Chapter Twelve
Rhymer
"Tell me about him," said Cameron. "Tell me about George Seurat."
"I'm not an artist myself," said Gustav Gundersen, holding up his massive mitts, "I have the hands of a stone mason! But I love art and music. That is one reason I chose to come to Paris. Well, anyway, critics say that Seurat painted poetry. Seurat himself said that he was only showing that art could be created with scientifically precise distribution of points of color. It is a school of thought that takes issue with those artists called 'naturalists' and those called 'impressionists.' Seurat's style of painting is called pointillism. In effect, his images are composed of thousands of points of color, which, when viewed together, take on form and substance."
"How did he die?"
"Seurat was not accepted by the government sponsored artists' Salon and juried competition, so he helped found the Groupe des Artistes Indépendants. This was a group of artists who banded together to exhibit their work without judging. In 1891, he exhausted himself while serving as organizer of the Indépendants spring exhibition. He caught a chill, developed an infection, and died on Easter Sunday. He was just 31 years old! Even more tragically, Seurat's one-year-old son contracted the illness from his father and died less than a month later."
Marya was moved to tears by Gustav's tale of George Seurat. "Such a waste. We must see to it that science prevents the needless loss of human life. As far as we have come in the field of medicine, I feel that we are still in the Dark Ages. There is so much more for us to learn."
"Well said," replied Gustav somberly.
The three sat quietly for several minutes before Gustav broke the silence. "So you see, my friend, your Mademoiselle Costas cannot spend a Sunday afternoon on La Grande Jatte with George Seurat."
"Perhaps she meant she was going to view the painting," offered Marya.
Gustav shook his head, "La Grande Jatte is not on display anywhere at the moment. It is said to be in the possession of Seurat's mother."
Cameron had a thought. "Gustav, do you remember when the painting was first shown to the public?"
"I am afraid not. The spring of 1885 or 1886?" he asked with a shrug of the shoulders.
Marya looked out the window. "It is almost dusk. It will get even more bitterly cold when the sun goes down. I really must be on my way." She rose and thanked Cameron for the meal and the coal.
Gustav asked if he might escort her back to her building. Cameron told the couple that he would sit inside a while longer before he was on his way. After a firm handshake, followed by a bear hug, Gustav and Marya walked out into the gray cold of Paris. Cameron sat alone at the table, knowing that he would remember and miss them both. Perhaps he could visit this simulation again.
When he was sure that no one else in the restaurant could see what he was doing, he pulled out his multiCom and found the date of the premier showing of La Grande Jatte: May 15, 1886 at the Mason Dorée, Rue Lafitte. He then paid his bill and walked into the growing darkness outside before setting the IHT to the correct coordinates. As he activated the transporter he could feel the air about him warm. The atmosphere became both darker and clearer. The first things to come into view were the yellowish points of gaslight and the soft glow of lighted windows in a tall stone building. He was standing on a large staircase. It was a pleasant, starlit evening. Men and women in formal attire were ascending the steps and entering the large double doors with etched glass.
Cameron felt atop his head and found he was wearing a top hat. Next, he looked at his coat. He was in a very stylish tuxedo of the period, complete with tails and starched collar. On the ground floor of the Mason Dorée was a restaurant, but a sign by the doors at the top of the steps proclaimed "VIII Exhibition of Painting."
As he climbed towards the entrance, Cameron searched his memory. Gustav had reminded him of the method of painting Seurat had perfected. He recalled that pointillist paintings were best appreciated when the observer could vary the distance from which they viewed the work. Up close, a person would only see the technique of the artist — the thousands of blotches of color. From a distance, one could see the composition and form that the individual points of paint united to create. He was excited to be able to witness the first public showing to this great artistic masterpiece. Perhaps Seurat himself would be there.
But would Rosa be there? If she wasn't, and he couldn't locate the next clue, he would have to return home and send a multiCom message to her, admitting defeat. For the moment, however, he would enjoy the art of George Seurat.
Cameron entered the Mason Dorée and mingled with the crowd of first night patrons. He admired the works of many fine artists that were displayed in several different rooms on the first floor of the building. As he searched for Seurat's masterpiece, he scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Rosa.
