Page 4 of The Art of Vanishing
Jean
The sun came up on another day, the room springing to life with the tour groups who were often the first to enter the museum. Susie, one of the most unique tour guides, was in today, with a group of women all dressed exactly alike.
“Now, before I let you go today, I want to introduce you to one of my personal favorite paintings in the entire museum. Any guesses who is in this painting?”
“A family,” a bold member of the group jumped in immediately.
“Absolutely,” Susie commended. “Does anyone have any idea whose family this is?”
The crowd was silent but pensive, the looks of consternation on their faces showing they were actually trying to figure it out.
Unwilling to put forth a wrong answer, the woman who had responded earlier kept her lips sealed.
Finally, another brave soul toward the back of the pack guessed: “The artist’s? ”
The group turned around to acknowledge this good guess. “Exactly right,” Susie cheered. “This is a painting of Matisse’s family. In the foreground, we have his children: Jean, sitting here with a book—”
“It looks like he’s got a Kindle in his hands!” cried an enthusiastic member of the crowd.
“All the kids’ groups always ask why he’s got an iPhone,” Susie joked.
“The French publishers of the early twentieth century occasionally took to wrapping books in paper to hide salacious titles or covers.” She winked at the group.
Susie always made it sound like I was reading something erotic while sitting next to my brother and sister.
As the decades dragged on, sometimes I wished I could trade this novel in for such entertainment.
“Over here, at the piano, are his older sister, Marguerite, and his younger brother, Pierre. Pierre, of course, is the one who would go on to be a famous art collector. Marguerite was a child born out of wedlock, the daughter of the artist and one of his models, before he was married. Matisse and Marguerite had a complex relationship; there is some great scholarship on it if you have the time to check it out. I think he was a hard man to have as a father. Even though this scene evokes sound: music, instruction, chatter, it’s known that Matisse made his family sit in silence as they posed for him.
And of course, in the backyard, the artist’s wife.
Her distance here from the rest of the family shows how her relationship with the artist was strained by 1917, when this work was painted. ”
I held my breath so I wouldn’t scoff. Of course, the guides and docents took liberties with their descriptions of all the paintings.
But it always felt so personal when it came to us.
We were the family; everything had to be an indication of strife or love or fear, didn’t it?
I was sure the Renoirs got the same treatment when guides came to their family portrait in the next room.
“Otherwise, why would she be sitting so far away? We all know that feeling of needing an escape from our ‘loved ones,’ don’t we, ladies?
” Susie’s words felt like someone pushing their elbow into your side.
The ladies tittered in agreement. “In 1917, France was in the throes of the First World War. Actually, Jean”—Susie gestured to me—“had just been drafted so this painting is a fictive imagining of a family reunion.” Susie was ready to bring it home.
“Now, the artist included a bit of himself in this painting too, even if he doesn’t actually appear here.
It is his family, after all; he had to carve out a bit of space.
Any idea where in this painting we see the artist represented? ”
“It’s certainly not the sculpture in the back,” one of the women said with a laugh.
“No, it is not,” Susie agreed. “Though, if you’ll pardon the slight digression, that brings up an interesting facet of Matisse’s work.
He loved to include representations of his own work within new paintings.
This painted sculpture is based on a real Matisse piece, Reclining Nude I, sometimes called Aurora.
We see this woman’s figure appear a number of times in the artist’s work, including in Studio with Goldfish, the blue painting across the room.
” The group turned to look and let out a synchronous ooh .
“But back to our game—can you spot the artist?”
“Is it the violin?” the woman in the back guessed.
“Yes, ma’am, that is it exactly. The artist was a casual violin player, and maybe a fan of Haydn, we can infer from the sheet music on the top of the piano.
From where the instrument is placed, in the very front of the image, you could imagine he might be able to reach right in and pick it up.
” A chill dripped down my spine. I shivered.
“Well, that’s all the time we have for today. I so hope you enjoyed the tour.” Susie bowed her head and a cacophony of voices chimed in.
