Rainier was a patient man, and his back did not hurt. For these reasons, he got the job. For seven hours, five days a week, he would stride across the Silversmithery museum as the guardian.
He quickly adapted to his new functions. Wandering from room to room, he envisioned the pieces in their original context. What gracious wrist had held this narrow bracelet? What exquisite wine had this chalice carried? The guardian also kept an eye on the visitors, and nodded when they glanced at him. Sometimes, he visited his colleagues from the ticket office or the locker room; or he carried on to the shop.
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| What exquisite wine had this chalice carried? |
When
Rainier left the Silversmithery team, ten years had gone by. Now, he
would look after the Fine Arts museum. What a true blessing, after
all this time spent among cups, crowns, and tools! Instead of being
produced by his imagination, the scenes materialized under his nose.
He interpreted them as he liked. One morning, three characters
sitting next to a canoe were fishing; the following day, they were
deciding which one of them would not step back on board. Other times,
they discussed how to address the individuals at the back of the
painting. Rainier even enjoyed naming the cast.
And if his life had been less austere? Would he have loved his job as much? He did not go out much and possessed no friend. Used to not speaking during the day, he was so talkative in the evening that he bored his interlocutors. His universe was almost exclusively limited to his work, and he had trouble varying conversation topics.
One night when he was particularly lonely, he considered that others probably felt the same way. So sprang the idea. Why wouldn't they retail reproductions of the best canvases, at the shop? What a consolation, to offer oneself such nurturing company! Of course, it was already possible to get postcards and posters, but these did not convey the warmth or the subtlety of the original art. They hadn’t the shimmering feeling of life that emerged from the paintings.
The director was receptive. He selected three paintings from among the institution's favorites: an aquatic landscape by Claude Monet; a scene populated by tiny figures, depicted by Brueghel the Elder; and a humble snowy house from Octave Bélanger—his favored piece. There were many companies that specialized in reproducing art. The director selected one of them and placed an order. The canvases were attentively rendered in a Chinese workshop. They proved to be sumptuous, strikingly resembling the originals, even up to the frames.
They never sold. Too modest, the city owning the museum did not have enough customers willing to pay the necessary amount for such good reproductions. People kept buying the postcards and posters. Years became decades. Rainier asked to be transferred to the shop, as his legs hurt.
Finally, the loyal employee's career came to an end. As a going away present, the director gave the reproductions. Rainier expressed an odd request: he wished to occupy one last time every role he had played during the past years. Indeed, on several occasions, he had replaced the locker room attendant or the night guard. It was granted with a patronizing smile.
The last day, Rainier greeted his colleagues and put away the carefully wrapped canvases in his car. He arranged the Bélanger in his bedroom and the Monet on top of the sofa. He kept the place of honor for Brueghel the Elder, in the entrance, because that was the direction of his gaze during his meal. In a sublime manner, the paintings transformed the humble apartment. Rainier experienced much happiness from them; without any doubt, it was the crowning achievement of his career. The ex-guardian completed his life as quietly as he had lived it and died shortly after his retirement, as happens sometimes to those who no more have a daily aim.
During the yearly heavy maintenance, the restorers unhooked all the paintings. They studied them meticulously, paying attention to the tiniest signs of wear, administering minuscule adjustments here and there. When they noticed that three pieces wore Made in China labels on their reverse, it was already too late. The Salvation Army had cleaned out Rainier's apartment, and the paintings had gone rapidly, because the price asked was extremely low, and because they had the unrivaled radiance of authentic pieces.
One night when he was particularly lonely, he considered that others probably felt the same way. So sprang the idea. Why wouldn't they retail reproductions of the best canvases, at the shop? What a consolation, to offer oneself such nurturing company! Of course, it was already possible to get postcards and posters, but these did not convey the warmth or the subtlety of the original art. They hadn’t the shimmering feeling of life that emerged from the paintings.
The director was receptive. He selected three paintings from among the institution's favorites: an aquatic landscape by Claude Monet; a scene populated by tiny figures, depicted by Brueghel the Elder; and a humble snowy house from Octave Bélanger—his favored piece. There were many companies that specialized in reproducing art. The director selected one of them and placed an order. The canvases were attentively rendered in a Chinese workshop. They proved to be sumptuous, strikingly resembling the originals, even up to the frames.
They never sold. Too modest, the city owning the museum did not have enough customers willing to pay the necessary amount for such good reproductions. People kept buying the postcards and posters. Years became decades. Rainier asked to be transferred to the shop, as his legs hurt.
Finally, the loyal employee's career came to an end. As a going away present, the director gave the reproductions. Rainier expressed an odd request: he wished to occupy one last time every role he had played during the past years. Indeed, on several occasions, he had replaced the locker room attendant or the night guard. It was granted with a patronizing smile.
The last day, Rainier greeted his colleagues and put away the carefully wrapped canvases in his car. He arranged the Bélanger in his bedroom and the Monet on top of the sofa. He kept the place of honor for Brueghel the Elder, in the entrance, because that was the direction of his gaze during his meal. In a sublime manner, the paintings transformed the humble apartment. Rainier experienced much happiness from them; without any doubt, it was the crowning achievement of his career. The ex-guardian completed his life as quietly as he had lived it and died shortly after his retirement, as happens sometimes to those who no more have a daily aim.
During the yearly heavy maintenance, the restorers unhooked all the paintings. They studied them meticulously, paying attention to the tiniest signs of wear, administering minuscule adjustments here and there. When they noticed that three pieces wore Made in China labels on their reverse, it was already too late. The Salvation Army had cleaned out Rainier's apartment, and the paintings had gone rapidly, because the price asked was extremely low, and because they had the unrivaled radiance of authentic pieces.
Published in the Dark Lane Quarterly Collaborative anthology
Photo © https://unsplash.com/photos/saS98jKhVjA