But something’s different—though what, he cannot say.
The man peers about—searching, squinting hard—and after a while, he starts to see: the passersby are regarding him with strange and furtive looks.
And he smells something burning on the breeze.
Smoke! the man thinks. Is there a fire somewhere?
He cranes his neck around, trying to see.
Somehow, the temperature seems to have risen.
The man reaches up and undoes his collar.
I don’t think that loosening your collar’s gonna help, a man passing by says, with a leer.
Strangely, this man appears to have a forked tail—and cloven hooves? That seem to clatter as he comes near?!
Oh God! the man yells.
He turns and runs away—straight into the midst of a swirling crowd.
They’re all cackling at him—demons and devils!
He turns his eyes quickly to the ground.
Please, God, the man says, just let me get back home!
That prompts roaring laughter from all around.
The man claps his hands over his ears and turns and runs.
Once home, he locks the door and pulls the window shades all down.
The man hides in the bathroom.
What do I do, what do I do? he says.
Suddenly he remembers the painting.
It must be because of that, he thinks. I have to get it right! If I paint Heaven right, this nightmare will stop!
Okay! says the man, and claps his hands together.
Then he remembers he poured his paints away.
And the canvas, too, he thinks, is gone.
He looks toward the door.
But there’s no way he’s going out there to buy more.
And at that very moment, the walls begin to crack—and through the cracks, the man sees only fire.
He tries to back away, but there’s nowhere to go.
Then two dark eyes appear inside the fire.
Well? says a voice.
But how? says the man.
These few moments left are all he’s got.
And suddenly the man laughs—and he paints a perfect Heaven.
He does it on the floor, in his own blood.
Gabriel Metsu, Man Writing a Letter, c. 1664–66
HELEN McCLORY
So I’m not a docent now, but in my years in that field I became familiar with the idea that there are many paintings that have an atmosphere. Put it that way. I’m not talking about hyperactive eBay entries, ugly amateurish work that gets boosted by having a legend attached. I don’t judge anyone for trying to keep their pockets lined in such a creative way. It’s a kind of art in itself, in my view. But I’m speaking of classical works, with reputations that don’t need that kind of thing to make them memorable. Ones you’d know in a second, or have a sense that you should, anyway. I have had the good luck to stare at many iconic paintings from my little stool, getting to know them really well, getting to understand each colored inch of them, and, another benefit, seeing how other people respond to them; silent appraisals, grunts and little gasps, funny comments, the movements folks will make trying to orient themselves to something they have seen a hundred times before in other, lesser frames. And some of these paintings, just a very few, have a different kind of presence.
Which paintings, you’ll ask, haunted sunflowers? Or did the many heads of Marilyn start wheedling from that Warhol number? I know you’re going to take it wrongly, on purpose. You don’t believe in presences. You don’t believe in me. But you’re sitting with me, and listen—I’m only going to tell you about the one thing, and I’m not going to stutter. The ghost isn’t a metaphor for my boredom, my depression, my failed marriage, or my bad left leg. I saw it, that’s the truth.
I met him in the Smithsonian Gallery of Art, when he was on loan from Dublin. You can probably guess the setting for the encounter: late on, right as the gallery is closing up for the night, lights going off, and I’m putting my things away in the locker and hear a noise—come on. I’m a docent. I’m not in the building late, that’s security. So it was early, before we opened. The morning was streaming in through the skylight. That particular gallery had been newly hung, mostly Vermeers. I want to make some joke about teeth, but I can’t think of one right now. Teeth, Jesus. This was the first chance I’d got to look at him, and I was taking my time. I liked to do that, get a good first look fresh, before other people came between me and the work, with all their impressions rubbing over before I had the chance to make mine. So I went up before him and took my time. The man writing a letter is wearing some fantastic black silky coat and his white linen sleeves and neckline are all ruffles. There’s a hat perched on his chairback. A painting on the wall behind him of an autumn countryside and animals. He has long, wavy fair hair and delicate features, looks about fourteen. You could say he’d be any gender. He’s writing that letter on a desk by a window in the left part of the frame—I suppose that’s why they put him with the Vermeers. That man loved a leftward window. The most beautiful part of the painting is the spectacular arrangement he’s got for a tablecloth. It’s opulent orange-reds and blues, looks like an antique carpet. He’s a rich boy, my man. He looks like he might be writing a college admissions letter, though I know there’s a companion piece to this, Woman Reading a Letter, so I guess it’s something to her. His eyes are looking down and mostly closed.
At least, they were at first.
I’m not easily scared. You think I haven’t seen things, working with the public so close for so long? I have seen the way folks behave when they think no one’s watching, and I’m no one to them. That lesson I learn over and over. I’ve heard men howling, old men weeping,