“Enjoyed? We are obsessed .”
“There is truly no other way to see the museum!”
“It would not be the same without you, Susie.”
“I wish we didn’t have to leave you, Susie!”
The women swarmed Susie, an adoring crowd greeting their fearless leader.
They said their thank-yous and vowed to come back soon, and Susie gave recommendations for the rest of their day in the city.
The throng finally splintered off, revealing one last member of the tour group I hadn’t seen before, a tall woman with a head of boisterous red curls.
She was dressed casually in a thick sweater and a pair of jeans that somehow accentuated her height.
She wore glasses with chunky black frames.
They covered so much of her face that it took me a minute of studying her to realize she wasn’t as old as her clothes and eyewear made her seem.
She stepped forward to have her moment with Susie.
“I wanted to introduce myself,” she said, offering Susie her right hand. “I’m—”
“Jamie Leigh, the new museum president, I know.” Susie cut her off, enthusiastically shaking Jamie’s hand in hers. Susie studied her. “You’re so much younger than I thought you’d be.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I tagged along for the last few rooms of the tour today. I’ve been studying the art for weeks, but there’s nothing quite like getting to know it in person with a trusty guide.”
“Of course I don’t mind! I’m flattered you joined us.”
“Have you been doing this for a long time? The patrons obviously adore you.”
“Oh yes,” Susie said. “I’ve lost count of the years. I do all the museums in the area, but the foundation is my favorite. Is this your first official day on the job?”
“I don’t technically start until Monday; I just wanted to have some time under the radar to get familiar with it all.”
Susie breathed in deeply, closing her eyes for a few seconds as she did. “Be warned”—she reopened her eyes and they twinkled—“this place is nothing short of magical. You’re going to get addicted to it.”
“I can tell,” Jamie agreed. “There’s something, dare I say, hypnotic in the air here.”
Three people bustled into the doorway, stopping for a moment to collect themselves.
I recognized them as having some affiliation with the team that governed the museum; the three of them popped up in here from time to time, always distinguishable from the regular visitors by their somewhat more formal way of dressing.
They spotted Jamie and hurried over in her direction.
“ There you are,” one of the women exclaimed. “We heard you were here! We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“I’m Henry Wallingham.” Henry took Jamie’s hand and gave it a single firm shake.
“Lisa Meyer,” Lisa said as she leaned forward to give Jamie a kiss on each cheek.
“And I’m Christie Hall,” Christie said with a brief nod. “We’re on the board and have been just dying to meet you.”
“Of course,” Jamie said. “I’ve been looking forward to it as well.”
“We were planning to be here to greet you on Monday, when you were scheduled to arrive. We rushed down when we heard you were here early,” Lisa said.
“Could we take you for a cup of coffee at the café? We were so disappointed not to be on your interview committee; we’d love to get to know you better,” Christie said.
“Absolutely,” Jamie said, clapping her hands together. “I’m free as a bird, not on the clock until next week, of course.”
“So much for incognito,” Susie said quietly with a little wink.
“Best-laid plans,” Jamie said. “It was nice to meet you. Thank you for the tour.”
The group ushered Jamie out of the gallery. Jamie turned back to wave to Susie, whom none of the board members had even acknowledged. Susie smiled at them, waiting until they had a few minutes’ head start to follow them through the exit.
The evening arrived and so did Claire, on her own for the first time, pausing in the doorway, illuminated by the light of the gallery behind her, not yet far enough into our room to have triggered the overheads.
She glowed like something supernatural, like she didn’t belong to the world she was standing in. I couldn’t look away.
She inhaled with confidence and took a step into the gallery.
The lights flipped on, and she and they warmed the space around them.
She pushed her mop and bucket to the center of the room and abandoned them.
She crossed to the wall next to ours that held three paintings of three sisters each—nine sisters, in total, on one wall—and took her time, gazing up into each one.
She inched along the floor, not daring to miss a square foot of what was on the walls in front of her.