Painted Into a Corner, Episode One by Robert Waters and Meriah Crawford
The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider's web.
—Pablo Picasso
PART ONE
Magdeburg, September 1636
Sophia crashed through the door of the studio, gasping for breath and holding the newspaper aloft. "Daniel! Daniel!"
Johann Bartel, who was always high-strung, yelped and fell into his easel, knocking a moderately well-composed portrait of Prince Ulrich into Konrad Göttsch's particularly ill-done still-life of a bowl of fruit, and sending both canvases to the floor. Face down, naturally.
Konrad hurled his palette against the wall and swung a fist at Johann's face, missing as the latter ducked and cocked his arm as if to return fire with his own balled fist.
"Enough!" Daniel von Block bellowed.
Both of the boys opened their mouths to speak, but Daniel held up his hand and they silenced instantly.
Daniel glanced at Sophia and saw that she was waiting quietly for him, having seen the result of her exuberance. If it was anything truly urgent, he would have seen it on her face.
"You," Daniel said, pointing to Konrad. "Pick up your things and see whether your painting can be saved. Move down there." He pointed to the other end of the room, closer to where he had his own easel set up. He'd tried to leave himself plenty of space to work, but what could he do? Johann was a menace.
"And you," Daniel said to Johann. "Set your painting back on its easel, and go take a walk. Settle down. We can't have any more of this chaos and destruction." Johann looked as though he wanted to protest, but Daniel pointed to the door. "Go!"
Konrad was already set up again, studying the canvas with a deep scowl and picking specks of dirt off its surface.
Johann, on the other hand, simply kicked his canvas aside and stalked out the door, not even deigning to acknowledge Sophia on his way out.
Daniel sighed deeply, picked up Johann's canvas himself, and propped it back on his easel.
A six-inch diameter area had dirt and a few stray bits of hair stuck to the fresh paint, but the rest looked fine. Better than he'd expected, in fact. More skillful than the boy's previous work. Perhaps, Daniel thought, I'm actually getting through his thick head. But it wasn't that Johann was stupid or unskilled. No. He was temperamental and arrogant, and nowhere near as talented as his family had taught him to believe. That was a greater flaw than Konrad's, which was a simple lack of natural talent. He, at least, could be taught to be useful in a studio. Not painting faces or intricate details, perhaps, but preparing backgrounds and structures. If he were willing, that is.
Daniel barely spared a glance for Melchior and Ursula Jacobsmeyer, who were his star pupils. The siblings had come to him from Bremen, where their parents had been killed in a fire. They arrived with only a small amount of money, but with letters of introduction from their priest, as well as a respectable but not brilliant artist who'd been instructing them, and Rebecca Stearns herself. Apparently, Rebecca had spoken highly of Daniel to their instructor and priest, and wanted to make sure that the two children had gotten off to a good start.
The thought of her trust in him still made him beam with pride. Though she was a busy woman, their two families had become friends after Daniel moved to Magdeburg earlier in the year, painted the king and his family—and found himself unwittingly involved in an assassination attempt against Gustavus Adolphus. He would always be grateful to her for her public support afterwards. Without it, he wasn't sure he could have stayed in Magdeburg, since one of the would-be assassins had been his estranged son. The memory of the incident was still fresh and deeply painful, which made him all the more grateful to have the additional pupils to focus his attention on.
The Jacobsmeyers were highly skilled, quiet, and even-tempered, though they still needed much training. They'd barely glanced up during Johann and Konrad's little spat. Daniel often thanked God that they had come to him. Though they did not yet earn their keep, and couldn't pay what he had a right to expect as a master artist, he knew they would help cement his reputation—both as an artist and as a master.
Peace restored to his studio, Daniel turned and smiled at Sophia, his expression inviting her forward.
Sophia swept forward and clasped his hands in hers, the newspaper now tucked under her arm. "Daniel, I am so sorry—"
"No, no," he said. "You are not to blame for Johann's foolishness. Come, tell me what brings you here in such a flutter to brighten my studio?"
She beamed at him. "Oh, Daniel. It's perfect. Look," she said, sliding her hands out of his and unfolding the newspaper again. "Here, here." She pointed to the article and waited while he read.
His expression changed to one of amazement and then to intense joy. "My Sophia!" He clasped her in his arms and swung her around gently, careful not to disturb the young child that grew inside her. "This is perfection!"
At this, Melchior and Ursula paused at their work and looked up. They had never seen their teacher in such a state.
"Listen to this," Daniel called to his pupils, waving the newspaper in the air.
" 'Arts League Announces Mural Competition,' " Daniel read. " 'A competition will be held to select an artist to paint a large mural in the entry hall of the opera house in Magdeburg. The competition, announced today by the Magdeburg Arts League, will take place in several stages and will include public viewing of the artists' proposals and drawings, followed by a public comment period. According to Director Mary Simpson, the league is seeking a design that will encompass the most critical events of recent history, including, of course, the Ring of Fire, the Battle of Wismar, the creation of the United States of Europe, the introduction of air travel, and so forth, and include representation of major leaders. Beyond these guidelines, Simpson says, the league has no preconceived notions about what the mural will look like.' She adds that the league is open to both up-time and down-time artists and art techniques, or a blend of them."
"And then," Daniel added, "there is an address here to write to for further information or to enter the competition itself. Oh, and here—the deadline for the first stage is in one week! That's so soon." Daniel scowled and looked at the top of the newspaper. "Sophia! This paper is almost two weeks old!"
"Ah, yes," she said. "Well, you see, I—"
Ursula stepped from behind her easel. "Frau von Block has been very busy, as you know, Herr von Block, raising your son and tending to your home." Ursula had become quite close with Sophia in the few weeks that she and her brother had been living in their home. And very protective as well, it would seem.
"Ursula," Melchior said, "you should not criticize—"
"No," Daniel said. "No, Ursula is quite right. I ought to read the blasted newspaper myself, if it's so important. Sophia has more than enough work to do, taking care of all of us." Daniel nodded to Ursula and took Sophia's hand. "Well now, let's focus on what matters. Sophia, my angel, bless you for this news. I'll go immediately to this address and see what I can learn.
"Konrad! Prepare paper. The three of you—and Johann if he deigns to show his face again—write me a list of important people who need to be in the painting, and of objects and events."
"Objects?" Konrad said, pausing in his search for a pen.
"Airplanes, trucks, trains, sewing machines, typewriters . . . what else? There will be a million things. Make a list! Make it long. We will eliminate anything that seems excessive later. Work, work, work!"
And with that, Daniel swept Sophia out the door with him, nearly carrying her. He spun her in a circle again and kissed her cheek. "We will talk more later, my dear. And tonight, we will celebrate!"
"Celebrate! Surely that's premature."
"Surely it is, but I have a project now—the perfect project—and a family that I adore. That is well worth celebrating."
Daniel dashed across the street and toward the market square and city hall, laughing at the thought of his work—his art—filling the grand entry hall of the greatest building constructed since the Ring of Fire. This was it: the masterpiece that would forever elevate the name of Daniel von Block into the ranks of the greatest artists in history. This was the opportunity he'd longed for, struggled for, ever since he had visited Grantville and learned that his name hadn't been deemed worthy of inclusion in their history books. He had studied up-time painting techniques with the determination of a young apprentice, and then moved to Magdeburg where he'd been honored with an opportunity to once again paint the king. It had all gone so well, though it was just the beginning. And now this contest had been announced. Surely, this mural commission was meant to happen. It was meant to be his.
It must be so!
****
Antoine Le Nain did not like German cuisine, but he and his two brothers had not brought enough of their own food with them, and when in Rome . . . He tolerated the graubrot and the milbenkäse that the pretty fräulein had brought to their table. Bread and cheese were reasonably acceptable meals wherever they went, and the beer was tolerable, but he wanted wine, wine! And nowhere in all the world was the wine finer than in Paris. They had only been in Magdeburg a few days and already he missed the Pont Neuf, the Seine, and a luscious cassoulet. Everything tasted better in Paris . . . and with wine.
