Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Beauty can also be merely skin deep. What lies beneath the cover is often the most interesting story.
Meyer G. had such a thing, a painting. The painting could have paid for a train car, with a locomotive thrown in. It might not have put him among the railroad barons, but at least he shared their craving for highbrow social status. “Imagine,” the fey agent had fawned. “This masterpiece in a museum. A plaque beneath it: From the collection of Meyer G.” He added, with a wink, that lending it to a museum would also lift its value.
Meyer sold a dismal apartment building to pay for the painting; he bought into the notion that owning it would somehow make him something special. He thought it was ugly as sin, but who was he to argue? Just the lucky son of a strictly kosher Mitteleuropa fish peddler who upgraded himself buying and selling urban real estate.
Perhaps it was no more than a coincidence that the work of art was called The Fishmonger. Painted by a little-known Flemish artist a few centuries earlier, it showed a vendor standing before a pushcart of old fish while a customer waved his hand across his offended nose, apparently demanding his money back. Ironically, the man who commissioned it from the artist, Jan De Visser, also demanded his money back. The painting didn’t make Meyer G. any more acceptable to the social classes he so wished to enter, nor did its value rescue him in the end. He was allowed only a small suitcase, packed with the barest of necessities, when he was forced onto the train that took him east.
The painting fell into the hands of another collector—a collector not only of art, but of people from whom he’d taken the art. He had his staff carry it, along with other people’s art, to his lovely mansion with a heated pool. The house came fully furnished down to the dishes; the prior owners had been sent away on an earlier train. Like Meyer G, he had an insatiable appetite for things that might bring him a degree of acceptance in communities that heretofore had disdained him. If a little force was needed, well, he had that at his disposal.
The Fishmonger was eventually liberated. Better-known works became the subject of interminable legal battles; a few begrudgingly restored to surviving relatives, others to museums with better claims and better lawyers. Still others hung in obscure rooms of less scrupulous museums none too keen to dig deeply into provenance.
The Fishmonger was, in the changing tastes of the post-war era, as obscure as the room in which it was displayed. It was occasionally mentioned in even more obscure art books, but its artist never joined the ranks of the greater masters of his generation. It was said he knew Brueghel the Younger. It was said that if Brueghel were asked, he’d deny it.
Still, it was a Flemish piece, of the classic era, and once worth a small apartment building in a working-class district of Vienna.
The artist admired Brueghel. He was inspired to such an extent that he had a small painting of Brueghel’s. How he obtained it isn’t clear; it wasn’t Brueghel’s best, and some said it wasn’t even finished. When it went missing, it wasn’t missed beyond a curious pondering which didn’t last long as other projects came to the master’s easel. The artist who had it tried to emulate the work, came up with his own vision of Flemish life and peasantry, and built a brief reputation, but his Brueghel reminded him of his lesser talent.
Phillipe had offered several topics for his thesis; all had been rejected. What he lacked in academic scholarship he compensated for with an unwarranted arrogance, even for the art community. More than one advisor warned him that he had reached the end of his tether and suggested his best career options lay elsewhere.
Which is why Phillipe was a lowly-paid docent in a second-rate museum in a third-rate city. The museum once had higher hopes and a better collection until those damn lawyers got involved and, by court order, lost many of its best pieces. Other museums, facing a lesser backlash, had scoured their collections to make at least some of the returns voluntary, to divert attention from their own need to stay one step ahead of good investigators and bad publicity.
The Fishmonger remained behind. Lesser known, yes, but not unknown to Phillipe. In one of his last thesis proposals, he came up with “The Portrayal of Markets in the Flemish Renaissance.” What the idea lacked was a unifying perspective that hadn’t been researched many times over. It was a desperate stab in the dark, glanced over by a professor who had written his own thesis decades earlier on the same topic. “What,” he asked Phillipe, “do you think you can tell us?” It was a simple question, a fair one, asked calmly out of curiosity. The professor had low expectations for a good answer. Phillipe underperformed even that.
Phillipe didn’t much care for The Fishmonger. But it was one of two he could talk about to the thin crowds that entered the Flemish Renaissance room because the other works were of even lesser quality and renown. De Visser had been a character. His work did sell, not for much, but he boasted of adventures during Holland’s war with Spain, told adventure stories about the scar across his forehead—never admitting it came from a tavern sign that fell on him in a windstorm—and was the first painter to be commissioned by the Dutch West India Company to immigrate to New Amsterdam. No one else wanted, or needed, the job.
De Visser’s final work, The Misunderstanding, appeared next to The Fishmonger. It was never finished. It loyally followed the tradition of Flemish Renaissance paintings that featured a deep attention to detail. It caught an angry exchange between natives with beaver pelts and a Dutch trader. A chief was holding up five fingers and pounding his chest. A heavyset Dutchman was holding up three and shaking his head. An Indian was creeping from behind with a tomahawk in his hand. De Visser was painting a real image. What he didn’t capture was the third Indian creeping behind him.
