I wonder now about that warning. Was it about confidentiality around her work, a particular piece resting in her studio? Perhaps, even,The Child? It could explain her sudden edginess, though it made little sense. Paintings didn’t leave the museum mid-treatment—no one’s home was set up for that type of work back then. Mom’s studio was a place she practiced techniques, or read, in her off time.
None of this is particularly helpful at the moment, so I focus on the presentation.
“There’s a lot in there that’s familiar,” I say to Cecil. “The use of body-based materials, for one thing. The melancholy of Leclerc’s color choices and memento mori style. The sense that what you’re seeing is only surface level, and that she’s hidden truths within the composition.”
I take a breath, pacing around the kitchen. My bladder protests, and I set down my half-drunk tea.
“The last paragraph. The question. It…I—” A deep cramp squeezes my lower abdomen. My breath leaves me as I double over. “Oh!”
“Tilly? Are you all right?”
The pain and pressure are gone a second later, though they leave me mildly breathless. “Stubbed my toe, I’m fine.” I stretch back—maybe it’s round ligament pain, which is common in the second trimester—but feel only a mild tension in my abdomen.
“Anyway, I’m having a similar experience withThe Mother, and I don’t understand it.” I pause. “Even thinking what I’m thinking makes me wonder if I’m losing my mind.” It feels good to say it out loud.
“Did I ever tell you about what happened when Svetlana Telets’sThe Woman of the Rainwas gifted to the museum?” Cecil asks.
“I don’t think so.” I haven’t heard this story, but I know the piece.
The Woman of the Rainis said to be cursed. It was painted by the artist Svetlana Telets in only five hours; a self-described fever-dream creation. The first few owners of the artwork described terrifying experiences: horrible nightmares once it was hung in their homes; things breaking, and a sense of being watched; and some even claimed to have seen the rain woman walking through rooms in the darkness of night.
“I worked on the conservation with a colleague, Julia Dreyer, who I believe you know?”
“Yes, Julia and I had some crossover at the AGO.” Julia is now in Germany, heading up a conservation program there. We exchange messages once a year, at Christmas.
“I’ve never had this happen before, nor since, but there was something about that painting…” Cecil’s voice trails away. “Julia and I both felt it. A malevolence we couldn’t explain. I had perplexing insomnia the entire time we worked on it, which continued even after it went on display. Awful nightmares that would wake me in a cold sweat. It was the eyes, I think. There was something strange about her eyes.”
I set a hand to my throat and swallow hard.
“In the years since I’ve often wondered if my mind created that experience of fearfulness. That me knowing the painting was rumored to be cursed then made it so in my reality.”
“Hmm. A form of cognitive bias,” I murmur.
“Precisely,” Cecil says.
I consider this in the context of my own situation. No question something similar could be happening to me. I’m well aware of the rumors about Leclerc’s methods, the strange lore that follows her. Perhaps I’m hallucinating my mother too. The anniversary of her death is only a couple of weeks away. Wouldn’t be unheard of—our reaction to a painful loss isn’t predictable, nor is its timeline. Add in the stress of the pregnancy, plus the hours of focused work on the conservation…
Yes, that could explain it.
“We get so close to the art, and to the artist,” Cecil continues. “Sometimes it’s as though you’ve become one entity, as you well know. There’s nothing pathological about that, Tilly. It’s part of the job.”
By the time we hang up I feel better.
The tree is up, though currently bare. Clementine and I are sorting through the decorations—many handmade over her school years, some from when I was a child, some from Wyatt’s Christmases before I joined the family. All Christmas trees are artificial now, thanks to tree-protecting environmental policies, and so made of recycled and sustainable materials. Occasionally I miss the scent of a freshly cut pine in the living room, though ours has a built-in scent diffuser. However, the smell isn’t natural enough for me, and it’s somewhat overpowering, so the diffuser remains off.
It’s Sunday, a nonwork day, and while I’m with my family in body, my mind is elsewhere. The Leclerc monopolizes my focus and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to stay out of my studio. Especially because I’m hyperaware of how quickly time is passing. As the weekly MotherWise e-zines (the plum is now a pomegranate) pile up in my inbox, so does my impatience to finish the conservation. Ihaveto complete it before this baby arrives—there’s no other option.
Wyatt’s job is the lights, and he’s twisting the branches to turn onthe laser-powered, fiber-optic channels that stretch down each branch. Soon the tree illuminates, a soft and warm glow emanating from every needle.
“Cookies are cooling,” Shelby says, settling on the couch to help me and Clem with the decorations. She holds up a palm-size Santa hat, red felt, with an oversize yarn pom-pom that is barely hanging on.Wyatt, 7, is stitched along the brim with black thread, the letters uneven.
“Remember this one, Wyatt? You were so proud.” She turns to Clementine. “Your dad made this when he was your age.”
Clementine takes the hat from her nana, inspects the stitching. “Pretty good, Daddy.”
“Bless your heart, sweet girl,” Wyatt says, laughing. He’s ensuring all the branches are evenly lit but turns from the tree and task to smile at Clementine. “I think that was the first and last time I used a needle and thread.”
“Well then, you should be proud of yourself, Daddy.” Clementine sets the hat in a row of decorations on the coffee table. “Nana, can I have a cookie before we ice them?”