"Do not look so unhappy," his brother Louis said, forking down another chunk of overcooked fish. "Remember why we are here."
"We are here to bring fame and fortune to the Le Nain name," said the younger Mathieu, letting his eye wander to the white-and-blue tassels on the waitress's dress. "We are here to make a name for France."
"Take caution, brother," Antoine said, forcing another sip of his extremely bitter beer. "We are Frenchmen in a foreign land—one that is, these days, hostile toward our people. We do not have to pretend to be anything else, but we don't have to strut around like French cockscombs either."
They were here, in Magdeburg, the seat of USE cultural power, to compete in the Ring of Fire mural competition. They were preparing to submit their documentation and proposal sketches within the next few days to meet the deadline, but there was some dispute as to which direction to go with the overall design of the work. Like Louis, Antoine wanted to stick strictly with styles from French painters both up- and down-time. Mathieu agreed with that in principle, but wanted something bolder, more robust and radical. They had spent a few days in Grantville looking over up-time styles, and they each had their favorites.
"Okay," Antoine said, wiping his mouth and pushing away his plate, "the Arts League wants something that represents both up- and down-time artistic techniques. I don't think it's wise to go too radical. We came here to be viable candidates, not to scare them. I say we start with our own unique style, and then flow into Monet, then Cezanne, and then perhaps Jean-Baptiste Greuze to get that 'Benjamin Franklin' style pose for Gustavus Adolphus and Mike Stearns. I think that's about as radical as we ought to go."
Louis nodded. "Yes, I agree. But perhaps we can meet our brother halfway, go so far as blending in the likes of Georges Rouault or even Gustave Courbet. Imagine it," he said, setting the scene with his hands. "Rebecca Abrabanel in a L'Origine du monde pose right next to the Swede."
Louis thought that quite funny, but Antoine was not amused. "Don't be foolish or crude, brother. I'm not against nudity, but let's not insult our hosts. That might get you thrown in prison—and trust me, I would not come and visit."
Louis waved it off. "I'm kidding, Antoine. I'm just trying to shake the truth out of our intransigent Mathieu. What is it you want us to do?"
Mathieu shook his head. "You are looking at it all wrong, brothers. I'm not asking us to go radical. I'm simply asking us to portray the essence of the Ring of Fire. Too many people consider the event a manifestation of our own times, as if we somehow willed the event into being as punishment for sins or as a reflection of our own moral potential: The Ring of Fire forces us to draw upon the brighter angels of our nature, as the Americans might say. You've heard the arguments. But I say that is false. We didn't call up the Ring of Fire. The Ring of Fire was forced upon us, and it has absolutely nothing to do with who we are as a people. It was an up-time phenomenon, and there it should remain in concept, and thus only up-time techniques should be used in its portrayal."
"But we are using up-time techniques," Antoine said. "Monet, Cezanne . . . these are future French artists."
"Yes, but not far enough removed from our own time," Mathieu said. "The Romantics, the Impressionists, the Post-Impressionists. These artistic styles are rather 'old school' to the up-timers, wouldn't you say? I'm not suggesting they don't have value and should be discounted altogether, but we need to go up farther, to the twentieth century—right up to the year of the Ring of Fire, if possible. Something powerful. Neo-Expressionism, perhaps. We could even consider graffiti-style art. Something that would really pop off the wall, and something that would allow the up-timers to recollect their own lost time. Let's 'go big or go home.'"
Antoine shook his head. Another insufferable American expression that Mathieu had picked up. For a man with clear disdain for what the Ring of Fire had brought to Central Europe, his brother nearly worshiped the sayings and slang of the people who came through it.
"I agree with you and Louis on one thing," Mathieu said again, pushing it further, "we should put the Le Nain stamp upon the work. We are known for our portrayal of simple, country life. That should remain, but in the style of the time from which the Ring arrived."
Antoine sighed and took another bite of cheese. A good bottle of wine would solve this problem right away. "Well," he said, "we have almost no more time to consider our full course of action. Of course, the sketches need only show what we can do, and so we can give the judges some options. Our written proposal can be reasonably vague, I'm assuming. I hope so. What would help us make this decision is to know who else is competing. Your idea might be the only one of its kind, or it might be one of many. We just don't know. I wish we did."
A young German sitting at the bar said, "I know of one artist who will compete."
He turned and looked at the Le Nains with red eyes and a sweaty glare on his face.
"To whom am I speaking, sir?" Antoine asked.
The young man shuffled off the stool and came over to the table. Clearly, he had been drinking for some time. He offered his hand. "I am Johann Bartel, and I am, regrettably, a student of Daniel von Block."
The brothers exchanged a look, and Antoine nodded to Mathieu.
Mathieu pulled over another chair. "Sit, sit! Join us, Herr Bartel. We've heard these German artists are miserable to work with in the studio. Tell us your troubles, young man, and how about a beer?"
Johann sat, and they spoke long into the night. Louis set beer after beer in front of the young boy, and all four had a grand discussion indeed.
****
Nearly three hours later, Daniel returned to his studio, moving far more slowly and less steadily than when he'd left. He dropped a folder onto a work table next to the list Konrad had been working on, and he sank into a chair with a resounding "Ooof!" It was only then that he realized the studio was empty. He scowled at the empty room, trying to make his tired and ale-befuddled brain understand where his pupils had flown to, before finally realizing how late it had become. Ursula and Melchior would be upstairs with Sophia, where she and Daniel and Benjamin had moved, once Sophia had become pregnant, so Daniel would always be nearby. Konrad would have gone home to his own family, who lived less than a mile away. As for Johann, Daniel had no idea where he would have gone, but he was glad not to have to deal with him at the moment.
And then, naturally, the studio door swung open, and Johann strode in, looking even more smashed than Daniel.
"You!" Johann said, pointing unsteadily at Daniel. "You are a damn fool, and you treat me like a sshild, and I hate it here!"
"A 'sshild'?" Daniel said.
"You know what I mean, old man. You—you're—it's—" and then Johann lurched forward and vomited on the floor at Daniel's feet, splashing his boots.
Johann gaped at Daniel in horror—and Daniel burst out laughing. "Learn to drink like a man, and I'll treat you like one, boy." Daniel pulled himself out of his chair with a groan and went for a bucket and a mop.
"Here," Daniel said, thrusting them into Johann's hands. "Clean up and sober up, and then get yourself home. Be here promptly at seven in the morning—clean, neat, and respectful—or don't come back at all."
Daniel swayed through the door into the hallway and slowly climbed the stairs to their home. Sophia was not going to be happy with him, or with his boots, but it was worth it. It was worth every bit of it. He had no doubt that he could persuade her to see it his way.
****
Daniel's intent was to enter the apartment over his studio like the conquering hero and regale them with his tale of teasing essential information from the museum project's chief clerk—information that would help ensure his victory. If he was careful, he might avoid anyone noticing that he'd had anything to drink at all.
Alas, his son Benjamin had left a wooden train engine right near the entryway, and he'd been so focused on delivering his news that he didn't notice it until his foot had been swept out from under him and he crashed to the floor.
He gazed in some confusion at the train for a moment before bellowing, "Benjamin!" and struggling unsteadily to his feet.
Benjamin came dashing down the hallway, a worried look on his face, but Sophia stopped him.
"No," she said, with a hand on Benjamin's shoulder. "Go back to your room, liebling, and get ready for bed."
"Okay, Mama," Benjamin said, and scampered back down the hallway.
Sophia turned back to Daniel, and the look on her face told him he was in trouble.
"Sophia," Daniel started, but Sophia held a hand up to stop him.
Once she heard Benjamin's door click shut, she stepped toward him. "You are drunk! Drunk again, here, in our home! You have violated your promise to me and to our son. How dare you!"
"I only had a few beers."
