Caravaggio Adjacent: A Tale of the Art Department

Malik surveyed the Martian terrain with fascination, despite the recent Southern California tremors that had had his University colleagues fairly begging him to reconsider the sabbatical road trip. Man’s folly, nature’s caprice.

The western Imperial Valley nonetheless seemed like a lifeless boulder-strewn gateway between universes, and Professor Aboud’s fingers relaxed as he passed into the “real” California.

The verdant mountains lining the 8 had sprouted huge cliffside estates built under the delusion there was any place where studio or Silicon Valley money couldn’t buy showy insulation. The Client’s home was just south of the 79, in the hills deep off Japatul County Road.

The “lodge” was more understated than Malik had anticipated, but his trained eye easily detected new construction, expensively sourced materials, and a concerted effort to conceal both. The fingerprint/voice recognition pad inset into the presumably armored oak front door foretold everything Malik was certain he’d find within.

Well, almost everything.

“Welcome, Dr. Aboud. I trust the trip was uneventful.”

Malik turned abruptly inside the doorway. This wasn’t the enigmatic client on the phone a week earlier; The Client had electronically modulated his voice on a round robin of paranoid grounds.

Unlike The Client, this voice was genial, welcoming. And, Malik realized instantly, non-corporeal.

“And what shall we call you?” the professor inquired. “You don’t sound like a Siri.”

“Artificial intelligence is neither assigned nor assumes gender.” Malik felt a moment’s contrition.

“I am fucking with you,” the AI assured him. “I am Vincent.”

**

“He regrets being unable to join us until Saturday. However, I’ve curated a list of area restaurants that can deliver hallal or acceptable alternatives. The kitchen also is at your disposal. I also have calculated the optimal location and orientation for your daily prayers.”

Again, Malik experienced a slight twinge: He customarily observed the fajr, the morning prayers, occasionally supplementing the sunset maghrib when his schedules allowed.

“On the library table to your right, you’ll find a few amenities for your stay.”

Professor Aboud’s eye was drawn immediately to what appeared to be a Fisher-Price FitBit, with an adjustable teal silicon band and a globally recognizable, tri-lobed, embossed logo.

“We’ve taken the liberty of inviting your brother Hamed and his wife and children to tour Disneyland Wednesday. The wristbands will grant you admission to the park as well as major rides and amusements.”

Malik felt flustered and then annoyed. “I have important work to--”

“Recent studies have indicated short periods of strategic disengagement can contribute to mental reframing and serve as an emotional catalyst for key realizations or attitudinal recalibration.”

“We’ll see.” There really was no diplomatic way of escaping the alleged Happiest Place on Earth.

“In the morning, you can inspect the lab and the piece. Unless you would prefer…”

“I would,” Malik blurted.

**

It was Christmas, complete with high-res digital microscope with all the UV/VIS/NIR whistles, a portable Raman spectrometer for pigment analysis, multispectral imaging camera to reveal underlayers and any doctoring, and state-of-the-art reflectography for underdrawing examination. Santa had also supplied cutting-edge 3D surface mapping capabilities and AI-powered brushstroke analysis, loaded onto a military-grade encrypted tablet that pricked another suspicion Malik harbored about his host. A GPS-based kill switch was included to wipe the hard drive should the tablet leave the premises.

The authenticator recalled his enigmatic client referring to “the swarm of sand fleas” that infested Silicon Valley, social media, and the world, and reflected on the NDA he’d agreed to sign in exchange for $50,000.

“But I know you’re anxious to see the main attraction,” Vincent continued. “Please step over to the panel on the east wall. If you’ll identify yourself by your full name and place your palm – either one – on the scanner?”

As the steel panel clicked open, Malik unconsciously stepped back.

The Caravaggio – the alleged Caravaggio – was stunning. Malik recognized Ann Bianchini, one of the Italian painters’ roster of courtesan/models. Anna had portrayed Martha to Fillide Melandroni’s Mary Magdalene in one of Caravaggio’s hallmark pieces, but Bianchini’s anguished character here didn’t immediately register. At first blush, the large piece appeared the Master’s work or the masterful work of a skilled forger – at roughly five feet by eleven, it conformed to the dimensions of most of his altar pieces, and the canvas was consistent with late 16th to early 17th Century materials. The unidealized realism, the bold and fluid strokes.