In his wanderings, Cameron noticed a steady stream of people entering and leaving a small room to one side of the main hall. Some were shaking their heads, others were visibly laughing. Curious to see what was getting such an unlikely reaction at this exhibit of fine paintings, he made his way toward the room.
"A disgrace!" said one man who had come from the room.
"No wonder Renoir and Monet withdrew from the exhibition," said his companion, "Who would want to be displayed in the same show as that!"
Judging from the people's comments, thought Cameron, whatever is in the room is obviously an inferior work of art. He decided not to waste his time going into the room. He had better search for the La Grande Jatte and find Rosa, if indeed she was here. He turned and was about to cross the hall when he heard a woman behind him say, "Alfred, if I were Seurat, I would not have shown my face either."
Cameron whipped about to see a man and a woman coming from the little room. He could not believe his ears. Could it be that they were laughing at the famed masterpiece of George Seurat?
The woman's escort laughed. "I will bring my friends here every day so we can get a good laugh."
"Jolly good, Mr. Stevens," said a small, round, balding man who trailed the couple closely.
Cameron made his way into the most crowded room at the exhibit. Everyone was talking. The room was also the smallest in the hall, and Sunday on the Island of La Grande Jatte was an enormous work. It was over 6 feet tall and 10 feet wide. No one in the room could really view the painting as it should be viewed. Cameron thought of the old saying, "You can't see the forest for the trees." The patrons were seeing the individual trees and not appreciating the width and breadth of the forest.
There was an older man standing next to Cameron as he viewed the painting. The man sounded weary as he spoke. "I have not the heart to laugh before this huge and detestable picture, which resembles an Egyptian fantasy."
A young man in a stovepipe hat and long goatee dared to disagree. "You are too rooted in the past, Mr. Mirbeau. Do you not see the inventive technical reform this work represents? It is the light and color of poetry!"
"If this painting is poetry, my dear Feneon, perhaps it is a child's rhyme, but a sonnet by no means, not even a crass little limerick." Mr. Mirbeau's followers laughed as they followed the older man from the room.
Feneon looked at Cameron. "And what of you young man? What do you think of this work?"
At first, Cameron didn't know how to reply. He had to choose his words carefully. "I feel the people are too close to it."
"Yes, the style is too new for them to appreciate," said Feneon. "Must an artist die before their genius is recognized?"
"Perhaps that is true, but I simply meant that we're standing much too close to the canvas to really take in the work. We're seeing the nuts and bolts of the artist's construction, not his overall vision."
The man in the stovepipe hat stared at Cameron a moment in silence, then studied the picture again. Abruptly, he wheeled about and parted the crowd behind him with his walking stick. "Excuse me!" he said as he retreated the meager six or seven feet to the back of the room. He studied the painting briefly before exclaiming, "It's an outrage! The centerpiece of the entire exhibition confined to this… this… hole in the wall! This closet!"
At that moment, Cameron heard a familiar voice from out in the hall. Rosa!
He turned to catch a glimpse of Rosa as she handed a young man a piece of paper. She was wearing a beautiful white satin gown. "I must be going now. Please give my friend this message."
Just then a group of people entered the room, obscuring Cameron's view. He quickly picked his way through the oncoming patrons and made his way into the hall.
Rosa was gone.
Cameron spun about, searching frantically. She was nowhere to be found. As he scanned the room again, his eye was drawn to a tall man standing by a wall at the edge of the crowd. Like so many of the IHT-generated characters, he seemed familiar. The man looked at something to his left, and, for some reason, Cameron followed the line of his gaze. He noticed a flicker of white, a flash of satin. It protruded now and then from behind a column. Cameron walked briskly towards the marble pillar.
If it was Rosa, she would be secluding herself to make her next jump. Cameron broke into a trot. He must get her before she went.
He could see more of the dress now. It was Rosa. He had her! Two more steps. His arm stretched toward her. His hand came down upon her shoulder.
The room went to black.
– End Chapter Twelve –