"You can barely walk, and—" she curled her lip in disgust "—you have vomit on your boots."
"It's not my vomit," Daniel said, but Sophia threw down a shirt she'd been mending and stalked down the hall toward Benjamin's room without another word.
Daniel looked at Ursula and Melchior as if hoping for an ally, but saw Ursula scowling at him with, perhaps, even greater disapproval than Sophia. Melchior's slight sneer and look of superiority was even more disappointing. Daniel would be paying for his afternoon's drinking for quite some time.
"Perhaps," Ursula said, "you will find the nursery a comfortable place to sleep tonight. While you're there, you can reflect upon what is most important in this world. Is it your fame, Herr von Block?" she asked with a tone of deep contempt, "or is it your own flesh and blood?"
"My success will be of value—" he tried to argue, albeit without much force, but she merely rolled her eyes at him and turned and went to the kitchen.
Daniel turned to Melchior and opened his mouth to speak, but the young man said, "In the morning, Herr von Block, when you're sober, I look forward to hearing what you can recall of what you learned today about the competition." Melchior left the room as well, moving toward the steps down to the studio where his small room was tucked into a corner.
Daniel considered making some notes or perhaps even sketches, but realized he was, indeed, too drunk to manage it, though he felt they'd been unfair. As a younger man, it's true, his nights of drinking were many and he often found himself in physical squabbles whilst he was in his cups, but he'd not thrown a punch nor even an insult on this day. They had no right . . . except that he had made Sophia a promise. One he'd not even considered when he sat down at that beer hall with the clerk.
"Scheisse," he whispered. "Scheisse und verdammt." And with that, he stumbled down the hall to the nursery. He slept on the floor with no more than a blanket, knowing he would be sore from head to toe in the morning—and knowing he deserved nothing less.
****
Maestra Artemisia Gentileschi stepped off the train, followed by two assistants carrying bags of rolled white canvas, paints, and various other materials for the contest.
"Ms. Gentileschi?" said a woman who did not strike Artemisia as The American Lady. "I'm Lady Beth Haygood, assistant to Mary Simpson. Welcome to Magdeburg."
She offered her hand, and Artemisia accepted it warily. "Good morning, Lady Haygood. Forgive me, but I was expecting Frau Simpson."
Lady Beth nodded. "Oh please, call me Lady Beth." She gave a slightly forced smile. "My folks actually named me that—Lady Beth. I know it sounds a bit strange to down-timers. Anyway, Mary is sorry not to be here to greet you, but she thought it best to keep a professional distance until the contest is officially kicked off. She doesn't want to give any impression of favoritism, although I will say off the record, that she's delighted that you accepted our invitation to compete. We both feel that it's very important to have female representation in this contest."
"Thank you," Artemisia said. "And please, call me Artemisia." She turned and gestured at her assistants. "Allow me to introduce Maria de Grebber and Clara Peeters. Maria is a member of the prestigious Haarlem Guild of Saint Luke. Clara is from Amsterdam and has been trained by the famous Osias Beert, among others. Both of these ladies are excellent artists in their own right. I am honored to have them assisting me."
Lady Beth greeted each in turn warmly, then guided them to a carriage waiting nearby.
The porters from the train helped gather the ladies' painting equipment and luggage and loaded it up. Once everything was in place, they departed.
"I'll take you to the apartment that Mary has found for you outside the old city," Lady Beth said. "It's small, but clean, with lots of light, especially in the afternoon. I think you'll find it satisfactory for your stay here. I hope you've all enjoyed your time in Grantville?"
Artemisia nodded and said, "I live in Grantville, as perhaps you know? I must confess, however, that I was reluctant at first to accept your offer. But these fine ladies came to visit and convinced me to accept this venture as the grand dame of the group, although Clara could have easily taken on that role. Both Clara and Maria found their visit enlightening, I'm sure. They scoured the library day and night, reviewing every art book they could get their hands on, and everything that Frau O'Meara could show them. They found up-time techniques exciting, bold. Funny, but I've lived in Grantville for a while now, and I've never taken the time to truly examine all of the up-time artistic styles in such detail until their visit."
"And what opinion have you formed now?" Lady Beth asked.
"Well, I really like what the Impressionists were doing, as well as the Romantics. I have less interest in the Cubists or the Surrealists."
"I loved them," Clara said, smiling from ear to ear. "They're bold, inventive, revolutionary. That's what we need for this mural."
Artemisia nodded. "With, I hope, a touch of the here and now? So I think with Clara as our more adventurous member and Maria and me representing the old guard, we should be able to design a gorgeous mural that's appealing to the judges and to the people at large."
"You are hardly the old guard, Artemisia," said Clara with a smirk. "Your work has always been considered radical by today's standards. But maybe still a little too traditional for these up-timers?"
Artemisia smiled. It was true, though. In Italy, she was considered progressive by some of her peers. She had been the first woman to become a member of the Accademia di Belle Arti di Firenze, was a current member of the Accademia del Desegno, and her portrayals of Judith, especially in her well-known Judith Slaying Holofernes, had been regarded as bold with its natural portrayals of violence and murder. Even the up-timers had preserved some of her work in fancy coffee table books that she had seen in Grantville—a fact that pleased her more than she could say. So, it wasn't as if she had not made a mark on the future. Yet her work was conservative compared to many up-time styles, and she wondered what other Italian artists, such as her late father Orazio or her previous partner Massimo Stanzione, might think of Cubism or Surrealism or even the relatively conservative Art Nouveau. They'd say it was the Devil's work, probably. It wasn't that she herself found these styles grotesque or unholy; it was just too much, too soon: an overwhelming assault on the senses. It was hard for her mind to understand their purpose or their need. She hoped that with younger, more open-minded artists like Clara to inspire her, she'd be able to create a mural that would represent the best of both up- and down-time artistries. The sketches that they had already prepared for the first stage of the competition were a good blend of many styles.
"Lady Beth," Maria said, "do you know how many artists will be participating in the competition?"
Lady Beth shook her head. "No. Not everyone's initial submission packet has been received yet. We've gotten only a handful so far. There will be more, no doubt, but many of them will be dropped, because their sketches will be lacking, or because they will have no relevant experience with the kind of work we're expecting for the mural. It's not uncommon with a competition like this. Lots of people submit; few are selected. I trust that you will have your packet in by the end of the week?"
Artemisia nodded. "Yes. It is nearly finished. We just have to touch up one of the sketches, write our proposal statement, and document our credentials. That will not take long. Tell me, Lady Beth, do you know which artists have already submitted packets?"
Lady Beth paused, then said, "I do, but I'm not allowed to say. All of these initial submissions are confidential until the official public announcement."
"We've heard that Antoine Le Nain and his brothers are in town," Clara said wryly. "I can only imagine why."
"And we assume that Daniel Block will be participating as well," Maria said. "He's a favorite now of the king, no?"
Lady Beth nodded. "Gustavus ennobled him after Daniel saved his life, and after hosting a viewing of portraits that he painted of the king and the princess. He's popular right now, but again, I cannot say who is competing."
"I met him once," Clara said. "In Schwerin, maybe fifteen years ago. He was a court painter there. A brute of a man, if I recall. A drinker and easily angered. I didn't particularly care for him."
Lady Beth shook her head. "Well, he did good work for the king, that's all I know. Ah, here we are."
They stopped in front of an apartment building not too far from the wall of the old city.
"I'll show you to the apartment," Lady Beth said, "and then I'm afraid I have to get back to school. I work at Duchess Elisabeth Sofie's school for girls. While you're in town, I'd love for you to come by and speak to the children. I'm sure you'd be an inspiration to them."
Artemisia nodded. "Yes, I'd like that. I'm sure we can make time."
