A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,76
reptilian brain was telling her that her first impression had been not quite right. It was this inner voice, this eye, that made Elm a superior attributer. Unfortunately, attribution was only half of a department head’s job. She forced herself to focus. The paper and materials were period-appropriate, no mass-produced postindustrial concoctions. The intricacy of the drawing suggested that it was a finished work, as opposed to a sketch for a copperplate engraving. However, the scene was one she recognized from View of the Arch of Constantine which meant it would most likely have been rendered as a practice for a definitive later work. But Piranesi was famous for etching straight onto the plate, drawing on his draftsman skills and prodigious memory for the details. It was not inconceivable that he would sketch out his plans for an etching beforehand, but all the extant studies attributed to Piranesi were crude outlines, lacking the inspiration and aestheticism of the finished product.
Similarly, its unity of style disturbed her. Piranesi’s theories on the development of human civilization and pastiche’s important role in that development, especially in the artistic realm, were well publicized. He liked to mash up various line strengths, tones, improvisations, and impressions. This drawing adhered to a rather rigorous Baroque temperament. She would have to examine it further against a previously authenticated Piranesi, or against a facsimile of View of the Arch of Constantine, but if she had to decide right now, she would say it belonged to one of Piranesi’s followers, his École, or an acolyte. This uncertainty would not stop her from placing the piece in the auction, but it would be reflected in how the drawing was listed in the catalog and in its final price. This should not be listed as Giovanni Battista Piranesi.
“And now for the Hiverains.”
She hovered over the first drawing, let a holistic impression fill her before focusing on any detail. It was a Connois, undoubtedly. A sketch, unsigned. Sketches came in four versions, Elm always thought. Important artist, important sketch, like, say, a study for a Rembrandt self-portrait; important artist, uninteresting sketch, like Tintoretto’s doodles, or ten incomplete versions of a hand by Rembrandt; fascinating sketches by arguably more minor artists, or artists in the atelier; and dogs’ heads by no one you’ve ever heard of. Interestingly, the first and third sold best at auction. No one wanted an anatomy lesson to hang on their living room wall, even if it was by Fra Lippo Lippi.
She picked up the paper carefully and held it up to the wan light. It had the right texture for nineteenth-century paper, pulpy and uneven, meaty. This first sketch impressed her. Connois was an artist’s artist, but this was beautiful, a work of art that stood among the best examples of Les Hiverains. It was a close study of a woman’s face. Elm examined the lines, following the artist’s hand in the process of laying the ink on the page. The lines were fluid, graceful. Even the thatching in the background was smooth and consistent. The woman’s face was complicated: one of her eyes was smaller; in the other one, a cataract was just beginning to form. Her nose had a broken bump, while her hair peeked out from her scarf. The lines radiating from the corners of her eyes betrayed a lifetime spent outdoors.
Perhaps it was the years of practice she’d had in searching out every face for the familiar features of Ronan. Perhaps she was simply well trained in her profession. She thought she recognized the woman in the drawing. It was the same woman who appeared in Indira’s Connois with the uneven eyes; most artists would correct a defect like that when drawing, either consciously or for aesthetics’ sake. But Connois had not. How strange, that this woman would appear suddenly in two previously unknown pieces of art. It was possibly simply a coincidence; Elm could think of explanations, but the fact that she had to make excuses for the art set off warning bells.
Attempting to maintain her poker face, she looked at the other two drawings. Now she was certain; they were too perfect. The watermarks were all different, which would be surprising considering that artists usually found a paper they liked and stuck with it. Also, they were all “typical” Connois scenes, the dry landscapes, the marketplaces, the wild dogs and peasants. Too typical. Connois drew these every day. It was hard to imagine that he would need to sketch them out in