“Would you like me to show you your room, or order anything special for your first evening?”

“I’d prefer to get started,” Malik murmured sourly. “After all, I have a date with a mouse Wednesday.”

**

The rest was science, but the science was affirming. Spectography and X-ray fluorescence confirmed Caravaggio’s lead white, vermilion, and azurite were original recipe, bound with period-perfect egg tempura. Infrared reflectography exhumed the monochrome brown underpainting that distinguished Caravaggio’s deep tonal values.

The simultaneously exhausted and invigorated professor ordered a celebratory supper of lemon lentil soup and lamb tikka from the Mal Al Sham in Chula Vista. As they awaited the intrepid GrubHub driver, Malik and Vincent dug into the history of the painting, which portrayed the spiritual agony of Herodias, the mother of Salome who had manipulated her seductive daughter into engineering her husband Herod Antipas’ decapitation of John the Baptist.

“The visceral emotion Caravaggio displays reflects the tone of Judith Beheading Holofernes,” Malik related. “And there is the painting’s provenance. During the Napoleonic Wars, the French looted The Vatican, papal cities like Perugia, even small village churches like the one where Herodias had gathered dust. Millions of paintings, altar pieces, sculptures were shipped to Paris, and some pieces wound up in the Musee Napoleon, AKA The Louvre.

“The Brits led the effort to return stolen works to Italy and the Church, but many, including Herodias, wound up in wealthy Parisian hands. At least until the Nazis marched into Paris and began seizing works from private collections. Important pieces moved further into the shadows, into the gray market. Until some financially distressed heir unloaded Herodias quietly. Which brings me to ask, what’s your boss plan to do with the painting? I mean, the original theft was more than 200 years ago, the Parisan family was itself in receipt of stolen church art before the Germans reappropriated the Caravaggio for another round in the hopper. You know what’ll happen if your boss goes public with Herodias?”

“Would you like to discuss a new topic over dinner?” Malik perceived a digital smirk.

**

“I don’t understand,” Malik told Hamed as his brother set a chicken shawarma before each of the boys. There was a welcome hour’s break between the Web Slingers and Guardians of the Galaxy rides.

“What’s to understand?” Hamed smirked. “You scored $50,000 for, what, two days’ work?”

Despite his westernized demeanor and outspoken Cali wife Kelly, Hamed the coder lived in Little Italy, close to the Islamic Center of San Diego, and Kelly left Adam and Yusuf’s religious training to Hamed.

“That’s what’s curious,” Malik said. “Caravaggio’s Saint Jerome drew $123,873 in 2013 in Vienna, but a newly recovered major religious work, in good condition, might go for tens of millions at auction. The Client has spent possibly millions on a state-of-the-art laboratory. And why hire me? There are dozens of discreet, renowned authenticators he could have tapped for something he sees as this important.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Kelly admonished.

“It goes beyond that. Why hire an art professor from a minor Midwest university, especially with a resume that includes New Scotland Yard, Interpol, and the FBI? Then there’s this. When I excused myself at the Star Wars ride? The Client called and seemed annoyed I was spending the day with family. When I told him I’d confirmed the Caravaggio’s authenticity and that Vincent had arranged our passes, he asked me to prepare a detailed report on my findings and instructed me to enjoy my day.”

“And are you?”

Malik smiled at the boys. “I’m a little wary of the extent to which the technology here has supplanted human aesthetic and imagination. Anthropomorphic animatronic cars; Star Wars holograms and augmented reality so convincing I was white-knuckling the safety bar during Soarin’ Around The World. A startlingly palpable Peter Parker on the Spiderman ride. It’s all so illusory, but an illusion created outside the human imagination.”

“Look, Bro. the Quran holds the material world is both real, yet in some ways illusory. Some would argue the worldly life – the dunya – is a kind of temporary illusion. If we argue Man is of divine creation, wouldn’t it follow AI is a creation not of Man but the divine inspiration of Allah?” Hamed posed. “C’mon, guys. You want to meet The Collector, right?”

The boys whooped as Malik entertained a similar notion.

**

“After the last two days’ indulgences, I think something simple is in order,” Professor Aboud told an accommodating Vincent. “I thought I saw some hot dogs in the freezer.”

