Frame Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 5) by Joe Reese, T Gracie Reese Page A
Authors: Joe Reese, T Gracie Reese
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and thus out of proportion.)
The tools Carol would need, and which she had bought yesterday in one of Bay St. Lucy’s surprisingly well-equipped art supply shops (well, Carol found herself realizing, not so surprising really when one realized that this was a town full of painters––amateurs, true professionals, and all shades in between). These tools she had stacked neatly in the living room beside her couch, having warned Nina beforehand that she intended to change some of the frames the painting class had provided.
First was the corrugated board. She wiped it clean with a towel she found in the bathroom, then carried it out to the deck and placed it carefully on the glass topped table, which she also carefully wiped clean.
Then a second trip: screw driver, linen tape, wire, and acrylic cleaner.
She placed them all carefully on the board, lifting her head slightly to watch the porpoises, whose daily passing Nina had warned her about. She greeted them mentally and imagined that they sang back to her, as Homer’s sirens might have done.
Third trip.
Foam core backing. Mat board.
The instructions she’d received as a docent some months ago repeated themselves in her mind: “Prepare your acrylic. Peel one side of the protective liner off the side that will be touching the art work. Place that side face down on the art assembly (boards and picture), then peel off the other side. If you have ordered the acrylic with UV or Non–glare properties (she had), the side that should face up will be indicated on the packaging.”
She looked.
It was.
So now…
So now…
She took a deep breath, returned yet again to the living room, lifted the brown paper package as though it were a new born child, and carried it out to the deck.
Carefully, carefully, carefully—she unwrapped it, the light paper falling in shards at her feet, hissing softly as it did so.
The paper shed itself, leaving the painting there before her in her hands.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, trying as hard as she might to stop her hands from trembling.
“Oh, my God.”
St. Sebastian, Tended by Irene and Her Maid.
She had expected one of several paintings Michael had mentioned.
And she had prepared herself for the coming of each individual work, much like a foster mother might prepare for the coming of an adopted—even if only for a short time—child.
So here was her child.
And there were the initials of the child’s real father, the child’s creator, subtly imbued in the dark, shadowy, lower right hand corner.
H.B.
Hendrick Tenbruggen.
She had admonished herself for knowing so little of the man, and for needing to do research.
Which she had, of course, done.
Tenbruggen. Ghent School, late Baroque, this painting finished last 1625.
She’d also done research on St. Sebastian, and the words stuck in her head:
“St. Sebastian. Died circa 288 AD. An early Christian saint and martyr. Killed (it is said) during the Roman emperor Diocletian’s persecution of Christians. He is commonly depicted in art and literature tied to a post or tree and shot with arrows. This is the most common artistic depiction of Sebastian; however, according to legend, he was rescued and healed by Irene of Rome. Shortly afterwards, he criticized Diocletian in person and as a result was clubbed to death.”
Words, words, words.
“For the depths,” someone had written, “of what use is language?”
What use indeed.
Her hands continued to tremble.
The painting seemed to move in her grip, like a living thing.
Which it was, of course.
The figures, muscular and full bodies, circled the center of the canvas in the typical Baroque manner, but the face of Irene, staid and immensely calm, held the entire creation in quiet repose, as though nothing, not the emotions nor the pain nor the immensity nor the enormity, of the things depicted, were going anywhere without her say-so.
“Edle Einfalt,” she found herself whispering, “Und stille
The tools Carol would need, and which she had bought yesterday in one of Bay St. Lucy’s surprisingly well-equipped art supply shops (well, Carol found herself realizing, not so surprising really when one realized that this was a town full of painters––amateurs, true professionals, and all shades in between). These tools she had stacked neatly in the living room beside her couch, having warned Nina beforehand that she intended to change some of the frames the painting class had provided.
First was the corrugated board. She wiped it clean with a towel she found in the bathroom, then carried it out to the deck and placed it carefully on the glass topped table, which she also carefully wiped clean.
Then a second trip: screw driver, linen tape, wire, and acrylic cleaner.
She placed them all carefully on the board, lifting her head slightly to watch the porpoises, whose daily passing Nina had warned her about. She greeted them mentally and imagined that they sang back to her, as Homer’s sirens might have done.
Third trip.
Foam core backing. Mat board.
The instructions she’d received as a docent some months ago repeated themselves in her mind: “Prepare your acrylic. Peel one side of the protective liner off the side that will be touching the art work. Place that side face down on the art assembly (boards and picture), then peel off the other side. If you have ordered the acrylic with UV or Non–glare properties (she had), the side that should face up will be indicated on the packaging.”
She looked.
It was.
So now…
So now…
She took a deep breath, returned yet again to the living room, lifted the brown paper package as though it were a new born child, and carried it out to the deck.
Carefully, carefully, carefully—she unwrapped it, the light paper falling in shards at her feet, hissing softly as it did so.
The paper shed itself, leaving the painting there before her in her hands.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, trying as hard as she might to stop her hands from trembling.
“Oh, my God.”
St. Sebastian, Tended by Irene and Her Maid.
She had expected one of several paintings Michael had mentioned.
And she had prepared herself for the coming of each individual work, much like a foster mother might prepare for the coming of an adopted—even if only for a short time—child.
So here was her child.
And there were the initials of the child’s real father, the child’s creator, subtly imbued in the dark, shadowy, lower right hand corner.
H.B.
Hendrick Tenbruggen.
She had admonished herself for knowing so little of the man, and for needing to do research.
Which she had, of course, done.
Tenbruggen. Ghent School, late Baroque, this painting finished last 1625.
She’d also done research on St. Sebastian, and the words stuck in her head:
“St. Sebastian. Died circa 288 AD. An early Christian saint and martyr. Killed (it is said) during the Roman emperor Diocletian’s persecution of Christians. He is commonly depicted in art and literature tied to a post or tree and shot with arrows. This is the most common artistic depiction of Sebastian; however, according to legend, he was rescued and healed by Irene of Rome. Shortly afterwards, he criticized Diocletian in person and as a result was clubbed to death.”
Words, words, words.
“For the depths,” someone had written, “of what use is language?”
What use indeed.
Her hands continued to tremble.
The painting seemed to move in her grip, like a living thing.
Which it was, of course.
The figures, muscular and full bodies, circled the center of the canvas in the typical Baroque manner, but the face of Irene, staid and immensely calm, held the entire creation in quiet repose, as though nothing, not the emotions nor the pain nor the immensity nor the enormity, of the things depicted, were going anywhere without her say-so.
“Edle Einfalt,” she found herself whispering, “Und stille
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