Cutwork (29 page)

“Is he making a lot of money with his art?”

“A fair amount, yes. But that’s not always the mark of someone who will become important. Artists whose work today sells for millions often died in obscure poverty. For artists breaking new ground, that’s practically a requirement.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Masterson started out like a lot of artists, trying different techniques, different approaches. He did some interesting work with stone and wood, then started welding metal shapes. But his early metalwork didn’t last, mostly because he did his own welding and he wasn’t that good at it. Which is probably just as well, it wasn’t very good art, either. So he decided to start over, and get into great big pieces, made of the kind of beams you build skyscrapers out of. Most of it is still around—one reason, possibly”—he smiled—“is that you hire a foundry to put the pieces together, rather than do them yourself. He liked broadly simple shapes . . .” Stephenson sketched what looked to Betsy like an A or an N in the air with his hands. “Then painted them in primary colors. Not exactly original, but he made a splash with a couple of colorful interviews. Then he announced he wanted to cross Minnesota with a row of these big sculptures and he wanted—no, he
demanded
—millions of dollars to do it. He got really passionate, he said that if every child in Minnesota were to contribute a dollar, it would pay for the project.” Stephenson smiled. “He said it as if he sincerely thought that the children of Minnesota would be honored to cough up a dollar apiece to cross Minnesota with these objects. He showed drawings—he called them ‘crosses,’ and since he was crossing the state with crosses, he came up with the name ‘Double Cross.’”

Betsy laughed in surprise, and Stephenson nodded significantly. He went on, “The pieces looked less like crosses than immense jacks, like from the children’s game, you know? Thirty feet high, they were. And he sounded as if he had most of the land rented and permits in place to complete the project, though he admitted he’d probably have trouble getting permission to cut a swath through downtown Grand Forks.

“Well, people took him seriously—some thought that it was a ridiculous waste of land and money, but he gathered a number of supporters who got angry at those who laughed at this amazing artist’s vision. And he double-crossed both of them. It turned out his art project wasn’t the giant crosses but a project to show two things: that some people will support any kind of art that ordinary people don’t understand, and that people who reflexively sneer at public art don’t understand what it’s about.”

Betsy said, “The voice of the child!”

Stephenson stared at her. “By gum!” he said and grinned. “But it was also a brilliant way to make himself known. And by the time the joke got out, he was famous. He was asked to put one of his ‘crosses across Minnesota’ in the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden.” Stephenson was grinning now in fond remembrance.

“But he’s doing something different now.”

Stephenson nodded. “It doesn’t take long to reach saturation with structures this size, and he very wisely got into something quite different. Much more subtle, complex, and interesting. Fantastic in execution, and a totally new direction. And because he already has a recognizable name, he’s doing extremely well.”

Betsy nodded. “I agree, it’s really different from those girders. Were you surprised?”

“Ah. Interesting question. I suppose I was. But not greatly. Artists have been known to change direction, though often it’s an evolutionary thing. But he changed rather abruptly from his original work, too. I don’t know him well, I’ve only met him a few times. He’s an interesting character, a self-seller with a great line. His big pieces were good—individual and strong. But not subtle, not . . . intellectual. This new stuff was intelligent
and
individual. I wasn’t blown away, because I didn’t know him well enough to have carved my opinion of his abilities in stone. But it’s nice to find a new artist who is versatile as well as good.”

“I’ve heard he’s now looking to go in still another direction. He’s talking about kinetic sculpture.”

Stephenson’s eyebrows lifted. “Really. He hasn’t done a great many of these new pieces, and to change again, so soon, might not be a good idea.”

“Should I warn him of that?”

He actually blushed, and lifted both hands to ward off the idea. “No, no, no. I wouldn’t presume to advise an artist of his caliber not to follow a new idea.”

Betsy smiled at his discomfiture. “Artists don’t strike me as particularly sensitive.”

“Some are, some aren’t. I don’t know which he is, and it certainly isn’t in my interest to find out.”

“Thank you. You’ve reassured me about him. May I ask another question about art in general?”

“Certainly.”

“Is there anything you can say about artists that is true of all of them?”