The unfinished painting survived the incident. De Visser did not.
It was a young schoolgirl whose glasses had broken on the bus over to the museum. Phillipe pointed to the unfinished De Visser, making sure to enthrall the children with the fact he’d been scalped. The little girl pushed closer to see better and tripped, falling against The Fishmonger, causing a large piece of the paint to flake off. The embarrassed teacher apologized profusely and hurriedly ushered the children to the gift shop.
Phillipe’s attention, however, was on the spot behind the flake. There, beneath De Visser’s paint, was something altogether different. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a De Visser.
There had been rumors over the centuries that The Fishmonger was more than an effort to copy another artist’s style. Had De Visser been more popular, the art world might have bothered to scratch the surface. But such suspicions were lost to the obscure writings of a handful of historians, whose work had slipped into the rarefied realm of the PhD student who stumbled upon it.
Revealed was more paint distinct from that of The Fishmonger. What showed was another work, one that to Phillipe’s trained eye was far better in execution. Below the protective shield of De Visser’s work, hidden for centuries, was the image of a barrel of fish. It almost reeked in remarkable detail.
Phillipe had enough knowledge to fantasize that beneath De Visser’s Fishmonger was something vastly more interesting. And immensely more valuable. He’d read of the missing Brueghel, of course. In his docent work, he fell more for the De Visser the man than De Visser the artist. There were the dubious adventure stories. The move to New Amsterdam, and the nature of his death. A novelist couldn’t conjure up a better demise.
But it was his mediocre talent that touched a nerve; did such mediocrity have a place? Did such afflicted people deserve their story told?
Phillipe picked up the flake from the floor. It might warrant analyzing, if for no other reason than to determine how to get the rest of De Visser’s work eradicated to reveal what lay beneath. He was tempted then and there to flake off more, imagining the failed academic finding a long-lost masterpiece. But, no, he stopped himself. I’ll tease the art world. Let’s see what that professor would say now! He stomped down his foot, hard, half hoping another flake would fall off. I’ll show you what I can add.
He went to work. Photo in hand, Phillipe scanned the revealed image and asked his closest advisors if they saw what he saw. His heart raced as Chat, Claude, and Gemini related what he hoped was there. From ChatGPT: This fragment appears consistent with late-sixteenth- or early-seventeenth-century Flemish painting. It is reminiscent of Pieter Bruegel the Elder, though it could be a study or the work of someone familiar with his style.
Phillipe went back to his all-but-dissertation days. Who might be familiar with Pieter Bruegel’s style? None other than Pieter Brueghel himself. Not the Elder, of course, but Pieter Brueghel the Younger. Brueghel made a career of copying and reworking his father’s compositions. It made sense, perfect sense. De Visser was a contemporary of that Brueghel, the one he said he knew, the one he claimed he shared a studio with, a relationship the younger Brueghel would deny vehemently. Some might say too vehemently, given his letter of recommendation to the West India Company.
Brueghel junior was no slouch. His work might not command the tens of millions his father’s did, but even the valuations of his lesser works reached $2-5 million. Many universities could use a bit of that to fund the scholarship of the young docent who held the flake and put two and two together.
Phillipe wasn’t a slouch either when it came to anonymous postings. Out went inquiries to faculty with his photo of the subimage, along with scholarly insights about the style, the context, and teases about young Brueghel’s work. Experts suggested infrared reflectography, X-radiography, and pigment analysis to establish what lay beneath De Visser. In that advice were requests to visit the painting in question, offers to do such analysis, and, inevitably, pleas for more photos of the entire work and its story.
That all made sense, of course. Phillipe would get to entertain some of the stars of the art world, get his museum rare publicity. Perhaps his photo in those highbrow art journals! His museum could promote him, give him his own parking spot if and when he managed to afford a car.
Then, after the brouhaha, Phillipe would fade into oblivion or the gift shop where the ancient manager would pinch his cheek and remind him of his brief brush with glory.
But first. Phillipe told the curator that he needed to take The Fishmonger to the museum’s conservation lab to tighten the frame. He didn’t know if the frame needed tightening or how to do it if it did, but the curator didn’t care about the painting, rarely used the lab, and shrugged his response as if to say “Whatever.” The lab had an older infrared-converted DSLR, donated by a museum that could afford up-to-date equipment, and a closet once used for photography. It still had the proper lighting needed for infrared work. Not ideal, but it was basic enough for Phillipe to manage.