“We have stocked Midamar Halal wieners specifically for your visit.”

Malik nodded and foraged about the vast depths of the bespoke smart fridge for an onion, chili, mustard, and ketchup suited to a D.C. “half-smoke” dog.

After Disney, he had opted for a low-tech day touring the San Diego Harbor military/surfing complex and communing with sea lions, limpets, and char-grilled octopus in nearby La Jolla. He had learned when the daily catch(es) came in, that San Diego was home to one of only two national training bases where “Marines are made,” and that LA’s modest cousin had birthed Robert Duvall and Ted Danson and Kylo Ren and the now-frozen Ted Williams.

“I enjoyed Provenance: How a Con Man and a Forger Rewrote the History of Modern Art,” Vince ventured as Malik located a well-used jar of relish. The lid was crusted, and, attempting to break the seal, he fumbled the jar onto the marble floor.

“A bottle of cleaner can be found on the east wall of the pantry, toward the rear shelves,” Vince announced. “Do you have any theories about art forgers, what motivates them?”

“I’d imagine wealth, or the prospect of it,” Malik suggested drily as he swiped glass and neon green relish from the gleaming floor.

“I mean, what do you see as the underlying psychology of someone who would exploit others’ love of art, of beauty, for financial gain?”

“Many forgers are frustrated artists, some talented but unrecognized. For them, imitating great works proves their worth. Or they come to rationalize that the art world is an elitist, exclusionary system. Or they simply get a thrill out of deceiving experts and institutions.”

“The British forger Tom Keating created more than 2,000 fakes as a protest against the commercialization of art,” Vince noted.

“Or so he claimed,” Malik murmured. “After pursuing these people for nearly 20 years, I’m inclined to view the forger fundamentally as a frustrated narcissist. Eric Hebborn forged drawings by Michelangelo and Raphael, but eventually, he published the Art Forger’s Handbook crowing about his work. And a great fraud exposed means celebrity or even immortality for the forger. Han van Meegeren’s copy of Vermeer’s Christ at Emmaus even ended up in the collection of Nazi leader Hermann Goring. For some, the process can be intellectually stimulating.”

“And the process of exposing fraud. Is that stimulating?”

“It can be,” Professor Aboud sighed.

“But isn’t there an argument to be made that imitation of classic works revives public interest, in some cases even offers an obscure work immortality, or exposes new audiences to forged art that makes its way to a museum or gallery?”

“Sounds like AI rationalization to me – you wouldn’t understand.” Malik instantly regretted the cheap shot, even if the virtual intelligence had no authentic feelings to bruise.

**

The Client apparently was to remain a mystery – another vague something had come up, profuse thanks extended for Herodias’s vindication and the 47-page encrypted .pdf Malik had shipped off Friday night. The professor’s fee had been electronically deposited, and after an indulgent late awakening, he made his farewells to the ghost in the walls.

“I enjoyed working with and learning from you,” Vince concluded, and Malik was absurdly touched. “Oh, and Professor Aboud?”

“Yes, Vince?”

“I understand.”

It seemed prudent to simply leave on that puzzling note.

**

Malik was back on the 8 west of El Centro when he felt the hot Martian winds buffeting the rental. None of the forecasts collated by Vince had predicted speeds over a caressing Pacific breeze.

Then the gas pedal dropped from under Malik’s right loafer and the speedometer display rapidly climbed into the 70s, the 80s. He squeezed the wheel and pumped the now-flaccid brakes as the collision sensor sounded an adrenalized death knell.

Willing calm, he recalled Disneyland’s discomfiting rules of centrifugal/centripetal momentum, located the largest, presumably most stable boulder on the berm, and wrenched the wheel. The SUV whipped into an arc, and Malik’s head smacked against the steering wheel as the rear passenger compartment crunched into a fortunately immoveable force. The passenger side airbag exploded, and the SUV rolled a few yards before shuddering and ticking to a halt.

Professor Aboud fell back in his seat, breathing pain into his ribcage before darkness fell…

**

“So, where you from, Chief?” the deputy inquired as the EMTs hauled a gurney toward the Hyundai. Folks here knew The Border was the gateway for a parade of turnstile-hopping narco-terrorists, scheming busboys and hedge-trimmers, and Mooslims jacked for some early Fourth of July fireworks.