He smiled. “You do ask interesting questions.” He thought for a bit. “All right, this may sound contradictory, but I think it’s true nonetheless. Once artists get an idea, it overwhelms them and everything else in their life becomes secondary. You can rush into the studio of an artist at work shouting that his place is on fire, and you’ll get, ‘Uh-huh, uh-huh, be with you in a minute.’” Stephenson nodded his head, his eyes distant, hands holding an imaginary brush and palette. “On the other hand, they are very distractible. You are going with one to a fair, a play, picnic. You’re in the mood to make love or serve a meal and she’s right there with you until suddenly her eye is caught by some notion and she’s off with her muse, sifting sand through her fingers, staring at birds in flight, muttering to herself and making a sketch on the back of an envelope. And you might as well repack the basket or put your clothes back on, because you’ve lost her for the next little while.”

Betsy laughed. “I’ve seen stitching designers—even stitchers—who get like that.”

Stephenson nodded. “I’ll stand by my statement, but of course it’s not exclusive to artists. I get like that myself when I’m restoring old silver, totally lost in the project.”

Betsy said, “All right, another question: Is there something absolutely forbidden to artists? You hear of drunken artists, lazy artists, lecherous artists, unfaithful artists, cruel artists, even insane artists, all of them famous, even revered. Is there something an artist can do that puts him or her beyond the pale?”

“Now that’s a tough one,” said Stephenson. He rubbed his chin with a forefinger, pulled an earlobe, blinked, and frowned. Suddenly a triumphant smile appeared on his face. “Okay, one thing,” he announced. “You can’t steal another artist’s work. You can be derivative—with the critics falling over one another to say who or what you’re being derivative of, they love to find connections like that—but you can’t directly copy another artist’s work and say it’s your own.”

Betsy said, “So those exact copies of famous paintings that you can buy aren’t really art. For example, I am totally in love with Impressionist art, especially Manet and Van Gogh. But there is no way I could possibly afford an original, and posters just don’t do it for me. I’m looking to connect with one of those studios that will paint a copy for me down to the last brush stroke. Is that wrong of me?”

He shook his head. “No, of course not. But you’re right, that isn’t really art. They’re replicas, copies, fakes. The first criterion for art is originality. And it has to be work done by the artist who signs it. All the same, you have good taste and there’s no reason you shouldn’t have a really good replica for your home.”

Stephenson looked at his watch and made an exclamation. He made a hasty apology and left while Betsy paid the bill. On the drive home, she thought over that conversation. Theft was the unforgivable sin. The image of the raccoon burglar Deb had showed her appeared at the front of her mind and asked for some consideration. What was it Deb had said? Don’t annoy an artist or a writer; they may immortalize you unflatteringly. Had someone stolen something from Rob McFey?

19

The weather broke at last; Betsy woke the next morning to the sound of thunder. The storm didn’t last long—before Betsy pulled an English muffin from her toaster, the rain-laden clouds had sailed away across the lake, leaving the town refreshed, the dust washed away, the trees and hedges looking new-made, the air sweet and cool.

But the sky remained a pale gray runneled with darker shades. A brisk breeze tumbled droplets of water off the leaves and eaves, a process that continued until pedestrians realized it wasn’t leftovers but more rain.

Betsy, knowing she was going late to lunch, ate a hearty breakfast. She put an egg, scrambled with green pepper and onion, onto the muffin and nuked a strip of bacon in the microwave. She drank a big glass of grapefruit juice and a cup of English breakfast tea with sugar and milk.

“Ah,” she said on rising from the table to put her cup, plate and glass into the sink. “Come on, Sophie, let’s get downstairs; we’ve got a lot to do this morning.”

An order she had placed with Tapestry Tent had come in yesterday. She took a few minutes to look over the painted canvases by Liz, delighted that the patterns were even more beautiful than she’d hoped. But now she had to find room for them. One would go in the window for a few days as advertisement—but which one?

An hour later, she was pinning a big painted canvas stocking of Santa with a dark and weather-beaten face, a wreath of holly for the hatband of his cowboy hat, and silver concho buttons on his denim jacket. A stitcher could work on that at a picnic without feeling the wrench that came from working on something out of season—which stitchers were always doing, as elaborate projects like this often took six months or a year of work to complete. She made a mental note to find a source for silver conchos in case the buyer wanted to put them over the painted ones.

Godwin came in dressed entirely in pale tan—except for his white socks, of course.

“Another new outfit?” said Betsy, looking him over.

“John is being rather kind to me lately,” said the young man smugly.

“Well, it’s about time,” said Betsy.

“You’re looking very spiffy yourself,” said Godwin, cocking his head sideways at her.