She was about to turn and enter the building when Lady Beth touched her arm. "Artemisia, I want to say again how delighted we are that you'll be competing for the mural. Mary and I like to think that the Ring of Fire did not just bring technological changes to Europe, but also social changes as well. We know it did. But change moves slowly sometimes, we understand that. For the three of you to come here, alone . . . You'll probably be the only all-female team in the competition, assuming you make it past the first stage—and I can't imagine you won't. It may be hard for you. There are going to be a lot of people, male artists specifically, who will want to see you fail. We know you are all fine artists, but you must be tough artists as well. Don't let them drive you away. And if you need help of any kind—not related to the contest, that is—please don't hesitate to ask."
Artemisia smiled and patted Lady Beth's hand. "I assure you, Lady Beth, that you don't need to remind me of how difficult it is for women artists in this time we live in. If you know my background at all, you know that I have endured many challenges. We all understand the difficulties we face, and I can assure you that we didn't come to Magdeburg to be chased away. We came to win."
Lady Beth smiled broadly at her. "Wonderful! Then let's get you settled in, so you can get to work."
****
Loud voices in the hall woke Daniel the next morning, and he could tell the voices were loud because they wanted to wake him. Benjamin bounced his ball nearby, and no one told him to stop. Sophia and Ursula had a discussion right outside the nursery about whether they should have fish that night for dinner. And Melchior came to enquire, with a hearty voice, how the ladies were that morning and whether they might be enjoying some of Sophia's marvelous pastries with their coffee.
Daniel knew he would regret it, but he climbed slowly to his feet. His head swam and pounded at the same time, and he swayed, his belly protesting. Marvelous.
As he lumbered into the hallway, the others ignored him and moved into the dining room. While he washed up and changed his clothing, leaving his still-vomit-spattered boots in a corner so he could clean them himself later, he could hear them eating their breakfast. Normally, out of respect, they would have waited until he joined them. He was relieved they did not wait today. It would be less awkward, he hoped, if they were finished by the time he joined them.
As he entered the room, Ursula and Melchior were preparing to leave for the studio. They wished Sophia and Benjamin a good morning, and Ursula said to Sophia, "You're certain?"
"I am, my dear," Sophia said. "Thank you."
The pair left without a word or a glance toward Daniel. He felt he needed to re-establish his authority with them, somehow, but he would take care of that later. First, he needed coffee and something small to eat. And, perhaps, to take whatever scolding Sophia had prepared for him.
"Sit," she said. "I imagine you are in great need of coffee, hmm?" Her voice was soft, but distant.
She brought him a cup and set a coffee pot beside it, and returned a moment later with a plate that held two small, plain rolls.
Daniel froze, his hand that held the coffee pot shaking slightly.
"Are you well?" Sophia asked.
"I . . . I am reminded that you know, from experience, what I prefer for breakfast after I have been drinking."
"From much experience, yes."
Daniel set the pot down. "I made you a promise."
"Which you have broken."
"Indeed. In truth, my dear, the thought of that promise did not even occur to me until after I arrived home last night."
"That is most disappointing."
She still spoke softly. Daniel would have much preferred shouting and anger. But he responded in kind, and the two talked for nearly an hour—about the past, the present, and the future. About priorities, and responsibilities, and about promises. Daniel made new ones, made vows with his hand pressed to his heart—and on one stiff, sore knee, he begged his beloved to trust him again, and to allow him to prove himself—one more time.
Sophia spoke calmly but vividly about all the nights that Daniel had returned home with torn clothing and bloodied knuckles, and the nights he'd been carried home, and the nights he hadn't come home at all. She remembered, most of all, the three occasions he hadn't come home for days, including once when he'd sent a letter telling her she must pack the house and join him, as he could not re-enter the city without arrest. And of course, she remembered all this far better than he did, who had always been too far gone to remember the worst of it.
At last, when both of them had spoken the words they needed to say and both were full to the brim with emotion and longing and regret, Sophia sent Daniel to work, needing time and space to recover herself. And so, Daniel descended slowly to the studio, with two small rolls in his pocket and a cup of lukewarm coffee in his hand.
All four of his students were working when he arrived, none of them looking up—perhaps afraid of what they might see.
He let them work for a time, while he sat and, at last, made notes about what he'd learned the night before. He read through the information folder he'd collected, which held little of import other than the dimensions of the planned mural and the contest process. And then, once he'd had his meager breakfast and made rough notes, he called the four of them over to talk.
"Now," he said, "I will tell you what I've learned about our new project. First, they seek a representational mural that tells the story of the last several years. The Ring of Fire is, of course, the defining moment—the pivotal crisis, as it were. They wish for something grand and dramatic—something worthy of the greatness that Magdeburg represents, now and in the future. And yet," Daniel said, "they do not wish it to be too . . . modern."
"None of that up-time abstract nonsense that you love so much, then?" Johann said, snickering, but no one responded to him, and he looked down at his hands.
"They also want a mural that will inspire the people—make them feel proud. Not just the people of Magdeburg, but all of the peoples of the United States of Europe. And so, they must be able to understand the work. Connect with it. Yes? Nothing too unusual, but also less . . . less dry and conventional—less posed than much of the work of this time. You see? More color, I think. More movement. More . . . joy."
Konrad said, "You want to paint joy?"
"Indeed, yes."
He snorted. "Perhaps with clowns and dancing soldiers?"
Melchior scowled at him. "It's entirely possible to express joy through your painting, Konrad. But it requires skill and delicacy—two qualities that you—"
"Yes," Daniel said, knowing that Melchior's next few words must not be spoken. "Thank you, Melchior. Skill and delicacy will certainly be required. Now, let us look at that list you put together yesterday."
Konrad handed the list to Daniel, while casting dark glances toward Melchior, alternating with admiring looks at Ursula. Daniel, who rarely paid attention to such things, was watching to make sure Konrad didn't seem inclined to start a row with Melchior, and realized, with a shock, that Konrad seemed quite attached to the young lady. Yet another problem to manage. He thought, just briefly, that having a woman in the studio might well be more trouble than it was worth.
Daniel scanned the list. The king. The princess. Prince Ulrich. Michael Stearns. Question marks stood next to Axel Oxenstierna and Wilhelm Wettin's names. Henry Dreeson, whose assassination had caused so much turmoil. Admiral Simpson. Hans Richter. Jesse Wood, who'd developed the first working airplanes. Doctor Nichols. The chemist, Tom Stone. A few others. Men, every one, except for the princess, who was still in many ways a child. Not that Daniel did not approve, but Mrs. Simpson herself was in charge of the project, and she was committed, he had learned the night before, to recognizing the work of women.
"There are no women here," Daniel said, looking first at Ursula.
Konrad snorted again.
"I listed several," Ursula said. "Konrad declined to add them."
Konrad began to speak, but Daniel waved a hand to stop him. The fool. Regardless of what he thinks, to ridicule the ideas of a woman to whom he is so drawn? The boy will die in a monastery, at this rate.
"List them again," Daniel said to Ursula, and she did.
"Rebecca Stearns, of course," she began. "Mrs. Simpson herself, though that could be somewhat . . . awkward. Gretchen Richter, obviously. Melissa Mailey. Judith Roth. The landgravine of Hesse-Kassel. Julie Mackay, perhaps. Sharon Nichols. They are the most obvious ones. There will be others. We . . . you should ask Frau Stearns. She will know."
"Yes, yes, good," Daniel said, as he finished adding names to the list.
They likewise went over the list of important events. It was currently rather heavily focused on battles, many of which, Daniel felt sure, would be eclipsed by future events and be considered irrelevant in a decade or two.
The list of objects was somewhat easier. The up-timers had brought many amazing innovations that must be included, such as airplanes, ironclad ships, more advanced weapons, and radios. Their proposal must include other advances in science as well, which were far more difficult to represent visually. Perhaps Doctor Nichols, whom he had met while painting the king, could advise him on what was most vital. The painting should also include oil production and steel manufacturing, whatever that might entail. Daniel had much work to do. Yes, indeed.
