his coat. “It can be very instructive.”
Hank backed toward the door. With his hat back on, he looked just as he had when I was small. Cloaked and impermeable.
“I wish …” he began, and then stopped, fumbled with his packages. “In any case. Good to see you. I’ll be in touch.” Before the door shut behind him, he turned around.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I waited till I was sure he was gone, paid for my tea and toast, and headed toward the museum.
The predella was a Flemish work, in tempera and oil, and I’d been restoring it for a couple of weeks. The panel, along with the triptych it fronted for, had survived a major fire that ravaged a sixteenth-century Italian villa. It was a small miracle that the paintings had made it out at all, and at the pleading of the English auction house that had rescued them, our atelier had agreed to make a restoration effort. The work was tough, not only because of the smoke and fatty deposits that obscured much of the painting’s detail, but also because I had no conclusive evidence as to the artist’s identity.
I spent the first few days viewing the panel and doing research. The scene was of a figure at sea, with his sail blowing out in tatters. Taken with the other panels — one of a man on bended knee receiving keys from Jesus, another of a white-haired figure enthroned — I figured that the artist had rendered several images of Peter. In each small painting the sky glowed luminously, even with the smoke damage, and featured a corona of light, a dove issuing forth from the circle’s center. The influence of Van Eyck was obvious, but I began to think that maybe the artist was a closer disciple of Juan de Flandes. The exceptional detail and the strangely unreal quality of the water and sky seemed more in keeping with de Flandes. But there was little to go on.
I removed the frame to study the best-preserved portions. It was immediately apparent that there had been no previous restoration done on the panel. Usually with a work that old, restoration involves as much effort undoing other people’s mistakes as bringing it back to its original state. Inch by inch, I worked on the painting, making use of a new resin developed in Pietrasanta.
For the first week, I felt confident that I was cleaning back to the artist’s final glaze, preserving the patina while returning most of the contrast and color to its former refulgence. I had removed the top coating of smoke and was beginning to get a fuller sense of the work’s original color and shading. Though slow going, the project was similar to many other restorations I’d made. But one day, coming in as the early morning light was banking off the west wall of the studio, I saw that I’d made a terrible error. A portion of sky, about the size of a dime, was reading much brighter than the rest of the painting. Initially I hoped the difference was caused by the slow drying time of the resin I was applying. But soon I became certain I’d gone too far and removed a layer of varnish. In fact, it seemed that I’d gone straight down to the gesso when I thought I was merely clarifying a section of cloud. If I was right, the area would never age again at the same rate as the rest of the work and would be irrevocably changed.
It’s impossible in my line of work not to make the occasional mistake. One always hopes that it will happen, like this, with a small and unimportant work. Anyone else in our department would have shrugged off the discrepancy, but I couldn’t let it go. The spot had begun to flash at me like some kind of sinister searchlight, focusing on me and my imperfections. I tormented myself with the problem, sat at my desk at night making notes, questioning whether I could do a repaint or whether I’d only make matters worse. My experience had taught me that with rare exception, once you had cleaned a section it was extremely difficult to resurface without treating the whole work as well.
As I walked back to the
Hank backed toward the door. With his hat back on, he looked just as he had when I was small. Cloaked and impermeable.
“I wish …” he began, and then stopped, fumbled with his packages. “In any case. Good to see you. I’ll be in touch.” Before the door shut behind him, he turned around.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I waited till I was sure he was gone, paid for my tea and toast, and headed toward the museum.
The predella was a Flemish work, in tempera and oil, and I’d been restoring it for a couple of weeks. The panel, along with the triptych it fronted for, had survived a major fire that ravaged a sixteenth-century Italian villa. It was a small miracle that the paintings had made it out at all, and at the pleading of the English auction house that had rescued them, our atelier had agreed to make a restoration effort. The work was tough, not only because of the smoke and fatty deposits that obscured much of the painting’s detail, but also because I had no conclusive evidence as to the artist’s identity.
I spent the first few days viewing the panel and doing research. The scene was of a figure at sea, with his sail blowing out in tatters. Taken with the other panels — one of a man on bended knee receiving keys from Jesus, another of a white-haired figure enthroned — I figured that the artist had rendered several images of Peter. In each small painting the sky glowed luminously, even with the smoke damage, and featured a corona of light, a dove issuing forth from the circle’s center. The influence of Van Eyck was obvious, but I began to think that maybe the artist was a closer disciple of Juan de Flandes. The exceptional detail and the strangely unreal quality of the water and sky seemed more in keeping with de Flandes. But there was little to go on.
I removed the frame to study the best-preserved portions. It was immediately apparent that there had been no previous restoration done on the panel. Usually with a work that old, restoration involves as much effort undoing other people’s mistakes as bringing it back to its original state. Inch by inch, I worked on the painting, making use of a new resin developed in Pietrasanta.
For the first week, I felt confident that I was cleaning back to the artist’s final glaze, preserving the patina while returning most of the contrast and color to its former refulgence. I had removed the top coating of smoke and was beginning to get a fuller sense of the work’s original color and shading. Though slow going, the project was similar to many other restorations I’d made. But one day, coming in as the early morning light was banking off the west wall of the studio, I saw that I’d made a terrible error. A portion of sky, about the size of a dime, was reading much brighter than the rest of the painting. Initially I hoped the difference was caused by the slow drying time of the resin I was applying. But soon I became certain I’d gone too far and removed a layer of varnish. In fact, it seemed that I’d gone straight down to the gesso when I thought I was merely clarifying a section of cloud. If I was right, the area would never age again at the same rate as the rest of the work and would be irrevocably changed.
It’s impossible in my line of work not to make the occasional mistake. One always hopes that it will happen, like this, with a small and unimportant work. Anyone else in our department would have shrugged off the discrepancy, but I couldn’t let it go. The spot had begun to flash at me like some kind of sinister searchlight, focusing on me and my imperfections. I tormented myself with the problem, sat at my desk at night making notes, questioning whether I could do a repaint or whether I’d only make matters worse. My experience had taught me that with rare exception, once you had cleaned a section it was extremely difficult to resurface without treating the whole work as well.
As I walked back to the
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