“Thank you.” Betsy, afraid she wouldn’t have time to go upstairs and change, had put on her matron-of-honor suit this morning. It was a deep spice color that looked good on her. And she’d taken some time with her hair as well.

“What’s the occasion? A supper date with Morrie?”

“No, I’m meeting Jill at the Elks Club for a late lunch.”

“What, they have a new dress code?”

“No, it’s . . . kind of a celebration.”

Godwin frowned at her. “Uh-huuuuh,” he said, drawing the second syllable out long and doubtfully. “Come on, tell Uncle Goddy all about it,” he coaxed.

“Remember what happened the last time I broke a confidence that involved Jill?”

“Oops,” said Godwin, and he turned back to unboxing and sorting an order of Kreinik threads without another word.

The morning fled swiftly, and Godwin remained good. When someone asked him if he knew what Betsy was dressed up for, he looked around at Betsy as if noticing for the first time how fancy her suit was, then said, “Beats me,” in a tone of studied indifference.

Betsy prepared to leave shortly after one. She said to Godwin, “Because you were so good, I’m going to warn you that I’ll come back from this lunch with some very interesting news.”

“About Jill?” he asked, his eyes hopeful.

But Betsy had learned her lesson and only left it at that.

The ceremony was performed in a small meeting room at the club, with—surprise!—Mike Malloy standing up for Lars. The judge had a kind, smiling voice and used a standard service from a small book. Jill and Lars took one another without a quiver or hesitation. When the judge said, “You may kiss the bride,” Lars did so with so much circumspection that one might have thought it perfunctory if one didn’t know the couple were not normally so pink or bright-eyed.

Betsy took a couple of pictures with her new digital camera, and then they went to lunch. Well, first Betsy and Jill retired to the rest room, where Jill took off her hat but not her corsage of small lilies and tiny orchids.

Betsy took her courage in both hands and dared to ask, “Jill, is there some special reason, other than being mad at the rules, that you’re getting not-quite-married right now, today, to Lars?”

Jill took more time than necessary to dry her hands, and then said, with a sigh, “You’re getting better and better at reading motives, you know that?”

“Then why don’t I have the slightest idea what you’re up to?”

“But you know there’s something up, and that’s more than even Lars knows. Let me tell you something that happened a couple of weeks ago. Lars was at home letting the steam out of his Stanley when he heard a call go out about a prowler—he has a radio in his garage tuned to police calls, did you know that?”

“No,” said Betsy, smiling, “but I’m not surprised.”

“Anyway, the location was about five hundred yards from his place out on Saint Alban’s Bay Road, and he’s been to the address three times in the last month on a domestic. The woman is trying to divorce her husband, who keeps coming over to break windows and generally make her life miserable. But it’s been escalating; last time he burned down her garage. So of course it was important that we get there fast. And Lars decided that since he was so near, he’d go. He was on his way up the road when he thought maybe he’d better call in to say what he was doing—and the battery on his cell phone was run down. But did he turn back? Not him. And I almost shot him.”

She said this so quietly, so matter of factly, that Betsy almost missed it.
“What?!”

“I almost shot him.”

Though Jill tried to repeat it in the same tone, this time there was a very slight tremble in her voice. “Do you want to tell me about it?” asked Betsy.

“Jim was out on a call, Frank was on patrol, and Mike was fishing up in Alex. We called other jurisdictions and were getting arrival times of ten and fifteen minutes. And Lars hadn’t called in, so we didn’t know he was on his way over there. The woman was screaming into the 911 operator’s ear that he had a gun. So I grabbed a vest and said I’d go. I had to use my own car, so there was no siren to scare him off. I pulled up on the shoulder of Saint Alban’s by their driveway and started up it. And I heard someone crashing through the woods off to the left, headed toward the house. I started angling toward him, and saw someone with what I thought was a gun in his hand. I braced”—Jill illustrated by holding both hands clasped in front of her—“and I was ready to shout and, if he turned toward me, shoot, when I got a whiff of kerosene and that nasty boiler oil.” Jill lowered her arms. “I went to an arson fire set in a garage one time. It smelled something like that. He smelled something like that. Actually,
I’ve
smelled something like that, after being out for a ride with Lars.” Her voice changed timbre. “It was Lars and—well, I had to go down on one knee to keep from falling on my face. If Lars hadn’t gone over there straight from messing around with that stupid steam car, I might have shot the man I love.”