Jose Somoza: Art of Murder

'Don't ask me to explain it to you,' said Stein, seeing her expression. 'It's art, Miss Wood. I don't think you'd understand it. And it's not for the artist to try to explain it either-'

At that moment another unexpected voice interrupted his. April Wood almost jumped in terror at this unforeseen outpouring of underground words amplified to an inhuman degree. It was Annek Hollech. Gentle harmonies by Purcell underscored her trembling words.

'ART IS ALSO DESTRUCTION.'

A brief pause. Then the solemn strains of a baroque funeral march.

'IN THE BEGINNING, IT WAS NOTHING ELSE, IN THE CAVES THEY ONLY PAINTED WHAT THEY WANTED TO SACRIFICE.'

Another pause.

April Wood's hair was standing on end. She was shivering as though an unending line of ants was crawling over her.

In the mirror, Annek's image seemed to have changed. Still naked and hacked to pieces, her face appeared to be moving. That was where the voice was coming from.

'THE ARTIST SAYS…'

Stein and Miss Wood listened to the rest of the recording in respectful silence.

When Annek had finished, her face turned back into the hollow mask that was part of her corpse. Immediately afterwards, a chorus of angels seemed to transform the tearful, floating features of the Walden brothers: they came to life and spoke into the air as if saying a prayer or a sacred incantation. Again, neither Stein nor Miss Wood felt they could interrupt them.

When at last the twins subsided into a blood-filled silence, Stein said:

'Van Tysch insisted on having the canvases' original voices, although we improved the quality in our studio. They're programmed to start up every so often, twenty-four hours a day, every day'

The art that survives is the art that has died, April Wood thought. If the figures die, the works survive. Now she understood. In this posthumous work, Van Tysch had found a way to convert a body into eternity. Nothing and nobody could destroy what had already been destroyed. Nothing and nobody could put an end to what had already been ended. The inhospitable electrically controlled cold would ensure this work lasted forever. His work. His last work. *Van Tysch prepared Baldi…' she murmured. In that room, where every sound was an unwelcome guest, her voice was almost a scream. Stein agreed.

'Step by step, ever since 2004, in secret. When in 2001 he painted him in an unimportant painting, Figure XIII, he realised at once that Baldi would be the perfect material for his last great work. He used to call him his "paper". "I write and draw on Postumo, Jacob", he told me, "I make notes and develop my plan for my life's last work.'"

Stein glanced at Miss Wood through the blue-tinged darkness of the room. They were both enveloped in vapour, as though their spirits had decided to leave their bodies but not to stray too far.

'Fuschus, there's no need to look like that. We couldn't tell you anything, could we? If you had known something, you would have collaborated with us of course. But then the work would have been yours to some extent as well. And you're not an artist, April. Not an artist, nor a canvas’ he added. April Wood could detect the cruel way he insisted on these words. 'We had to do everything without involving you, because this was our work, not yours.' ‘I understand,' she said.

'No one else knows about it: not Hoffmann or anyone else in the Foundation. I myself only learnt of it a few months ago. Bruno brought me here and explained it all. He showed me this room, and the shape the work would take when it was complete. This won't be the first time, he told me, that a work demands such a sacrifice from artists. Nor will it be the first time that a painter wants to destroy his best works before he dies. He had planned everything perfectly, down to the Christ's momentary distraction in the "Rembrandt" exhibition. He knew the police and his own security department would have taken a lot of precautions. But he had faith in Baldi: he'd trained him carefully to turn him into the perfect tool, into the paper on which he could draw his greatest work. I told him I agreed with him, but I was upset that Deflowering and Monsters had to be destroyed. "They're your best paintings, Bruno," I said, "the ones you love most, the ones that represent the most for you." "That's precisely why I'm doing it, Jacob," he replied. "They're my beloved creations. I'm doing this out of love." He asked me to help him with the final brushstrokes. Everything was meant to finish today, 15 July 2006, the four hundredth anniversary of Rembrandt's birth. As you know, artists like to close circles. Rembrandt was born on this day, Van Tysch died on this day. I told him yes, I would help him. Fuschus, of course I did.. ‘

All at once, to April Wood's utter amazement – she was expecting anything but that – Stein burst into tears. It was an unpleasant snivelling sound, as if he had caught a sudden cold.

‘I said I would, and I would have said the same a thousand and one times over… a thousand and one times… "Here's your poor Jacob," I told him. "You can trust him, he's like your own reflection"… Today everything was to be finished. That's what he said "everything is to be finished"… I helped him paint his own body and… and all the rest. I won't deny it was the most difficult order to obey of all the ones I've received from him…'

He dried tears April Wood could not see with the back of his hand. She thought that Stein might be telling the truth, but not the whole truth. There was a screenplay, and he was following it. Van Tysch was about to be substituted, and his desire to die with his last work suited you fine, Jacob. I bet you've already chosen the artist who will take his place… I wonder who the lucky person is…

A small stand was placed on the floor next to the work of art. While Stein was still sobbing, April Wood went over to it. The card on it, illuminated by a small lamp, had one word on it in Dutch, English and French.

'Shade?'

Stein nodded.

‘I took the liberty of naming it… Van Tysch did not want to give it a name, but untitled works do not pass into eternity… Do you know how it occurred to me? Van Tysch insisted there had to be only a little light. And his last words were: "Jacob, remember the light. The most important thing in this work is the shade." And he repeated it several times, each time more faintly: "the shade, the shade, the shade…" When he died, the word dissolved in his mouth. So I thought it would make a good title…' 'What about her?' asked Miss Wood.

She pointed to Murnika de Verne's body. Van Tysch's secretary was lying in a distant, even darker corner of the room. Perhaps she had merely fainted, but Miss Wood surmised she would not be alive for much longer, because the thin black dress with slits up the sides could not protect her from the extreme temperature in this ghastly cold storage. Her legs were bent under her, her face entirely covered by a dishevelled mass of hair. She looked like a doll tossed away by a careless child.

That's where she'll stay,' said Stein. 'In fact, Murnika is part of the painting, too. Shade is a work bringing everything together, the greatest ever created, because Van Tysch wanted us all to be part of it. Not just Murnika, but you and I as well, Baldi and the destroyed canvases, their families, the police who are searching for Baldi, the meetings of Rip van Winkle, all the ornaments present at those meetings, the entire "Rembrandt" exhibition including the Christ, of course, as well as all the works in "Flowers" and "Monsters", and the other Van Tysch canvases which had to be withdrawn

… and beyond those, the artists and models, all the art works in the world that considered themselves part of this, as well as any member of the public who had ever looked at a hyperdramatic painting. The whole of humanity. That was the reason for leaving a copy of the recordings beside the destroyed bodies: Van Tysch wanted us all to be involved as amazed, unwilling figures in the work. Shade is the only example of stained art that Van Tysch has produced, Miss Wood and each of us is its material. We'll have to keep it concealed for a while, of course, but the day will come when we make it known to the world… and then people will react… Just imagine the horrified or astonished faces, the surprised looks, the ears terrified by the voices of the paintings speaking from their corpses, the painter immortalised by his own death… This is the centre of the work, of course, but every one of us is part of it. Can't you see how the room is getting bigger? Can't you see how infinitely large it is becoming