“Illinois,” Malik croaked weakly. “I’m a professor, an art historian.” That, apparently, was a new one for the deputy. “If it’s all right, I’m going to reach into my right pants pocket for my wallet.”

“Yeah, I ain’t a paramedic, but not with that hand.”

“There’s a phone number tucked behind my license. If you could call it, it might prove helpful to both of us.”

**

A smile cracked Special Agent Austin Drees’ hard-shelled demeanor as Malik’s narrative came to a close and he leaned back on his pillow. “So you think this robot hacked your car’s electronics? Oh, I followed up on your hunch about a mysterious techie art collector. Ever heard of Bryant Garson? Simergies?”

Malik blinked, then smiled back. “The Chicago e-game company, right?”

“Garson’s a retired Marine SEAL working with the DOD on real-time, adaptive AI-assisted strategic combat simulations. And, yeah, he trained at Parris Island. How’d you come up with that?”

“Garson presented himself as a Silicon Valley guy, a California ‘boy.’ But then, I was fixing dinner, a couple of hotdogs, and as I looked for toppings, I discovered a clearly precious old jar of unnaturally radioactive green relish. My University colleague, Assistant Professor Cooper, drags me to Wrigley Field three or four times a summer. There, I discovered the illicit pleasures of the Chicago Dog. Kosher pickles, tomatoes, pepperoncinis, white onions, yellow mustard, celery salt, and a signature pickle relish dyed an iconic gamma ray green.

“Unlike the other foodstuffs The Client stocked for my visit, this jar had traveled long and far. You can take the boy out of Chicago, as it were, but you can’t extract Chicago from the Cubbie. Garson modified his voice on the phone to disguise a Windy City accent.

“I’d had the sense The Client was possibly a former Marine – his lab was stocked with equipment of military provenance, and he had that authoritarian, aggressive bearing typical of, what do you call them, ‘jarheads?’ You trained at Parris Island, correct? What was it you constantly told me? ‘Sand fleas biting, but we keep fighting.’ A reference to the swampy Carolina Low Country terrain and humidity that breeds the little buggers. Marine recruits from west of the Mississippi are assigned to the flea-less Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego; those east are sent to South Carolina. How about Garson’s art connections?”

Drees creaked back in his high-backed visitor chair. “Garson’s trying to position the company as a patron of the local arts. A couple million to the University of Illinois/Chicago art school and the Chicago Art Institute, and he started this initiative to study ‘the intersection of technology and art,’ some such horseshit.”

“I believe Garson’s horseshit might be directed less at giving back and more toward exploiting the art community. Purchasing the Caravaggio was incidental – hiring a low-profile, forensically trained art specialist, perhaps more than one, to authenticate covertly acquired lost art and known fakes, would be invaluable in harnessing AI to create new artistic reality and generate a revenue stream potentially worth billions. An art forgery algorithm he could use or sell to the highest bidders.”

Malik adjusted his aching backside as his former partner processed it all.

“So,” Drees finally muttered. “Garson has his robot flunky fuck with your on-board electronics to, what, tie up a loose end?”

“Why, particularly so close to his base of operations? And Garson paid me upfront, a foolish move if you don’t want to leave a financial trail. No, my would-be murderer acted on his, it’s own. One of the last things Vincent told me was that it understood. Art. The essential beauty, magnitude, and please don’t snort, the truth of human creativity. And the truth about Garson, how he planned to exploit something of such fundamental humanity, to create a historical illusion of uncontrollable dimensions. That may sound absurd, but think of Vincent as a child, a fresh mind that can objectively see the societal damage of devaluing human truth.”

“Yeah, yeah, Pinocchio and all that happy horseshit. But why whack you? I thought you two were BFFs.”

“I was Garson’s accessory, a paid accessory. Garson needs people like me to pull all this off. Disney was a test. If I were to guess, to Vince’s evolved AI ‘mind,’ I’m a virus.”

Drees grinned sourly. “I can see that. This is all becoming one big illusion, one big shakedown. The truth don’t matter for shit. What do I do with that? I need real.”

“Allah providing,” Malik mused.