Eye of the Beholder

The make-up artist applied the last layer of foundation to Robert’s cheeks. The lighting in Hartmere Town hall was far too harsh for his skin tone, and once the glare of the key lights was factored in, anything less than a rich bronze would leave him looking washed out.

The producers had insisted that it was important for the experts on the show to maintain an aesthetically appropriate level of presentation. The guests on the other hand received nothing more than a cursory once-over from the runners before being thrust in front of a camera with minimal preparation. Robert didn’t mind; it was easy to look preened and polished when filming next to an endless stream of polyester jackets and Day-Glo shell suits.

The make-up woman’s job done; Robert assessed himself in the mirror. The mayor’s personal office had been requisitioned as a backstage area for the TV presenters and crew of the Antiques Roadshow, an imposition that the mayor had been more than happy to endure; anything to help shine a national spotlight on her overlooked English town. Robert adjusted his bow tie. It was quite the anachronism he knew, but then so was he. So far, the early years of the 1990s had done little to enamour themselves to Robert, and the bowtie was a public signal that he did not fit in, nor had any intention of doing so. He was as much an antique as the musty furniture and inherited clocks that hopeful guests brought onto the show for appraisal. 

A harried young woman pushed open the door of the mayor’s office. She carried a clipboard in one hand and a bulky Walkie Talkie in the other.

“Ten minutes Mr Barstow,” she said, thrusting a sheet of paper into his hand, exiting before Robert could respond. In the hallway she continued a heated conversation into her radio. The voice on the other end was obscured by static, but from what Robert could tell, the voice was equally as irate.

These kids, he thought. Always in a rush. She didn’t seem that much older from his own granddaughter Katie, and she was only eleven. The runners seemed to be getting younger and younger; or perhaps it was Robert just getting older.

Robert glanced at the call sheet the woman had handed him. Most viewers probably assumed that the antiques selected for a filmed appraisal were chosen by the experts themselves. They didn’t know that behind the scenes there were a team of assistants whose sole job was to mingle with the waiting crowds on the morning of each shoot, hunting for interesting items. However, while finding valuable antiques was important, what the assistants really looked for were interesting people. They searched the masses for guests with curious backstories to accompany their curious antiques – tales of romance and tragedy, heroism and intrigue. But most of all, they were looking for people who could string together a coherent sentence in front of a camera, and who would provide the appropriate emotional response when the value of their family heirloom was finally revealed.

Robert quickly read over the information. He generally preferred to go in to each appraisal fresh, and he never read too much ahead; after over forty years in the antiques business, the last ten on the show, there was little the guests could get him to appraise that would challenge or surprise him. He skimmed the key details which the runner had helpfully highlighted for him:

1. Dennis, age 47, academic type – Vase (possibly imitation Chinese?)

2. Lucy, age 9, very cute and lispy – Great-Grandad’s First World War medals

3. Maria, age 73, bit deaf, speak up – Slightly damaged art deco lamp

4. Ted, age 31, nerdy, quiet – Silent movie memorabilia

5. Michael, age 83, odd – creepy painting

Someone had circled this last entry on the list and added a handwritten note: You are going to LOVE this one…

Robert smiled.

----

The hall was crowded. It seemed to Robert that everyone within twenty miles must have raided their attics and closets last night; outside the moderately sized town hall, a quarter-mile queue of hopeful people stood with armfuls of items, most of which had worth that could only be valued in sentiment.

Robert had made an assessment of Dennis’s vase within a few seconds of seeing it; however Robert knew his role wasn’t just to be an antiques expert – he was also there to be a showman. He spun his explanation out to fit the four minutes thirty seconds the producers desired for each slot, taking Dennis on an emotional journey of optimism (“Authentic vases of this dynasty can sell for tens of thousands of pounds…”), disappointment (“However, this vase is actually a Victorian imitation…”), and then renewed hope (“Interestingly, such imitations have themselves become collector’s items…”). Dennis seemed happy with his final valuation, and while it wasn’t enough for early retirement, it was more than enough to take his wife for the weekend break in the Lake District he’d promised her. 

Lucy’s medals were worth very little, their true value being in the emotional story that the gap-toothed nine year old spun about how her Great-Grandad had earned them. The medals would never be sold, but Robert knew that there would be a lot of moist eyes across the country when the episode aired. Perhaps Robert was just being biased since the girl reminded him a lot of his own granddaughter Katie.

Maria’s lamp would have been worth double if it was in mint condition. The bow-backed Maria quipped that the same could be said about her. This garnered quite the laugh from the crowd, which ensured that frail old Maria’s scene was safe from the cutting room floor. The same could not be said about Ted. While the memorabilia collection was fascinating, their owner responded to all of Robert’s questions with monosyllabic responses and eye-contact avoiding head nods. Robert wrapped up Ted’s segment after only two minutes.

Then came Michael.

