Vintage portrait - vampire embrace
Old frames are my weakness. All the time I am looking for some rare and unusual frames for paintings from masters and antique dealers. I am not particularly interested in what they frame, because as an artist, I have a quirk to first acquire a frame, and then paint a picture corresponding to its supposed history and appearance. Because of this, some interesting and, I dare to hope, original ideas come to my mind.
One day in December, about a week before Christmas, I bought an elegant but dilapidated specimen of carved wood from a shop in Soho. The gilding on it was almost erased, three corners were knocked down, but the fourth survived, and I hoped that I would be able to restore the rest. The canvas inserted into the frame was covered with such a thick layer of dirt and stains formed over time that I could make out on it only an extremely nasty image of some unremarkable person: a daub of a poor artist who worked for food, designed to fill a used frame, which his patron, apparently, bought it cheaply, just as I bought it later; and yet, since the frame suited me, at the same time I took the canvas spoiled by time, believing that it would be good for something.
Over the next few days, I was absorbed in various things, and only on Christmas Eve I found time to properly consider my purchase, which, from the time I brought it to the workshop, stood against the wall with the wrong side out.
Not busy that evening and not inclined to walk, I took the frame by the surviving corner and put it on the table, and then, armed with a sponge, a basin of water and soap, I began to wash it and the canvas itself so that I could see them better. To clean them of incredible dirt, I had to use up almost a whole bag of soap powder and change the water in the basin a dozen times, and in the end a pattern began to appear on the frame, and the picture itself showed a repulsive roughness and poverty of the pattern and open vulgarity. It was a portrait of a flabby, pig-like innkeeper, hung with various trinkets - a common thing for this kind of creation, where it is not so much the similarity of features that is important as impeccable accuracy in the image of watch chains, seals, rings and breast pins; they were all present on the canvas, the same full-bodied real,as in life.
The design of the frame inspired me with admiration, and the painting convinced me that the seller received a decent price from me; I was examining this monstrous image in the bright light of a gas lamp, wondering how such a portrait could have appealed to a person imprinted on it, and then my attention was attracted by a light smear on the canvas under a thin layer of paint, as if the picture were painted over some other.
This could not be ascertained for sure, but even a hint of such a possibility was enough for me to jump to the cabinet where there was wine alcohol and turpentine, and with the help of these means and rags I began to mercilessly erase the image of the innkeeper - in the vague hope of finding something under it worthy of contemplation.
I did this slowly and carefully, so that it was already approaching midnight, when the golden rings and crimson face disappeared and a different picture began to emerge in front of me; in the end, having walked over the canvas for the last time with a damp cloth, I wiped it dry, carried it to the light and put it on an easel, and then, filling and lighting my pipe, I sat down opposite to properly examine the result of my efforts.
Promotional video:
What have I freed from the vile captivity of low-grade scribbling? After all, it was not worth starting this just in order to understand that the work, which this artisan had defiled and hidden from painting, was as alien to his consciousness as clouds to a caterpillar.
Against the background of a rich environment, immersed in darkness, I saw the head and chest of a young woman of indeterminate age, undoubtedly depicted by the hand of a master who did not need to prove his skill and who could hide his techniques. The dark but restrained dignity that inspired the portrait was so perfection and so natural that it seemed to be the creation of Moroni's brush. The face and neck were so pale that they seemed completely colorless, and the shadows were applied so skillfully and imperceptibly that would delight even the judicious Queen Elizabeth.
In the first moments I saw a dull gray spot against a dark background, which gradually shifted into shadow. Later, when I sat down further away and leaned back in my chair so that the details were no longer distinguishable, the gray spot seemed to become brighter and more distinct, and the figure separated from the background, as if it had acquired flesh, although I, who had just washed the canvas, knew that it was just a pictorial image.
A determined face with a thin nose, well-defined, albeit bloodless lips and eyes that resembled dark hollows without the least glimmer of light. Hair, heavy, silky, jet-black, covered part of the forehead, framed the rounded cheeks, and fell in a free wave over the left breast, leaving the right side of the pale neck exposed.
The dress and the surrounding background together were a harmony of black tones and at the same time were full of subtle color and skillfully conveyed feeling; the velvet dress was richly trimmed with brocade, and the background was a vast, stretching space, delightfully alluring and awe inspiring.
I noticed that the pale mouth was slightly parted, exposing the upper front teeth a little and adding determination to the whole look. The upper lip was raised, and the lower one looked full and sensual - or rather, it would look like that if it had color.
Such a supernatural face I happened to resurrect at midnight on the eve of Christmas; his passive pallor made me think that all the blood had been released from the body and I was looking at the revived corpse. It was then that I noticed for the first time that the design of the frame also seemed to have an intention to convey the idea of life in death: what had previously seemed like an ornament of flowers and fruits, suddenly appeared as disgusting snake-like worms wriggling among the grave bones, half hiding them on a decorative manners; this terrifying design, despite the sophistication of its embodiment, made me shudder and regret that I did not undertake to wash the canvas during the day.
I have very strong nerves, and I would have laughed in the face of anyone who reproached me for cowardice; and yet, sitting alone in front of this portrait, when there was not a soul nearby (the nearby workshops were empty that evening, and the watchman had a day off), I regretted that I did not meet Christmas in a more pleasant atmosphere, because, despite the bright fire in the stove and the glowing gas, this determined face and ghostly eyes had a strange effect on me.
I heard how clocks on different towers one after another announced the end of the day, how the sound, picked up by an echo, gradually died away in the distance, and he continued to sit, as if enchanted, looking at the old picture and forgetting about the pipe that he held in his hand, seized with incomprehensible fatigue.
Fathomlessly deep and hypnotically mesmerizing eyes looked at me. They were completely dark, but they seemed to absorb my soul, and with them life and strength; defenseless in front of their gaze, I was unable to move, and in the end I was overcome by sleep.
I dreamed of a woman coming down from a picture placed on an easel and walking towards me with a smooth step; behind her, a crypt full of coffins became visible on the canvas; some were closed, others lay or stood open, displaying their hideous contents in half-rotted, stained burial garments.
I saw only her head and shoulders in dark robes, over which fell a lush scattering of black hair. The woman clung to me, her pale face touched my face, cold bloodless lips pressed against mine, and her silky hair enveloped me like a cloud, and caused a delightful thrill, which, despite increased weakness, gave me intoxicating pleasure.
I sighed, and she seemed to drink the breath that had flown from my lips, not returning anything in return; as I grew weaker, she grew stronger, my warmth passed on to her and filled her with a lively beat of life.
And suddenly, seized with horror approaching death, I frantically pushed her away and jumped up from my chair; for a moment I did not understand where I was, then the ability to think returned to me, and I looked around.
The gas in the lamp was still burning brightly, and the flame was crimson in the stove. The clock on the mantelpiece showed half past midnight.
The picture in the frame, as before, stood on the easel, and only after looking at it more closely, I saw that the portrait had changed: a feverish blush appeared on the cheeks of a mysterious stranger, life shone in her eyes, sensual lips were swollen and reddened, and a drop of blood was visible on the bottom … In a fit of disgust, I grabbed my scraper knife and carved the portrait of the vampire with it, and then, ripping out the mutilated pieces of canvas from the frame, threw them into the oven and watched with barbaric delight as they wriggle, turning to dust.
I still keep that frame, but I still don’t have the heart to paint a picture that suits it.
James Hume Nisbet