Waking the Dead. Heather Graham
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and this piece is different, even for him. He was fascinated by the dark side of things, but rarely did he come up with something that teased the eye with such exquisite beauty—only to display such wickedness in the, er, details?”
Danni nodded. “His Weeping Angel at Dusk is sad and dark, I guess, but very beautiful.”
“You know something about the artist, right?”
“I was an art major, remember? I don’t know too much, and he didn’t paint that many pieces, since he died so young. But he’s considered a relatively minor artist. He’s hardly ever mentioned these days.”
“That was true until recently,” Niles said. “Because, of course, Ghosts in the Mind, his most famous work, went missing for years and was only discovered a few months ago—and sold at auction. There’s a story to that, of course, but as to Hubert, well...like you said, he died young. We might have had so many more wonderful pieces had he lived longer. His use of perspective was extraordinary. Not many artists could create completely different images, pictures within pictures, in such an effective way.”
“If I’m remembering my art history correctly, the original was oil on canvas and was painted in Switzerland during the summer of 1816. The world endured what they now refer to as ‘the year without a summer,’” Danni said.
“Apparently, a natural climate change at that time was enhanced by the eruption of a volcano—Mount Tambora in the Dutch East Indies,” Niles explained. “I got interested in this stuff because of Ghosts in the Mind, so I’ve been reading about it. Anyway, the volcano erupted in 1815 but the fallout changed the weather and the atmosphere all over Europe, even a year later. It snowed in June! In the United States, too,” he said. “Anyway, that terrible weather caused a great many miserable days, but also brought about this wonderful, chilling piece of art.”
“Don’t forget, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein came out of that summer, too.”
“Yes, yes, of course! And it was influenced by the fact that scientists all over were playing with electricity. Mary was familiar with some of the greatest scientific minds of her time. It’s a brilliant book,” he said in a reverent voice. “One that looked at what life was and what it wasn’t...just like this painting looks at the masks we wear on the outside while we hide our real thoughts on the inside. Most critiques have agreed that this was Henry Sebastian Hubert’s finest work. Pity, pity, pity!”
“He died by his own hand,” Danni murmured.
Niles shook his head dismissively. “So said the bumbling authorities back then! Tragically, he was found in the tower where he was painting, seated before his masterpiece. They said it was poison. What did they know?” Niles demanded.
Danni laughed. “Probably a lot more than we suspect. Remember, anatomy was the rage back then. Corpses were stolen for dissection.... Burke and Hare were busy digging up corpses to sell and then killing people for the money their bodies would bring. They—”
“That wasn’t until later,” Niles interrupted.
“Yes, but they weren’t the first,” Danni said. “Different countries had different laws on acquiring corpses for medical purposes and learning about anatomy and so on. The thing is, by the early 1800s, doctors and scientists had been dissecting cadavers for centuries. Medical people couldn’t cure most diseases, but they’d certainly learned about anatomy. Still, you have a point—he might have been poisoned and they might have missed it. But since Hubert was alone when he died, his fingers curled around the wineglass that held whatever toxin it was, I’m sure they were right, and he committed suicide. The poor man couldn’t run to a doctor and get a prescription for an antidepressant. Yes, it’s a tragedy. Sadly, history is full of such tragedies. Shelley drowned in a lake and Byron was only in his thirties when he died. Mary Shelley lost three of her four children at very early ages—it was all very sad and tragic.”
Niles still didn’t seem convinced that anything was as sad as the death of an artist.
“So, did someone just license the painting for giclée reproduction?” she asked Niles.
“Like I was saying, the painting disappeared soon after Hubert died, reappeared in some kind of storage, in England, then ended up in a museum in France. It disappeared again during World War II.”
“This sounds familiar. Wasn’t it stolen by the Nazis?”
“Perfectly true!” Niles said excitedly. “It seems an old Nazi war criminal died in Brazil within the past year, and the painting was found wrapped and buried in a vault. The Brazilian government returned it to the French museum, but the museum’s having hard times and gratefully put it on the auction block. No one knows who purchased the original yet. These things can be so hush-hush and done through corporate names and all that. But the new owner authorized a gallery to make a copy, and from that copy, they were allowed to do a giclée limited edition of two thousand. And—” he lowered his voice as if he were speaking to a coconspirator “—there’s a rumor that the purchaser was from here—from NOLA! I was incredibly lucky. I scored a hundred of them for the gallery. I’ve already sold sixty-six.”
Danni studied the copy of the painting again. It was as interesting, as rich, as complex, as the human/monster tale about Dr. Frankenstein’s creation.
“Shall I save one for you?” Niles asked.
Danni wasn’t sure. On the one hand, the giclée of the painting was beautiful. It was also terribly dark and seemed to be a warning regarding human nature. Did a man smile and offer a rose while thinking of murder? Were children innocently playing, already on the way to cruelty and a callous disregard for life?
A lady in an elaborate feathered hat swept by to gain Niles’s attention; he excused himself to Danni, winking as he did so. “I’ll save one!” he promised.
“Great. Lovely. I can keep it with the coffin and guillotine and shrunken heads down in Dad’s collection,” she muttered to herself.
“Hey, Danni.”
As she turned to leave, she almost crashed into Mason Bradley, Niles’s sometime-salesman and sometime-artist. Mason’s forte was restoration and he was very good at it. Like most artists, he worked on learning his own style by studying the masters and occasionally making copies. He was thirty-eight, tall, blond and handsome, and was working on establishing himself and making a name in the French Quarter by painting cemetery scenes. He had a special style, realistic yet slightly exaggerated, that made his paintings both poignant and eerie.
“Mason, hey, how are you?” she asked.
“Great, thanks. How about you? Are you doing any work? I know it’s been hard for you since your dad died.”
“I’m doing okay.”
“I see you’ve got the dog—Wolf, right?” Mason smiled at the dog but made no attempt to touch him. She wondered if he was afraid of Wolf or simply wasn’t fond of dogs.
“Yes, Wolf.”
“Well, I guess you got something out of the relationship when Quinn left. If you need to talk, get some coffee, go for a drink—have a shoulder to cry on—well, I’m here,” he told her sympathetically.
She bent her head and couldn’t help smiling. “I don’t need to cry. Honestly. Quinn and I... He’s in Texas.”
“I’m glad. You deserve someone who...well, someone who’s a little more...stable.”
“I’m just fine, Mason.”
“Enjoying the art of Hubert, I see.”
“There’s...nothing quite like it, is there?”
Mason stared at the giclée and nodded. “The story is that it was Hubert’s entry into the ‘ghost’ contest that went on during the summer that wasn’t a summer—that Lord Byron challenged him to paint something as frightening as anything they could write. He did a damned good job.”
“I