Authors: Sarah Andrews
Earth Colors (20 page)
“They’re wonderful,” I said. “I’ve never seen Remingtons glow like this.”
“We struggled to get the lighting just right, and we replaced the frames. Black, very simple, that’s what Remington intended; the frames underscore the darkness. Collectors too often replaced them with fancy gilt because that’s what they were used to, but that puts light around the edges instead of darkness.”
“It’s amazing how bright the darkness is in some of these,” I marveled. I pointed at
Friends or Foes?
, which played its visual tricks with a surprisingly pale shade of blue. A lone brave has halted, alert and uncertain astride his horse, staring across a snow-covered, starlit vastness. The horse’s breath forms ghosts in the frigid air. An unseen moon casts their shadows across the frozen ground. Horse and rider are lost in a world of coldness, a chilling blue, as the brave tries to ascertain what awaits him at a row of distant lights.
Friends or Foes?
, which played its visual tricks with a surprisingly pale shade of blue. A lone brave has halted, alert and uncertain astride his horse, staring across a snow-covered, starlit vastness. The horse’s breath forms ghosts in the frigid air. An unseen moon casts their shadows across the frozen ground. Horse and rider are lost in a world of coldness, a chilling blue, as the brave tries to ascertain what awaits him at a row of distant lights.
My eye was drawn next to
The Hungry Moon
, a dark, moody painting of three Indian women dressing down a buffalo kill in the moonlight. “The subjects form a dark hole right in the center of the composition,” I observed.
The Hungry Moon
, a dark, moody painting of three Indian women dressing down a buffalo kill in the moonlight. “The subjects form a dark hole right in the center of the composition,” I observed.
“Yes,” said Emmett. “You can sense their anxiety, their rush to complete the task. Why were they working in the night, and where were their men?”
The Hungry Moon
was composed primarily using dark greens and black shadows. Suddenly that peculiar green flashed a message to my brain, and I turned and stared at
The Sentinel
, the green painting I had
seen only weeks before at the Whitney Gallery in Cody. “This shade of green,” I said. “It’s …” I turned slowly and examined adjoining walls.
was composed primarily using dark greens and black shadows. Suddenly that peculiar green flashed a message to my brain, and I turned and stared at
The Sentinel
, the green painting I had
seen only weeks before at the Whitney Gallery in Cody. “This shade of green,” I said. “It’s …” I turned slowly and examined adjoining walls.
Emmett said, “Remington used the trick of juxtaposing that bluish green with a yellowish white many times; it’s as clear and masterful as a signature musical riff played in concert, tossed out in bravado flourishes. Look: Here it is again.” He pointed at
Shotgun Hospitality
, which used these colors to depict the nighttime visit of three Indians. They had caught one uncertain white man seated alone by his campfire. The Indians are standing swathed in blankets that make them even more massive, more imposing, and the one at the center of the scene has his back square to the viewer. Emmett said softly, “Again he’s filled the center of the composition with a darkness that consumes our attention.”
Shotgun Hospitality
, which used these colors to depict the nighttime visit of three Indians. They had caught one uncertain white man seated alone by his campfire. The Indians are standing swathed in blankets that make them even more massive, more imposing, and the one at the center of the scene has his back square to the viewer. Emmett said softly, “Again he’s filled the center of the composition with a darkness that consumes our attention.”
This was romantic realism at its most grim.
I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I glanced from painting to painting, taking in each one using that green as the mask of darkness. The value of the color varied from canvas to canvas, and the degree to which it had been grayed, but in each, it was the same unmistakable blue-green. “Hooker’s green,” I said aloud.
Emmett turned from his own musings and looked at me. “Yes. An interesting choice, eh?”
An interesting choice
. Those had been the exact words Tert Krehbeil had used when discussing the pigment with his companion in Cody.
. Those had been the exact words Tert Krehbeil had used when discussing the pigment with his companion in Cody.
And as I looked at this color repeated in so many of these paintings, I realized how he knew that the painting he had shown me was a forgery.
The green in Tert’s painting was not correct. It was not Hooker’s green.
I steadied my voice and asked questions as calmly as I could. “Hooker’s green was on your list of Remington’s pigments. I went to an art-supply shop before flying out here and looked all through the oil paints, but it wasn’t there.”
“Of course not. It’s a watercolor pigment.”
“Then how—”
“It was occasionally made up as an oil paint back then. The problem is that the yellow—”
“Gamboge.”
“Yes, gamboge is water-soluble, and it’s not lightfast. It’s also extremely toxic.”
“Really? Then why did he use it?”
“Well, Remington wanted that precise effect, and it took those two pigments to get it. Prussian blue is a distinct dark blue, rather less purple than ultramarine, but not as warm as indigo. And gamboge is a mustard yellow. In Remington’s day, the only other pigment that even came close was Indian yellow, and it had already been outlawed.”
“Why?”
“Because even then, in an era when people were much more used to using and abusing animals, the manner in which it was created was considered cruel.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Cows were fed mango leaves and kept on short water rations. Indian yellow is an acid that collected in their urine. Nowadays we have a synthetic pigment that comes close, but it’s not the same.” He shook his head. “No, they’re never quite the same.”
