist's work in terms of
influences," Steven said. "There is always an evolution of
linguistic terms, so to speak, but language is a living component of
our expression. Substance always triumphs over form, yet without
comprehensible forms, the expression becomes lost."
I remember listening carefully, because I respected Steven more than
anyone I had ever known. Part of me had always believed the arts
perpetrated a fraud, that a conspiracy of critics and galleries
operated to decide one piece would be valuable and another would
not. To me, a painting was pretty or it was not. The rest sounded
like poppycock. Yet Steven seemed to believe.
"I want to show you something," Steven said and with my assent, he
led me upstairs to a large room I calculated to be his study. The
south wall of the grand space was almost entirely built of glass,
windows that seemed to draw in the broad reaches of landscape, the
small pond, the gentle roll of pasture, the distant oak forests and
broad color-rich skies. A wide glossy desk sat poised beneath the
darkening panes, cluttered uncharacteristically, I thought, with a
dozen strewn volumes, piled open in a chaotic array. The east and
west walls climbed some thirty feet high with overfilled bookshelves,
majestic old leather bound tomes near piles of unkempt paperbacks.
Steven approached the north wall, where a curtain hung.
"Do you know Pandolf?" he asked.
"Sure," I said, laughing at the notion that even someone as
generally ignorant as I could fail to know of Fra Pandolf. "I mean,
I've never met him, if that's what you mean, but his paintings are
already worth millions."
"He did a painting for me, years ago," Steven said.
"Really?" I asked, quite amazed.
"My wife commissioned a painting, as a gift. Anna had quite an
eye for artists. He was just a local back then. I think she only
paid a few thousand for this." Steven pulled the cord which drew
back the curtain.
A large canvas hung on the wall, filled with greens and blues and
sunlight golds. The subject, only slightly abstracted, was a
beautiful woman, simply radiant in her loveliness with water bright
eyes, soft skin, long sensuous legs and a smile that almost laughed
out loud. I smiled, pleased, knowing the treasure Steven showed me
was a very pretty picture.
"It was our tenth anniversary," Steven said, his eyes fixed on the
portrait of his wife, Anna. "She posed without my knowing and gave
me the finished painting. It was a surprise."
"I can imagine," I said, astounded by the living sense I felt as I
studied the woman's graceful lines. Pandolf, I knew, was one of the
darlings of modern art, and for once, I could bear witness to genius.
This was a brilliant example of incredible skill. "It must be worth
a fortune," I said tactlessly, thinking aloud.
"I suppose," Steven said. "It's priceless to me."
"Of course," I said. "Have you ever shown it, loaned it to a
gallery?" I tried to show off some of the knowledge of standard art
practices I had learned in our work. Steven frowned and then
laughed.
"No," he said. "I haven't shown anyone this painting in ten years."
"Why?" I asked.
"When Anna gave me this painting, I was no patron of the arts. I
knew a little, could talk at parties about symmetry and impression,
but when I first saw this piece of work, I saw it as a husband."
Steven stopped to stare again at the painting of his disrobed wife.
"I thought it was beautiful," he said, "just as I thought Anna was
beautiful, but I also thought it was too beautiful. Do you know much
about Pandolf?"
"No," I replied.
"When this painting was done, his reputation wasn't as much for being
a painter as it was for being a scoundrel. Perhaps that is an
exaggeration, but I was spending a fair amount of time at the
courthouse and I knew about his scandals; public drunkeness,
vandalism, even petty assaults on stuffy art patrons. I had a low
opinion of the man as a decent citizen. What did I know about art?"
Steven left me standing in front of the painting while he went to a
small assortment of crystal bottles and poured himself a short drink.
He downed the brown liquid in a single motion.
"Anna was beside herself with delight when she gave me this painting
and I smiled and fawned and thanked her for her generous kindness,
but the whole time I was thinking about my Anna posed naked while
this creature," Steven paused. "Painted her." He took a deep
breath. "It seemed an outrage, and yet I couldn't accuse Anna of
doing anything wrong when all she had meant to do was provide me with
a monument to the beauty I worshipped. I loved her dearly. She
shone."
"And I couldn't fault Pandolf's work," Steven said. "All art aside,
it is a magnificent piece. It truly captures the essence of Anna's
beauty and I felt grateful in that regard. He accomplished a feat I
could never in a thousand lifetimes have managed. Pandolf drew out
the very essence of my love for Anna and immortalized the feeling on
canvas. But then, the demons rose up within me." Steven sat down,
staring again at the portrait. I went to the small bar and poured
myself a drink.
"One night, months after, I made love to Anna and in the very moment
of ecstasy, a realization struck me. There, in her eyes, as a giddy
laugh passed over her lips, I found the instant of beauty that is
there, frozen into that infernal painting. I left our bed almost as
quickly as it is conceivably possible to abandon a woman in the
throes of love, and I rushed down here and gazed into the eyes of the
painting and I knew I was right. In the strokes of his brush,
Pandolf had broken my heart. Anna had shown him the ecstasy of her
soul."
Steven seethed with living rage and I looked again at the painting,
almost embarrassed to be privy to such an intimate view of the
beautiful Anna. I knew he spoke the truth, for while at first
glance the piece seemed simply beautiful, a glimmer of the delight I
had, myself, witnessed in the climactic expressions of lovely young
women glowed in the face of the portrait's subject. I shuddered to
imagine what Steven had felt, an outpouring of furious emotion that
still burned in him.
"I pulled the curtain closed and ran from the study," Steven said.
"Anna had followed after me, curious to see where I had dashed off
to, but I managed to meet her in the hallway. Grabbing her, I kissed
my wife with more passion than I ever had before in all our years
together. In the first moment, when I looked into the glimmering
black pupils of the painting, I had felt the anger and pain that
comes from the first blow of a poisoned dagger. Her lips seemed to
mock me, almost pursed in a hungry kiss. I wanted to tear the
painting down from the wall and destroy the canvas thread by thread.
But just there, beneath the smooth skin of her throat, I could
almost feel the eager pulse of her heart. Her breasts, so soft and
warm, pressed against my chest. Her arms . . ." Steven stopped. I
looked away.
"I loved Anna more than I ever had. I couldn't care if she had
betrayed me because it seemed inconsequential compared to the pain I
would feel if I lost her. I loved her madly, with every fiber of my
being, for the rest of her life." Steven stood and approached the
painting. "And I was right. The pain of losing her was worst of
all."
I sat dumbfounded as I looked at the painting of Anna by Pandolf,
and for the first time, truly marvelled at the passion that could be
contained within a single square of canvas, covered over by globs of
oily pigment. Steven sobbed softly. I rose and put an arm around
him, feeling the magnificent adoration for this work of art he
expressed with each convulsed breath. And with a glance, I loved
her, too.
"It was years before I showed anyone else the painting. He was an
old friend and a great admirer of Pandolf's. He told me that this
piece marked the transition for the painter. In this painting, he
said, Pandolf spoke a universal truth, taking that final step beyond
the personal truths that characterized his earlier work. That
Pandolf often spoke of a great piece he had sold and forever
regretted giving up. That my Anna's was the one."
I nodded. I had seen the face of beauty before. The painting held a
recognition.
"Anna told me on that first night that the painter had tried
to refuse to give the painting to her. She told him they had a
contract and that her husband was a lawyer and that if he didn't give
her the painting, there would be hell to pay. Then she gave him two
hundred extra because she felt sorry."
"Amazing," I said.
"She loved me," he said. "You can see it in her eyes."
~~~
Malinov
--
Power belongs to those who dare. . . Sapere Aude
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