The Gravity of Birds. Tracy Guzeman
but as Stephen took a step closer to examine the painting, he realized she was firmly gripping him there. The joints of her fingers were slightly bent, the fingernails pale, the fabric of Bayber’s shirt puckering just beneath them. Her other arm hung casually at her side, disappearing behind the fabric of the throw.
The younger sister sat on the love seat next to Bayber. She looked to be about thirteen, all long arms and legs, brown as an Indian, Stephen’s mother would have said, her freckled limbs shooting out from frayed denim shorts and a madras shirt bunched around her waist. Stephen could almost see the downy gold hairs against the tan skin. Her legs were tucked up underneath her, the bottoms of her feet dusted with dirt and patches of shimmering sand. Her hair was loose, cascading in waves around her face, a cloud of summer blond. One of her hands rested on top of a filigree birdcage balanced on the arm of the love seat, its thin wire door ajar. Her other hand was tucked beneath Bayber’s own, resting on his thigh. She had the bored look of an adolescent. The gaze she favored Bayber with was one of curiosity and tolerance, not necessarily admiration.
Stephen was speechless. There was nothing close to a formal portrait in the artist’s oeuvre. He looked to Finch, who was frowning. Cranston, who was far less familiar with Bayber’s body of work, glanced at Stephen and raised his eyebrows.
‘Mr. Jameson? Your impression?’
‘It’s, er, it’s …’
‘Disturbing,’ Finch said. He looked at Bayber as if he’d never seen him before.
Cranston walked closer to the painting and smiled. ‘Disturbing isn’t necessarily bad when it comes to art. I’m more interested in what you can tell us about the piece, Mr. Bayber.’
Bayber seemed lost in thought, unable to take his eyes from the painting. ‘I don’t remember much about it.’ His voice came from a distance, carrying the timbre of a lie.
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Cranston said.
‘It was painted a long time ago. I remember little of the circumstances, although I know it’s mine.’ He smiled indulgently at Stephen. ‘I’m counting on Mr. Jameson to verify that.’
‘But when you say you remember little of the circumstances …’ Cranston continued.
‘I mean just that. The sisters—Natalie was the older of the two, Alice the younger—were neighbors of mine for a month in the summer of 1963. August, I believe. Other than that, there’s not much to tell. Friends of the family, I suppose you could say.’
‘They sat for this?’
‘No. They did not.’
Stephen was relieved to hear it. He moved close to the painting, his fingers skimming the surface. ‘Little Jack Horner sat in the corner …’ Taking a magnifying glass from his pocket, he examined the surface, the brushstrokes, the pigments. He’d reviewed Finch’s treatises on Bayber in a frenzied bout of reading last night before tackling the catalogue raisonné.
There was something unusual about the girls’ outside arms, those nearest the edges of the canvas. Paint had been added to both areas. What had Bayber changed and when? He turned back from the painting and ignoring Cranston’s probing look, queried Bayber uncertainly.
‘The frame?’
‘Yes, Mr. Jameson?’
‘I need to remove it.’
Cranston started to object, but Bayber held up a hand. ‘We are all of similar motive here. Mr. Jameson, you may do what is necessary.’
Cranston turned livid. ‘We should remove the frame at our own facility so no damage comes to it. Jameson, you don’t want to do anything to impact the integrity of the work.’
‘I don’t think I will. The painting appears in good condition; the paint layer is stable, no flaking or curling, only a degree of cleavage in a few areas and some minor cracking of the paint and ground layers, most likely due to environmental fluctuations.’ He looked again to Bayber.
‘May I ask where you’ve been keeping this?’
‘I appreciate your concern, Mr. Jameson. The conditions may not have been ideal, but I don’t believe the painting has been unduly taxed in any appreciable way.’
Stephen nodded. Cranston, sputtering, threw up his hands, abandoning any pretense of composure. Finch moved over to where Stephen was standing.
‘What can I do to help?’
‘My case? The tools I need will be in there.’
Stephen cleared a large space on the floor and threw down several tarps. Finch returned with the tool case, then salvaged some padded blocks that were being used as doorstops to put beneath the corners of the painting. ‘Cranston, we’ll need you, too,’ he said.
Cranston joined them, muttering. The three of them turned the painting onto its face. Stephen ran his hands across the stretcher bars, checking to see if they had warped. All four keys were in place, the corners cleanly mitered. He noted holes that must have been for supporting hooks, although those were missing and there were no remnants of wire.
‘The piece has been hung,’ he said to Bayber. A statement more than a question.
‘Yes. But only in my studio, Mr. Jameson. I suppose I considered it a seminal piece of work at one time. But seminal is too close to sentimental, and that never serves an artist well.’
Stephen took pliers from his case and began removing the nails from the frame, holding his breath as he turned and pulled each one. ‘Oh, the grand old Duke of York, he had ten thousand men. I need a block of wood for this last one, Finch. Something to act as a fulcrum.’ Beads of sweat formed at his temples. ‘He marched them up to the top of the hill, and …’
‘Mr. Jameson, please!’ Cranston was sweating as well, and huffing, obviously unused to spending much time on the floor on his hands and knees.
‘He marched them down again. There.’
With the last nail out, Stephen used tweezers to coax a gap in the spline, then pulled it from the track securing the canvas. He removed the long staples holding the canvas to the frame, then rocked back on his heels, took a deep breath, and instructed Cranston to hold the frame steady. He and Finch gently pulled the canvas backward.
There was a collective sigh as the frame cleanly separated from the canvas. Finch and Cranston rested the frame against the wall while Stephen inspected the painting. Negligible frame abrasion, not enough to be of concern. Canvas stapled in the back, leaving the sides clean. The work was gallery-wrapped, the front image continued along the sides, but there were areas of crushed impasto along both vertical edges of the canvas. Stephen detected flecks of other pigments embedded in the raised strokes, as if the painting had been abraded along its sides, something pressing against it there, grinding pigment into pigment. He set the magnifying glass down and rubbed his face before turning to Bayber, staring at him.
‘Well?’ Cranston said.
Stephen didn’t take his eyes off of Bayber. ‘Where are they?’ he asked.
‘Where are what?’ Cranston said, his voice agitated and rising, his eyes scanning the corners of the room. ‘For God’s sake, Jameson, be clear. What exactly are you looking for?’
Stephen waited until Bayber gave him an almost imperceptible nod. He turned to Cranston and Finch and smiled.
‘The other two pieces of the painting, of course.’
Cranston departed in a flurry,