“Odd” was the only description the runner had given him on the call sheet, and upon first seeing the man, Robert couldn’t initially see why. He was an elderly, wiry man, who seemed untroubled by his advanced age. He wore a thick canvas jacket despite the warmth in the crowded hall and carried a medium sized oil painting under one arm which a set dresser took and placed on a waiting easel. As the camera operator set up the shot, Robert introduced himself with an outstretched hand.

“Hi, I’m Robert Barstow.”

“Yes, I know,” Michael replied, shaking Robert’s hand. His tone seemed polite, but Robert sensed an uneasiness under the surface.

“You’re Michael, is that right? Mike or Michael?”

“Michael.”

“Ok Michael. So, don’t worry about what to say. I’ll ask you some questions about the painting, and you just answer as best as you can. Try to keep your answers short and snappy. Oh, and don’t swear!”

“Ok.” Michael shifted from one foot to the other, his jittery fingers interlacing and tensing.

Robert placed a reassuring hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Look, don’t worry if you stumble over your words or make a mistake, ok? Just start again, and we can edit it out. I do it all the time!”

Michael gave a quick nod, evading eye contact.

The director put his thumbs up, his eyes focused on the video screen in front of him. Robert turned back to Michael.

“Ok Michael, you good to go?”

“Will they film the painting?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. Wouldn’t be the Antiques Roadshow if we never got to see the antiques now, would it?” Robert smiled. Michael didn’t. “Is that ok?”

“Yes. I really think more people should get to see it.” Michael straightened and looked directly at the camera.

“Rolling over. Quiet on set!” the director shouted. “And… action.”

“Look at me, not at the camera ok,” Robert whispered to Michael before speaking much more loudly in the clearly enunciated voice he had perfected for TV. “Now, we have Michael, who has brought in a painting for us to have a look at today. What can you tell us about this piece Michael?”

“Well, it’s been in my family since I was a young man. I inherited it from a great aunt who passed away when I was in my thirties,” Michael spoke with more confidence and fluency than he had before the cameras had started recording. Robert felt that this was a speech that had been rehearsed; he envisioned Michael practicing in front of a bathroom mirror.

While Michael spoke, Robert got his first proper look at the painting. The call sheet had described it as “creepy” and Robert could see why, even if he wasn’t able to put his finger on exactly what about the painting was so unsettling. In it, an adolescent boy, no older than fourteen stood in a doorway, his direct gaze staring out from the canvas. He had a handsome, if somewhat vacant face. Behind him, was a darkened room, the shadowy outline of furniture (or was that more people?) barely visible. Standing next to the boy, leaning against a wall was a girl of about ten years old. She wore her black hair in pigtails, and her similarly vacant eyes stared at the boy. There was an air of surrealism about the painting – the proportions of the children’s faces were ever so slightly off, their expressions hard to read and the blue tinge of the lighting gave the whole image a cold, otherworldly feel.

“I believe the painting dates from the 1920s, but I can’t be certain,” Michael continued. “I also don’t know who painted it. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light.” Michael’s face suddenly broke into a smile that Robert knew was also part of the rehearsed performance.

“Well Michael, it really is a fascinating painting, and I have to admit, you have me stumped. And let me tell you, that doesn’t happen very often on this show!” A ripple of subdued laughter came from the gathered crowd, but not as much as Robert had expected. It was as though an invisible fog of unease was seeping out from the painting of the boy. The general public, usually densely packed around whatever the cameras were filming, started to thin as they unconsciously moved away from the painting and back to the safety and warmth of the hall.

“I’m not sure on the artist,” Robert said. “I would have a guess at maybe Remedios Varo, although I am not sure how your aunt would have got her hands on a piece from Mexico back in the 1920s! Maybe I would hedge my bets and go closer to home with the French painter André Masson. What’s much more likely however is that it is from an unknown artist, lost to history.

“Regardless, it certainly is an interesting piece,” Robert continued. “And I think you might be right about its age. I would estimate early to mid-1920s, probably an early foray by the artist into the fledgling surrealist movement. It doesn’t have the outlandish fantasy of the later surrealist works, such as Dali or the absurdism of Magritte. This is subtle surrealism, the slightly off-kilter composition, the brash coldness of the colour palate, the ambiguous expressions in the children themselves. It is like an ever so slightly distorted version of reality. It really is fascinating. I can’t pull my eyes away from it. Do you know if the painting has a name?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Michael. “I believe it is called “The Lonely Boy.”

“An interesting title, considering that he is not alone in the painting.” Robert pointed to the pigtailed girl. “Do you know who the children in the image might be at all?”

“No,” Michael stated bluntly. He clearly hadn’t scripted this part of the conversation. Robert glanced over to the director who raised his finger and made a circular motion – keep talking.

“So, Michael, tell me about your own personal history with this painting? Do you have it hanging at home, or is it kept in storage?”