The lists complete, or as much as they could be for the time being, he assigned Johann and Melchior to continue with two paintings they were working on by commission. Both of them would complete the background and much of the figures of the two portraits he'd been hired to paint. Daniel himself would paint only the faces and some of the finer detail, as was the common practice.
He asked Ursula to visit the town's library, city hall, and the Magdeburg Times-Journal to try to find dates and engravings relating to the people and objects they would be painting. Though the preliminary sketches would not need much detail, according to the entry packet, he'd found from experience that the more detail he provided, the more successful he was likely to be in seeking commissions. People often claimed they could use their imaginations; in practice, they seemed to prefer not to.
He sent Konrad upstairs to collect several books he would need, recognizing it as an act of cowardice. He couldn't face Sophia again just yet—and he was fairly certain she didn't want to see him yet, either.
When Konrad returned, Daniel sent him to visit the galleries of other likely artists in town. "Just look and listen. See if you can see this packet lying on a desk," Daniel said, patting the packet he'd collected from the museum office. "Listen for discussions of the mural, look for sketches. And look lively! The more we know of others' plans, the better our chances!"
Konrad nodded and left, though not without making it clear from his expression that he felt the task was beneath his dignity. And so it would have been, Daniel thought, if Konrad had any real talent as an artist. But perhaps, in time . . . Perhaps.
****
Ursula had been simultaneously insulted and relieved when Daniel sent her out to do research. She was at least as skilled an artist as her brother. She could have been doing sketches for the mural—or, for that matter, doing a better and faster job with the painting Johann was trying to work on; it was obvious he was too hung over to work competently. If her master wasn't so hung over himself, he might realize it, too.
But then, Daniel couldn't very well send Johann to collect materials from the newspaper office. Johann hadn't the wit or the patience for such a task. And anyway, it was a relief to be away from the studio for a while. The place still smelled faintly of beer and vomit, and Konrad was such an ass.
Ursula spent nearly two hours at the newspaper office, during which she'd found fine engravings of Gretchen Richter, Rebecca and Mike Stearns, the Roths, and the landgravine of Hesse-Kassel. After thanking the clerk—an older man who seemed to disapprove of "girl artists," but had still assisted her diligently—she walked to the offices of Magdeburg's mayor, Otto Gericke.
As she'd hoped, there were framed engravings and photographs of several key people in the large entry hall. One pictured Jesse Wood next to an airplane, and there were two of Hans Richter. Another showed Dr. Nichols and Tom Stone next to a piece of medical equipment she couldn't identify. She pulled out her sketch pad and copied Wood and the airplane, knowing both would be useful. She selected the more handsome and heroic-looking engraving of Richter and copied that. And then she was well into copying the one of Stone and Nichols when she realized someone was watching her.
She looked up to see a powerful dark-haired woman gazing at her curiously.
"I'm sorry," the woman said. "I didn't mean to disturb you. Your drawing—it's very fine work. The hair, in particular, and the eyes. You should be very proud of your skill."
"Thank you," Ursula said, coloring slightly. "I—my brother and I are apprentices to the artist Daniel von Block. I believe I still have much to learn."
"A true artist never stops learning, never stops improving." The lady smiled. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Artemisia Gentileschi."
Ursula introduced herself and said, shyly, "Frau Gentileschi . . . I have seen your work. Herr von Block has books. Your Judith Slaying Holofernes is magnificent. Truly a masterpiece."
Artemisia beamed. "You're very kind." She nodded at the drawing. "You're working on the mural competition?"
"Yes," Ursula said, without thinking, and then paled.
"Oh, don't worry. We were certain von Block would be entering the competition, and I won't ask you anything more—I promise." She patted Ursula gently on the arm. "That drape, there," she said, pointing to the crook of Dr. Nichols' elbow in Ursula's sketch. "You need deeper shadows." She pulled her own, smaller pad from a portfolio and showed her, and the two drew together, discussing technique, for forty-five minutes before Ursula was done with her drawing.
"I'm afraid I must go," Ursula said. "But it's been a true pleasure." She frowned. "I believe I have learned more of art in the last hour than in the last month."
"Does Herr von Block give more attention to your brother and the others?"
"Yes, though to be honest, we could all use more attention."
She nodded. "When this competition is over, you and I must talk. I will be returning to Grantville, and you would be a wonderful apprentice in my own studio. It isn't very big, mind you. It's just my home, but you'd be a good fit, as the Americans might say."
Ursula began to speak, to say yes, yes, of course she would go, but she thought of her brother, and of Sophia and the child she carried, and she didn't know what to say.
Artemisia could see the uncertainty on her face and took Ursula's hand. "Don't worry about it right now. Focus on your art today. Tomorrow will see to itself."
Ursula squeezed her hand, thanked her, and then made her way slowly back to the studio, sunk deeply in thought.
****
Antoine did not like the apartment that they had found outside the old city. It had sufficient space, but the light from the one good window in his quarters was best in the morning. He was not a morning person, so it was a waste of light. But it was the best place they could find on such short notice. Mathieu and Louis didn't seem to mind it.
Antoine put his frustration aside and watched Louis put the final touches on his sketch. He held it up proudly, smiled, and said, "What do you think?"
It was a black-and-white charcoal of blended French Realist and Impressionist styles of the nineteenth century. His favorite artists were Édouard Manet, Edgar Degas, and Louis' personal favorite, Gustave Caillebotte. He loved their choices of color, their brush strokes, the simplicity of the figures within the portraits, the honest portrayal of day-to-day life. He particularly liked Manet's rather complex Music in the Tuileries, with its scores of pleasant city-goers having good times in the fresh outdoors. He disliked the long stove-pipe hats in the piece and made a point to remove all head gear from his people.
In the center of Louis's sketch ran a rather dark river, which flowed left to right, representing the movement of time. On the banks rested Mike Stearns, Gretchen Richter, Gustavus Adolphus, and others, posed as on a beach or at a picnic. Their eyes were gazing toward the river, where little framed pictures containing up-time machinery bounced down the stream: an airplane, a so-called air "blimp" that was making its mark as a faster mode of transportation across the Swiss Alps, a breech-loading rifle, and other technological innovations that the up-timers had brought with them. It was quite a busy piece, and yet, he felt it had a good flow.
Antoine nodded his approval. "Nice. But where's the Ring itself?"
Louis huffed as if he had explained this before. "The river is the Ring. The Ring of Fire, as I understand it from eye-witnesses in Grantville, was nothing more than a flash of light, gone in seconds. What's the point in portraying something so quick and so . . . subjective? Everyone who experienced it first-hand has his own impression of it, and I doubt we'd be able to recreate it such that everyone would look upon it and know what it is. But, the flow of time since the Ring is important, don't you think?"
Antoine nodded. "Indeed. It's not entirely to my tastes, of course, but that's fine. We're required to submit three samples, and this one will do nicely. I think it's ready. Sign it and roll it up."
Louis signed his sample "Le Nain" as they always did, and rolled it tightly.
Antoine returned to his own sample to put the final touches to it. He had decided to go with a more dramatic El Greco style for his sample, giving the figures a shadowed, elongated appearance. It wasn't his favorite style, but he hoped the judges would appreciate his piece for its religious overtones. If there was one thing he could appreciate about the arrival of the up-timers, it was their more tolerant behavior toward various religious beliefs. And many of them, he was glad to see, had little or no religious affiliation at all. How refreshing!
But, regardless of their personal relationships with God, up-timer arrival had been fraught with religious significance; that could not be denied. Many in the rural areas of France considered them witches or some kind of evil spirits. Antoine had seen up-timers up close and knew now that it wasn't true—not that every one of them was a saint, either. So, religion had to play a part in the mural. Exactly how much would be decided once they moved on to the next phase . . . assuming that they got that far.