I took a breath. “So Emmett, speaking of inexact pigments, are you ever asked to examine forgeries?”
He chuckled. “Oh, yes. Certainly. People donate paintings and want to write them off their taxes, so of course we have to look them over carefully, and occasionally we get one that’s been cooked.”
“What do you look for? Modern pigments in a painting that’s supposed to be old?”
“Yes, certainly, but that’s only good if the forger was a callow idiot. More often, he’s smart enough to use only colors that existed at the time the artist was working. Then we have to look a little deeper.”
“Such as?”
“The lead in the lead white. As a geologist, you probably already know this: With modern milling and cyanide processes, how pure is the lead produced at a silver mine?”
I said, “The lead is removed from the silver, not the other way around … . No, wait! I get it! I’m used to thinking of the silver as the product and the lead as the by-product, but either way, you’re just trying to separate the two. Prior to the development of cyanide refinement systems a century ago, some of the silver would be left in the lead!”
Emmett said, “You could check the date of that development with your mining specialists. And there are other clues. If it was a supposed Renaissance painting you were dealing with, I’d say to look at the ground. There
are coccoliths in the earlier gessoes. By the nineteenth century, the precipitation techniques filtered them out. You can also look at the sulfur ratio in the ultramarine; that’s a way to tell the natural from the synthetic. I’m sure you can think up plenty of other little tricks, and if you do, will you please tell me?” He gave me a meaningful smile.
are coccoliths in the earlier gessoes. By the nineteenth century, the precipitation techniques filtered them out. You can also look at the sulfur ratio in the ultramarine; that’s a way to tell the natural from the synthetic. I’m sure you can think up plenty of other little tricks, and if you do, will you please tell me?” He gave me a meaningful smile.
I smiled with chagrin. I had nothing I could give him yet, but when I did, I vowed that he’d be one of the first to know. “Most certainly,” I said. “I probably won’t be able to tell you much about the specific job I’m working on, but any new tools of the trade will certainly come your way. Mind if I share your techniques with my colleague at the FBI?”
“I’d be delighted. But do advise him that our shop isn’t set up to do analyses at the level of rigor they require for legal evidence.”
“I’ll advise
her
. And what would that level of rigor require?”
her
. And what would that level of rigor require?”
“I’m sure
she
could tell you better than I. But at minimum, the chain-of-custody documentation would be much more stringent.”
she
could tell you better than I. But at minimum, the chain-of-custody documentation would be much more stringent.”
Chain of custody
… The words hit me like a brick as I realized another part of Tert’s deceit.
He just cut out the chips and handed them to me … . Oh, no.
… It took me a moment to pull myself together and act like I hadn’t just been caught being a total ignoramus regarding documentation of evidence.
Of course a chain-of-custody would be required! Em Hansen, what were you thinking!
I said, “What is your standard chain-of-custody system?”
… The words hit me like a brick as I realized another part of Tert’s deceit.
He just cut out the chips and handed them to me … . Oh, no.
… It took me a moment to pull myself together and act like I hadn’t just been caught being a total ignoramus regarding documentation of evidence.
Of course a chain-of-custody would be required! Em Hansen, what were you thinking!
I said, “What is your standard chain-of-custody system?”
“Well, whenever a valuable painting is moved—say, from a collector’s home to the shop for repairs, or to the museum for display—documentation is required. And insurance. Typically, our team goes straight to the owner’s house and builds the shipping crate right there, and the owner witnesses the painting being packed safely in the crate. He—or
she
”—he gave me a wink—“signs the document, as do the handlers. They carry it into their truck. And yes, sometimes the owners require we use Brinks.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Although I don’t know why they’d want to call attention to the move, and the insurance is in place regardless. Heavens, I’ve done the blanket-wrap method myself, and the insurance was every bit as valid, and there was less banging around.”
she
”—he gave me a wink—“signs the document, as do the handlers. They carry it into their truck. And yes, sometimes the owners require we use Brinks.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Although I don’t know why they’d want to call attention to the move, and the insurance is in place regardless. Heavens, I’ve done the blanket-wrap method myself, and the insurance was every bit as valid, and there was less banging around.”
“Blanket wrap?”
“Yes. One takes a special soft blanket and just wraps it around the painting, frame and all, and lays it flat in the trunk of a car. It’s perfectly adequate for a shorter jaunt, and as I say, sometimes there is less jostling that way.”
“And do you sometimes take the painting off the stretchers?” I inquired. I wanted to know whether Tert’s methods had any legitimacy whatsoever.
Emmett shrugged his shoulders. “It depends. For a larger work, as long as it’s not painted on a wooden panel and hasn’t been backed with something stiff along the way, then unmounting and rolling can be the answer. Oils are surprisingly elastic. You put cheesecloth against the paint film to prevent scraping.” He gestured at the paintings on the walls. “One of these would fit into a large mailing tube, as you wouldn’t want to roll it very tightly. But if it’s a Remington, that would be sinful, because you’d want to take every measure to prevent the slightest chip. Although one of these would take a crate too big to fit into a lot of common carriers. He had a standard size, twenty-seven by forty inches. With crate, that’s … let’s see … add eight or ten inches each to height and length, and say, twelve inches in thickness … . You get the idea. And a crate that size is heavy!”