Snap, hold for a few seconds, then snap again and again. His first few dozen shots revealed nothing. But he adjusted the lighting just so, snapped away, and looked at the LCD screen. There was something, distinct, there. After returning the painting to its place, he rushed home to see a better image on his computer—not only was it better than the one at work, but he didn’t want prying eyes over his shoulder.
And there it was. Well, “it” might be too strong a term, but Phillipe saw something that caused him to pour another glass of wine. Beneath De Visser’s now ghostly fishmonger were three figures around a table, beside the barrel of fish he’d already seen. On the table were two baskets, and around it all were the dark lines of the artist’s original sketch.
Phillipe enlarged the image. A man was bent across the table. He would mean nothing to most people. But to Phillipe, the rounded cap, hunched shoulders and oddly splayed legs were familiar. So was the little three-legged stool before him. He’d seen both before. When he scanned down to the lower right, he wasn’t surprised to see the faint beginnings of tantalizing letters. P. BRV. For sure, he had a Pieter Brueghel.
It has to be. It just has to be.
He replied to the messages with the best images he’d taken. The best for Phillipe were not the clearest but the ones that obscured De Visser’s effort. While it was unlikely anyone, even the experts, would recognize The Fishmonger overlay, it was hardly impossible, and Phillipe wanted to keep his discovery a secret for a while. What came back to him were no longer mere pleas to see what he found but demands. Curators were saying it was wrong to keep a newly found Brueghel to himself, hidden away from the world. There was consistency in those messages: who are you, what are you, where are you, when can I see this, you could be famous, you could be a crook.
Out of the blue came a query from a heretofore reputable auction house that held unabashed promise: Would you accept crypto? We have a client in the East who prefers to remain anonymous.
Phillipe wondered. Could he, really, would he? It wouldn’t be difficult to take the painting. He had the story lined up. He’d tell the curator the frame needed more work, say the glue needed to set, and that he’d leave it in the lab over the weekend. The lab was never locked, he’d say, and when he returned to work…
I can get greatness—recognition—from your mediocrity. Sorry, old fellow, you’re expendable.
No one would care very much. The museum had insurance, and the other De Visser was still there and got far more interest, at least from visiting adolescents. And Phillipe would stay on the job, chagrined for a few months, then give notice, say he was going back to school, or moving in with a sick aunt. They would care as much about him as they would about De Visser’s The Fishmonger. He was thinking about these plans as he tested out the BMW. He thought the X5 was the better choice.
Phillipe swallowed his heart when he saw the curator standing before the De Visser, his hand rubbing his jaw.
“Sir?” said Phillipe.
The curator removed his thick glasses to rub his eyes. “I’m getting old, Phillipe,” he said. “This painting. It’s not so bad. Underrated if you ask me. You did a good job with the frame. I can’t see the repair. Well done.”
Phillipe blushed. “There’s a bit more work needed,” he said. The only thing he’d done was photograph it.
“Was that off when you removed it?” he asked, pointing to where the flake had been.
Phillipe stumbled on his response. “Well, yes, actually. It’s why I bothered to look at the frame in the first place.”
The curator moved closer. “Hmm, it’s these tired old eyes. I need new glasses. Can’t see anything. Sometimes these old pieces were painted over earlier works. But of course, you know that. I’m just thinking out loud. Still, not a bad piece. The fellow deserved more credit.” He set to cleaning his glasses and walked away.
The fellow deserved more credit. Don’t we all, he thought. And not just credit. Recognition. And if not recognition, a stake, adventure, a new world. A chance. Phillipe was looking at De Visser’s The Misunderstanding. He liked it. That is underrated. He liked the image, too— unfinished yet threatening, just like De Visser himself. And what an ending. De Visser took a bold chance moving to New Amsterdam, a chance to be the artist on an unpainted canvas. Better to lose your scalp trying than sit around a stale world that wouldn’t honor you.
If asked, “What do you think you can tell us?” De Visser would have a tale to tell.
Late that Friday, Phillipe removed The Fishmonger from where it hung and brought it to the conservation lab, ensuring that the door remained unlocked. As night fell, he looked out the window to the emerging stars, dreaming: would it be a BMW? Perhaps he would return to school. As for De Visser? Soon enough, he would be gone, a footnote at best, an anecdote for a docent to tell about what once hung in a gallery of better Brueghels. Phillipe looked again at the painting. He only stirred when the church bell rang.
“Phillipe, a word if you please.” It was the curator again, cleaning a new pair of glasses. He was staring intently at the corner of a painting in the Flemish hall.
“Sir?” said Phillipe.
“Marvelous work, absolutely marvelous. A perfect fit,” said the curator, touching Phillipe’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
They both looked at the painting, the corner of which had been fully restored with the fallen flake. Phillipe had to smile.