Antoine finished sketching an angel in one corner of his drawing and held the paper up to view it in total. It had an Adoration of the Shepherds quality to it, as famous up-timers like Michael Stearns, Harry Lefferts, Admiral John Simpson, and Larry Mazzare, all looked down at a glow of light shaped into the small, plump notional figure of a baby messiah. Too religious, Antoine had to admit, and the final portrayal of religion in the mural would have to be recast a little more subtly. But this was good enough for now. Good enough as a sample of what they, the French Le Nain brothers, could do.
The only missing piece in the sketch was the enemies of the state—those individuals who railed against the USE and its Swedish king. Were they not also the product of the Ring of Fire, and did they not have a right to be part of any artistic expression of it? Antoine certainly thought so, but it was a tricky proposition. Such images certainly could not be part of the samples; he didn't want to scare off the judges even before the competition got started. But if the up-timers were intellectually honest, they'd have to accept the fact that their presence here in 1636 Germany was not seen by all as a godsend.
Antoine laid out his finished drawing, signed it with their family name, rolled it up, and tied it tightly with a piece of cord. He then turned his attention to his brother Mathieu, who was still struggling to get his sample under control.
To Antoine it had no focus, no rhyme or reason. Mathieu had rectified that somewhat by breaking up the chaos with panels such as they had seen in so-called "comic books" in Grantville. Thus his images were confined to specific places on the paper. That helped, but it still was too strange for Antoine's taste. He had agreed to let Mathieu do a piece that used more uncommon up-time techniques, however, for contrast to his and Louis's more conservative approaches. It also didn't hurt that the information the young Johann Bartel had given them suggested that Daniel von Block was going rather traditional with his sketches. It would also be useful to deliver a sketch that showed that the Le Nain brothers could think outside the box, as Mathieu and the up-timers might say.
Antoine shot a quick glance at their apartment door, sighed deeply. Where is that Johann?
Mathieu lifted up his sample so that it caught the morning light. "What do you think?"
Antoine studied it carefully. His brother had gone with two distinct up-time styles: the colorful but very whimsical Neo-Expressionism and the cartoonish, graffiti style of Keith Haring, an up-time artist and activist who had died at a young age. Antoine rather liked the colors and dimensions of the Neo-Expressionist portions of the sample; they had the kind of look and tone that was a useful contrast to Antoine's more serious piece and Louis's somber, shadowy drawing. He liked less the Haring portions, though he had to admit that Haring's interlocked cartoon images of overly simplified body shapes without faces and detail did have a certain appeal to them. Taken all together, those shapes created patterns across the paper that lulled the viewer into a calm reverie; one couldn't help but smile and feel good looking at them. The problem with them, of course, was that without detail, no one could tell Michael Stearns from Gustavus Adolphus, and Mathieu had decided to place name plates around their necks hanging from tiny chains. It looked kind of silly, but they had no more time to worry about it. The deadline was today.
"Good, good," Antoine said, but pointed to a spot in the bottom right corner. "But that vase needs some detail and color."
"No, no," Mathieu said, "look at it again."
Antoine did, and suddenly he saw it. It was indeed a white vase, but its proportions were exact on either side, thus creating the illusion of two faces looking at each other. It was creepy.
"It's what the up-timers call figure-ground organization," Mathieu said, his voice giddy with wonder. "It's an artistic technique where seemingly innocuous shapes, when put together, create the illusion of something else, like these faces. I thought it would be nice to have this in the sample—like an Easter egg, if you will. The judges might find it clever if they notice it."
Easter egg? What the hell did an Easter egg . . . Antoine let it go. Some up-time expression, no doubt. He shook his head and made a mental note never to visit Grantville again. They have destroyed my brother's sensibilities.
"Fine, fine," he said, sighing. "Wrap it up, and let's move on." He turned and motioned to their small dining table where loose paper lay sprawled across the top. "I want to review our written credentials once more and then—"
There was a knock at the door. Antoine jumped a little, and then scrambled to cover the table with a cloth, while Mathieu placed a drape over his drawing. When everything was in place, Louis went to the door and opened it.
It was Johann Bartel, with a pleasant, though sheepish, smile on his lips. "Good afternoon, Herr Le Nain. May I come in?"
Louis looked back at Antoine who nodded. "Of course, Herr Bartel, but you're late."
Johann lowered his head in regret and removed his cap. "I'm sorry, sirs. I was . . . delayed."
"I see. Very well, then, come on in." Antoine double-checked to ensure that their materials were covered and that Johann could not "accidentally" peek at anything. "Have a seat, young man. And tell us, what more have you learned?"
Johann took the chair. Antoine could see that the apprentice was darting his eyes around. Was that because he was naturally curious, or was he a spy? It was hard to tell; he did not know the young man well enough to say.
Johann cleared his throat. "I have some information about what Herr von Block will be doing for the submissions packet. He will be putting finishing touches on the samples today; in fact, I must return to the studio soon."
"Do you know what his samples will contain?" Louis asked.
Johann shook his head. "No, not specifically, but I will know by six. If that information is important to you, I can come back and tell you."
Antoine shook his head. "By six, it will be irrelevant. We'll be putting our submission packet in very soon as well."
Johann seemed surprised by that news, but nodded. "Again, I'm sorry to be so late. But I do know for certain now that Block will be drafting more traditional samples. I think he has decided not to make use of up-time techniques in any significant way. He's a coward in my mind, not taking the risk, worried that the judges will think poorly of it. If your samples are more up-time and modern, then you should do well."
Antoine shot a subtle wink at Mathieu who beamed behind Johann. "Thank you for that information, Johann. I believe our samples will appeal to Frau Simpson."
With an anxious look, Johann thrust a hand into his pocket and produced a scrap of paper. "Oh, I almost forgot. This is a list of the people and objects that Block is considering putting into his sketches."
Antoine grabbed it and looked it over. The names were standard, and many of them were on his list as well. There were more women on the list, however, than Antoine had put on his, and he made a mental note to keep that under consideration for the mural itself. Some of the objects and technology that Block was considering were different, but overall, quite a similar list. Antoine folded it up and placed it in his pocket. "Thank you, young man, this helps a lot. Anything else?"
Johann paused and twiddled his thumbs, seeking an answer. Then he perked up. "Yes, there is. We have a girl in the studio named Ursula. A stupid little thing. Not as good an artist as she thinks she is, and always turning her nose up at other people. But she seems to be very upset, very—what would you call it, disillusioned?—at remaining there. She has a brother, too. I don't know what he thinks about the situation, but I do know that Ursula looks like she does not wish to stay under Herr von Block's tutelage much longer."
Now, that was information worthy of the name. How disillusioned was this Ursula girl? Antoine wondered. Disillusioned enough to eventually leave and cause great stress for Block? Stress in an artist's life, Antoine knew, could be very distracting. Losing one of his assistants, albeit a "stupid little thing" as Johann called her, might be the beginning of the end for Daniel von Block. He was well known as a drinker and fighter, though that behavior seemed largely in the past. Perhaps, with the right circumstances, he might seek solace in drink again? Antoine tucked that nugget of information away for later use.
"Thank you again, Herr Bartel," Antoine said, standing. "Would you like a refreshment, a drink perhaps, before returning to your studio?"
Johann stood as well, mild confusion on his face. "No, Herr Le Nain. Thank you. I must be getting back."
Antoine escorted him to the door. He fished around in his pocket and found a silver coin. He handed it to Johann with a big smile. "Your service is much appreciated, Herr Bartel. Please return to your studio, and keep your eyes and your ears open, and when you have further information that may be useful to us, please let us know."
The boy stepped out the door, turned and said, "Herr Le Nain, if it so pleases you, I would like to come and work with you and your brothers on this project. Hasn't my information about Herr von Block been worthy of that consideration?"
"Oh, of course, of course," Antoine said, patting Johann on the back. "But not yet, my friend. The public announcement will be soon, and so there is nothing for you to do until we know for sure that we will be moving into phase two. Patience, my young apprentice. Go back to Herr von Block, work with him, and keep us informed of his progress. You'll get your reward, I promise."