“For the past fifty years, it has been hanging in my living room.” Michael was back on script. “When I inherited it, I wanted to sell the thing. I found it quite… sinister to be honest.” A murmur of agreement from the shrinking crowd. “But my daughter Veronica, bless her heart, she loved it. She was only ten and insisted that I hung it up where she could see it every day. I’d catch her just staring at the boy. When I asked her why, she’d always just say “He’s lonely Daddy.” I think she had a bit of a crush on him.”

“And it still hangs on your wall now?” Robert asked. “Why isn’t it in your daughter’s house?”

“Veronica isn’t around anymore.” He stated it as a fact. No emotion.

“Oh, I am sorry.” Robert gave a respectful pause. “So, you keep the painting hanging for her? In her memory?”

“Something like that.” Michael coughed. “So, how much is it worth.” Robert had the impression that Michael was only asking because it was expected of him, and that he cared little for the answer.

“It’s hard to say without knowing who the artist was. However, I would be conservative and say between £200 and £300, simply on artistic merit. There is definitely a market for this kind of work amongst collectors.”

“That’s what I expected,” Michael said.

“Well, thank you Michael for bringing this painting in for us to look at today.” Robert turned and spoke directly into the camera. “Next, Margaret has spotted a fascinating tapestry that has some interesting links to local history.”

A pause. “Cut!” shouted the director. 

Robert shook Michael’s hand. “Thank you, Michael, you were great. We’re just going to get some close-up shots of the painting now.”

“Please,” Michael responded flatly. “Take your time.”

----

“Grandad, it’s starting!” Katie knelt on the carpet, bouncing on her heels in time to the Antiques Roadshow theme tune.

“Coming!” Robert shouted from the kitchen. “I don’t know why you are so excited Katie. I’m on every Sunday.” Robert walked into the living room and handed his granddaughter a glass of lemonade.

“I know,” she said, the red ribbon which held her ponytail in place swishing from side to side. “I just love seeing you on TV. The kids at school think it’s awesome!”

“You’re lucky to have such a cool Grandad.” Robert sat down on the sofa and patted the seat beside him.

Katie flopped down next to him. “You’re famous Grandad. But you’re not cool.”

“Good to know Katie-pie.”

The girl tucked her legs underneath her, and rested her head on Robert’s shoulder. He turned and planted a gentle kiss on her head.

Katie liked Dennis’s vase, and stated simply that it didn’t matter to her whether it was fake or not – it was still very pretty. She found Lucy’s story of her Great-Grandad to be fascinating, and when questioned, Robert had to admit that no, he himself had never fought in a war. Katie judged Margaret’s art deco lamp to be ugly, but liked Margaret, thinking that she was funny. As Robert had predicted, Ted’s movie memorabilia had not made the final edit, which meant that the next item was Michael’s painting.

“Now, we have Michael, who has brought in a painting for us to have a look at today,” the Robert on the TV began. The camera lingered on a close up shot of the boy.

“He’s beautiful Grandad,” Katie whispered.

“I think he’s creepy.”

Katie slipped down onto the floor and shuffled across the carpet to get closer to the screen. “He has such a kind face.”

“I don’t understand you girls today,” Robert said rising from the sofa. He looked at the image of the boy on the TV as his own pre-recorded voice talked about early surrealist art. Was he beautiful? Perhaps to adolescent girls raised on a diet of floppy haired boy-bands, maybe.

Robert just found him unsettling.

“I’m going to the kitchen. Do you want anything honey?”

Katie didn’t respond. She was inches from the TV screen, unmoving.

Robert shook his head. Kids.

He walked to the kitchen and filled the kettle. As it began to boil, he heard Katie from the living room.

“He’s so lonely...”

“What? Who is?” Robert walked back into the living room. “What did you say Katie?”

The living room was empty.

----

A hundred miles away in a cold, draughty house, Michael stared at the painting of the Lonely Boy. The boy stared back, unchanging.

The black-haired girl with pigtails had gone.

“Where is she?” Michael shouted. “I kept my end of the bargain. Now give her back!”

The boy continued to stare. In another room of the house, a TV played the closing music of the Antiques Roadshow.

Then, footsteps.

“Dad?” A girl’s voice. Michael spun around.

A ten year old girl with black hair and pigtails stood in the doorway.

“Veronica!” Michael rushed towards the girl and swept her up in his arms, clutching her so close that the girl yelped.

“Where am I?” she said, tears of confusion welling in her eyes. She looked at the old man in front of her. “Dad? What happened to you?”

“It doesn’t matter sweetheart. You’re home.”

Michael buried his head in his daughter’s shoulder, fifty years of loss and grief wracking his body with heaving sobs.

He didn’t notice when the painting on the wall started to change.

He didn’t see the arrival of dozens of new children, cluttering the foreground of the painting, filling the empty room behind the boy. Each of the children stared at the boy with the same expression of vacant adoration. One of the girls had blonde hair tied with a red ribbon.

He never saw the almost imperceptible change in the boy’s expression.

The very slightest hint of a smile.