“You wouldn’t be able to fit one into the baggage bay of a private airplane,” I said, trying to keep a sardonic tone out of my voice. I tried to imagine Faye wrestling something that size or weight into her airplane. There was no way she could manage it. And if my survey of Tert’s mother’s house was correct, there
were
no other paintings. He had indeed been lying to Faye. He had never intended that she move a painting for him. Then why
had
he asked her to come to Cody? The whole reason for getting her to Cody must have been to engage her connections to people who could document that his painting was indeed a forgery, and do it with strict confidentiality. But why would he want to keep it a secret? And who copied the original, and where had the original gone?
were
no other paintings. He had indeed been lying to Faye. He had never intended that she move a painting for him. Then why
had
he asked her to come to Cody? The whole reason for getting her to Cody must have been to engage her connections to people who could document that his painting was indeed a forgery, and do it with strict confidentiality. But why would he want to keep it a secret? And who copied the original, and where had the original gone?
Emmett was saying, “Oh, no. No, you’d need a commercial airliner, and, well … It’s so much easier to send by surface.” He glanced at his watch, indicating it was nearing time that he must address other demands on his schedule.
I slowly turned, taking in each painting one more time, letting them raise me above the concerns of Tert Krehbeil. These were real. They filled me with awe, and happiness, even as their subject matter and force of light and darkness and composition filled me with foreboding. These paintings were not jovial, nor composed for the pure premise of beauty; no, these pictures yanked the viewer in and shouted something deep and unnerving.
“I’ve seen a great number of his paintings at the Whitney Gallery in Wyoming,” I said, “but these … there’s something about them … .”
“I’ve seen a great number of his paintings at the Whitney Gallery in Wyoming,” I said, “but these … there’s something about them … .”
Emmett took a moment longer and stood like I did, taking in the view, his hands clasped behind his back. “You’re noticing what Remington knew about himself: In his earlier work, he was an illustrator, not a fine artist.”
“What is the difference between the two, really?”
Emmett sighed. “That’s always hard to say. There’s an intangible quality that separates the two, a line that dances and vanishes. But in his earlier work, Remington was accurately termed a ‘black-and-white man.’ He even painted in black and white sometimes, knowing that any colors would be lost in reproduction. Remember that he worked in the days before color printing, before television, radio, and high-speed, candid photography. We needed narrative scenes for black-and-white publication, so if you were an artist trying to make a living, that’s what you created: black-and-white illustrations. Look at
The Luckless Hunter
there: It was published in
Scribner’s
as a halftone. The subtleties of the color were lost, but not the strength of the composition or the narrative. Yet this was one of his last paintings, a masterpiece of color usage.”
The Luckless Hunter
there: It was published in
Scribner’s
as a halftone. The subtleties of the color were lost, but not the strength of the composition or the narrative. Yet this was one of his last paintings, a masterpiece of color usage.”
“And I can feel just how cold that Indian is, riding along in the dark, over the snow … .”
“And Remington was at last acknowledged as an artist, not just an illustrator. Because as you can see here, he could illustrate any story and make it so gripping that you can, as you say, feel the cold, and yet he aspired to more. He wanted to be included among ‘the painters,’ as he called them, so he labored hard to work with color. He had early successes, but the Academy of Art was interested in harmony. They found Remington’s colors too harsh, too dissonant. What they didn’t know was that he was painting the impressions of a landscape that was just that—harsh, unforgiving, even brutal. It was not the soft, dripping stuff of the Eastern scenery and lighting.”
“Amen to that,” I said, knowing all too well how quick Easterners could be to dismiss the West as quaint, or naïve. My West was a land of contrasts, all right, but also of clarity. “So what inspired him? What carried him over the threshold from … picaresque to profound?”
“Nicely phrased,” Emmett said. “Well, what happened is that Remington
went to war. His father was a hero of the Civil War, who died when Remington was still quite young. He must have idolized his father, and wished to measure up to his glory. So he went to Cuba. He became a war correspondent in the Spanish-American War, and it put an end to the romantic notions of his childhood. He came home in a state of shock, what we now call post-traumatic stress.” His hand fluttered up with the tension of his tale. “These paintings were his struggle to embrace that ambiguity. Here is beauty, seamlessly intermixed with threat and danger.”
went to war. His father was a hero of the Civil War, who died when Remington was still quite young. He must have idolized his father, and wished to measure up to his glory. So he went to Cuba. He became a war correspondent in the Spanish-American War, and it put an end to the romantic notions of his childhood. He came home in a state of shock, what we now call post-traumatic stress.” His hand fluttered up with the tension of his tale. “These paintings were his struggle to embrace that ambiguity. Here is beauty, seamlessly intermixed with threat and danger.”
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