Johann smiled and nodded happily. "Thank you, Herr Le Nain. Have a good day. And good luck!"
When Johann was gone, Antoine shut the door and returned to his brothers.
"Are you really going to hire that boy to work with us?" Mathieu asked, signing and rolling up his sketch.
Antoine shook his head. "Of course not. I don't know much about Daniel von Block personally, but I've seen his work. He's a good artist, and I dare say probably a good teacher. If there's any weakness in his studio, it's Johann himself, who is willing to sell his soul to bring hardship to his master. In the end, that is not someone we can trust. But we can utilize his information for as long as it is practical to do so, and with a little luck and fortune, we can see the king's favorite, Daniel von Block, fail. His failure in this venture does not guarantee our success . . ." Antoine winked. ". . . but it doesn't hurt."
The brothers had a good laugh. Then Antoine returned to the spread of papers on the table, and said, "Now, let's get things finished and over to the committee before it's too late."
****
Daniel worked furiously at an easel, with Ursula's drawings and some of the newspaper engravings she'd found attached to the walls nearby. The deadline was approaching at breakneck speed, and Daniel had only one sketch that he was comfortable with.
Ursula and Melchior had studied it and offered suggestions for a different version—the one he was working on now. Johann had suggested more military grandeur, but Daniel himself felt they ought to downplay that: the up-timers seemed far more proud of their social reforms and technologies. Konrad wanted a version where the airplanes and ships took the foreground, with people appearing only at the sides, but that seemed wrong as well—suggesting the machines mattered more than people. Ursula suggested portraying more children and regular people, and Konrad opened his mouth to make another snide comment, before Daniel cuffed him.
"What?" Konrad said, glaring, rubbing a sore ear.
"Hush," Daniel said.
"Nobody cares about peasants and squalling babies," Konrad said, angrily.
Ursula looked at him as though he were a rat in the grain. "Everyone cares about children, Konrad. If you weren't still a child yourself, you'd realize that."
When he saw Konrad's face, Daniel immediately sent him to the store with a list of supplies he'd made up earlier. He'd planned to go himself, to ensure the right materials were selected, but for the sake of peace, Konrad needed to be gone. He would speak with Ursula later. She wasn't wrong, exactly, but she'd been increasingly less patient with the foolishness of her fellow apprentices—and with his, he realized. It was bad for them all.
The sketch Daniel was working on now would be more pastoral: rolling fields, children playing, an airplane banking in the deep blue sky, and a ship at harbor in a sliver of water. Both Mike Stearns and the king would appear on bold warhorses, and the women—Mary Simpson, Rebecca Stearns, Gretchen, and the landgravine—would take the foreground. It would appeal to all of them, but satisfy none. It didn't quite satisfy him, either, but he was required to include three different sketches for the committee to choose from, and he had too little time to do anything as bold or thoughtful as he'd have liked. Damned newspaper. Why hadn't he been notified directly? Surely they knew he'd want to participate? His new friend the clerk hadn't known for sure, but he'd said he thought only a few distant artists had been notified. For everyone else, they just assumed they would read the paper and know.
He sighed and continued drawing, pausing only to massage the cramp in his hand.
The deadline was in just four hours, and he had a whole other sketch to make. He'd spent far too much time on the first one and on test drawings of airplanes and sewing machines. The hours melted away, and he'd been too much of a fool to listen when they told him he had to hurry.
The second sketch finished, he lay it out on the table to let the others examine it, attaching a fresh sheet of paper to his easel.
Again, he drew the Ring of Fire at the center of the image. The first one had been a tornado of the fiercest intensity. The second, a cool, stylized ring that looked like it was carved of iron, rather than dancing with swirling flames, which was how he'd always thought of it. He transitioned to roughly-sketched flame for this last one, making it larger and more like a crown. He focused most of his attention, and what little time he had left, on the people: shifting them to different locations, making some larger and some smaller, but ensuring their faces were heroically and powerfully rendered. He used only a few pieces of technology in this drawing, sketching them into corners and odd spaces, almost as an afterthought.
How did the committee see the importance of airplanes? Of radios? Or of ironclads and ships? They were hardly the sorts of objects typically associated with great historical paintings. But for all he knew, Frau Simpson—whose husband was an admiral—saw the ships as vessels of God's delivery of this region and its people from almost certain death—and the radios as carrying the voice of the angels to lead them to safety. It was impossible to know—and the clerk had begged off when Block had asked him in desperation to join him for a beer the night before.
Better for them both that he declined the offer, he decided. Perhaps it was a sign, even. And then, on impulse, he sketched angels in each of the two upper corners, gazing down benevolently from the clouds.
"There!" he said, and laid the image out, smiling proudly at the gathered apprentices who had been working with unusual silence as he raced through his sketches.
Ursula said, coolly: "You have everything you need, then? The credential form, the three sketches, the artist's statement?"
Daniel gasped. "Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse! The statement—I completely forgot! There's no time!"
"Hmph," Ursula said, and carried two sheets of paper over to him. "We could see you were . . . distracted, so my brother and Sophia and I wrote this. Read it, and see if it is adequate."
He took the pages from her and gaped at them for a moment and then read them with great intensity. He winced once, and shrugged twice, and started to speak, but then Daniel looked up and saw the very grim looks on Ursula and Melchior's faces and thought better of it.
"Yes," Daniel said. "Very good. No, excellent. And very much appreciated, both of you. I must thank Sophia later as well."
"Indeed," Ursula said.
Daniel nodded to them and then rolled up the sketches quickly and firmly. "Right. I am off to deliver these to the committee. Luck to us all!"
And off Daniel dashed, into the late afternoon.
Magdeburg, September 30, Outside the Opera House
The plaza in front of the opera house was nearly full when Daniel and his apprentices arrived, and the tension was plain on almost every face. He recognized many of the more than thirty artists present—identifiable because each was at the center of a small group of supporters, just as he was. But there were a half dozen he'd never set eyes on. Many, he imagined, had traveled from a significant distance. Winning this competition would confer highly lucrative fame—though being one of the five finalists would by itself be enough to build a reputation and a career on.
There were also several journalists present, as well as assorted government employees, some guards, and assorted other people at the edges of the crowd. There was a festive air amid the tension. A project such as this would help establish Magdeburg as a cultural center, as well as the seat of the USE government. These are good times, Daniel thought, smiling. Far better times than they would have been if this Ring of Fire had never burned.
Daniel's thoughts shifted abruptly as the door to the opera house opened and several people walked out. He recognized Frau Mary Simpson, her assistant Lady Beth Haygood, and his friend the clerk, but not the two other men who joined them.
Sophia took his arm gently and squeezed it, and only then did he realize how anxious he'd been, and how much he'd missed her touch. He stroked her hand, leaned toward her, and whispered, "My angel. Every moment is more precious with you by my side."
As Sophia blushed and beamed at him, Daniel could see Johann rolling his eyes. In his younger years, Daniel would have cuffed him for his insolence, but Sophia didn't approve of such "abuse," as she called it. She was too gentle, too forgiving. But it was part of why he loved her—and after all, he needed her forgiveness himself.
Frau Simpson began to speak, giving Daniel an excuse to simply ignore Johann for now.
"Welcome! Welcome to this most delightful occasion!" After enthusiastic applause, Frau Simpson proceeded to recount the history of the project, in brief, followed by expressions of gratitude to a long list of people who were in some way involved in the project. From there, she moved on to thanking the artists who'd submitted proposals and exclaiming over the "extraordinary diversity and quality" of the work. Frau Simpson spoke about the enormous difficulty the Magdeburg Arts League faced in narrowing down their choices to just five, but that it was their difficult duty and they had prevailed. She then spoke of the opera house and of the Ring of Fire itself.
"Why did we pick the opera house as the location for the mural? We have two reasons. First, the Ring of Fire was, I believe you will agree, a tremendously important event. And second, we believe it is vital that we display the mural in a location where the public will be allowed to enjoy it for generations to come. Everyone who walks through these doors will be reminded of the Ring, and the many people and events that have changed this world so dramatically over the last few years, and they will decide on their own what it means to them and their families. A mural is a dramatic and powerful way to convey that meaning, and this opera house, which will host a wide range of musical and theatrical events to appeal to the whole community, is the most ideal location to ensure the greatest exposure and impact."
Frau Simpson paused, and Konrad whispered, "Come on."
Daniel found himself nodding in agreement. Yes, by all means, make haste, my dear lady.
And at last, she said, "So, without further ado, it is my great honor to announce our five finalists." She opened a sheet of paper, studied the list briefly, and began: "Angelo Nardi."
A burst of cheering rose from a small group of men not far from Daniel. He did not recognize any of them, but he knew Nardi well enough. He had met Nardi once in Toledo when Block had offered Cardinal Sandoval a portrait. The cardinal had declined the offer, probably because he preferred Nardi's fondness for religious symbolism. A man of good talent, Nardi was an Italian who worked primarily in Spain, and was definitely worthy of the competition. But he was a traditionalist to the core, and Block wondered if, when phase two began, Nardi would be able to handle the pressures of trying to create something new or different for a panel of judges seemingly interested in artistic innovation.
Frau Simpson waited a moment for the polite applause to die down and referred again to her list. "Le Nain."
Daniel's lip curled in disgust as he joined the audience in applause. Frenchmen! They were brave to join in this competition, given the political situation. And the three Le Nain brothers preened like peacocks. He knew they were hard-working artists, but their reputations hardly justified their confidence. He was inclined to think they were out of their depth, but time would tell.
"Artemisia Gentileschi."
Daniel was hardly surprised to hear her name called. When he'd heard she had come to town, he assumed she had considerable support. No doubt Simpson and her assistant, as well as Rebecca Stearns, would be pleased if a woman won the commission—though he imagined they would be satisfied with her progress to the second round of the competition if that was as far as she ultimately went. Still, the few paintings of hers that he'd seen had been of the highest quality. She and her assistants, whom he'd been told were skilled painters as well, would offer real competition.
Daniel had begun to turn away from her when Gentileschi looked toward him with a wide smile on her face. She nodded. He thought at first that the gesture was aimed at him—and then he noticed the enthusiasm with which Ursula applauded and saw her nod in response.
How was this possible? Ursula could not know Gentileschi. Unless . . . unless they had met in the last two weeks. But, why would Ursula keep that a secret?
"Daniel von Block."
Daniel had been so deep in thought that he jumped when the small crowd around him erupted in cheers. He was surrounded—his hand being shaken and shoulder slapped, as he thanked everyone for their congratulations. He found himself giddy with joy and relief. He'd been confident he would continue to the next round—and yet, such things are never certain until they are done.
As he awaited the last name, Sophia leaned against him with pure happiness on her face. He hugged her back and felt intense gratitude that he could share the moment with her. It was a great moment, though so much work was yet to be done.
"And our last artist continuing to phase two of the contest is, Hans Ulrich Franck." The cheers and applause were blended with groans and even a couple of shouts from the artists not chosen. Not solely because Franck had been selected—though he was young and Block knew little about him—but because the others had not.
"Does anyone know Franck's work?" Daniel asked.
Konrad answered. "The only thing I've ever heard is that he likes painting battle scenes and military life."
"Well," Johann said, a gleam of arrogance on his face, "looks like the judges do want a military touch to the mural."
Daniel felt like rounding on Johann and telling him to hold his tongue, but he restrained himself, saying only, "There are now five groups in the next phase, and each will bring his or her own ideas, assumptions, and skills to the table. What the Ring of Fire did for war and for military technology is important, but it's not the only important thing. The judges surely understand that."
He hoped the judges understood that. Daniel turned from Johann and took a moment to scan the faces of those who did not make the final five.
Some of them were known for painting bowls of fruit or miniatures—they would surely have been deemed to be lacking in the necessary expertise. Two others were competent portrait painters who'd done only mediocre work when they'd taken on larger projects. But there were a few in the crowd he would have expected to fare better than Franck—and perhaps better than the Le Nains. Perhaps their drawings . . .
Frau Simpson spoke again. "I invite the five finalists to join me for a few minutes in the Royal Academy of Music, which has generously agreed to let us hold our meeting there, to receive their packets containing phase two instructions and personal notes on your sketches. I want to thank you all so much for your participation and your passion in responding to this wonderful opportunity. I wish we could have accepted more artists into the second phase, but we are very happy with the ones we have chosen. We hope you will all join us for the public unveiling of the phase two paintings on November 10th when we will welcome the feedback and votes of all USE citizens."
After sending all but Konrad back to the studio, Daniel joined the other seven artists in a large, well-lit classroom in the Academy, across the plaza from the opera house. As they waited for Frau Simpson and her assistant to join them, they looked each other over. Frau Gentileschi nodded rather formally at him, with what looked like a knowing smile.
What did it mean? Was she, somehow, in league with Ursula? Had she subverted the girl—turned her head with lavish praise and promises of her favor?
He found himself scowling deeply at Gentileschi, and anger seethed in him as she smirked and turned away. Interfering creature!
Surely Ursula would not betray Sophia, however the girl might feel about him? Was she really so desperate for attention that she would trot off after the first person to admire her skill? And what of her brother? Melchior, he was certain, would never approve of so tremendous a betrayal. Would he? Did he know?
Frau Simpson entered, followed by Frau Haygood and two young men carrying large bundles. The committee had selected one sketch from each of them and provided "a few notes—suggestions," Haygood said as she passed out the packets. "Ideas for you to consider. But you must do as you think best moving forward, and then let the judges and the people decide."
She explained the rest of the packet: detailed specifications for the paintings, deadlines, names of people to contact, and times when the opera house would be open for their inspection.
"Frau Haygood," one of the Le Nain's said, stepping forward. "May we see the wall on which the mural will be painted?"
Haygood looked at Frau Simpson, who nodded. "Certainly. I will show it to you as soon as Lady Beth finishes going over the packet."
Frau Haygood continued. Also contained in the packet was a sheet of "ethical guidelines," which prohibited discussion about the contest between the artists and the board members, inappropriate communication between artists and apprentices from competing teams, the exchange of gifts between anyone connected to the artists and the board members, and so forth, along with consequences if such rules were violated. This was most unusual, but the up-timers were quite particular about these sorts of things. So be it; Daniel would make a point of working within the rules of the contest; whether everyone else chose to follow the guidelines just as closely was out of his control.
But then he wondered if the guidelines had already been violated—if he had a spy in his midst. His thoughts drifted again to Ursula.
After Frau Haygood finished with the packet, Frau Simpson led them back across the plaza, up the stairs of the opera house, and through the main doors, stopping in front of the broad wall that held the doors leading into the public seating area.
Daniel and the other artists examined the wall space around the doors. Behind them, a large round stained-glass window brought light into the foyer, pooling multi-hued sunlight on the space where he—and more than likely the others—planned to paint the Ring of Fire. Yes, he thought. It will be magnificent. A perfect space for such a work.
Frau Simpson gestured to the wall. "You have roughly thirty feet between the doors and about twenty feet from the floor to the ceiling. For the sake of the phase two painting, don't worry about the doors. Just focus on the space between them."
Daniel found the location of the doors to be particularly annoying, but they would have the space on either side of them for the actual mural, which would be useful. He began to make mental notes on how he and his team might use the lighting to the greatest effect.
A few additional questions were asked, and then the matter concluded with a polite round of applause by those gathered as Frau Haygood and Frau Simpson congratulated them all once again. Then everyone returned to the plaza and sped off in different directions, with hardly a word of greeting or farewell having been exchanged by the artists.
Daniel handed his bundle of papers to Konrad and strode silently back toward his studio. He had much to consider—and much work to do in just four short weeks.
To Be Continued . . .