Idyllically

Wilfred Frank was an art thief, born in 1999 on a dairy farm in France. The 10-acre storybook retreat was bought by his artist parents, Buchanan Frank and Elizabeth Lham-Frank, in 1998 after both of their series received sudden and astonishing praise, with their highest pieces selling for a combined total of $1 billion. Dairy Manor, the name the Franks gave to the land after purchase, became the primary residence for Buchanan and Elizabeth. Upon purchase, they commented:

"Buchanan and I absolutely fell in love with it. Didn't we, dear?"

"Yes, Honey. Dairy Manor—hey, I think I quite like that name."

"Yes, that's a good name, dear."

"I agree. Dairy Manor will serve as both a home and a muse, bridging the gap between the dual worlds of familiarity and novelty. Magic will be created here."

Indeed, Dairy Manor is magical. It's a different kind of beauty when you witness angel-hair grass, the purest green you've seen, blowing, unkempt, and free on the side of a rolling hill. In the distance, floating like a blended watercolor painting, are purple wildflowers, patched and scattered, sitting on the side of the hill, allowing the sun to brighten their glory. A shimmering, clear stream cuts through the hills, its constant rushing noise cutting through the air. Indeed, it is beautiful. Over the years, the Franks implored Wilfred to absorb inspiration from the manor, saying, “Nothing is worse than an artist uninspired.” Still, despite their devotion to Wilfred’s artistic wellbeing, he continuously produced lackluster results. While art in theory was relatively easy for Wilfred (he could sketch a sparrow, hand, or portrait with great accuracy), it was the times he had to produce something original that he came up short. Boring. Dull. Trying too hard. Nothing…nothing.

Wilfred did not enjoy the Manor’s unequivocal beauty. In fact, over time his subtle disdain blossomed into jealousy in an almost child-like manner.

One morning, Wilfred sat on a short ridge watching a red sunrise; the air was cool and still; the farm's remaining cows grazed on a distant ridge, fulfilling the manor’s aesthetic vision; even the stream flowed more ferociously under the burning sky. And Wilfred sat, taking it all in, all the while ripping up handfuls of grass. Yes, he was maliciously envious.

“Look at you—dull, wet, the same every morning. So predictable. They like you. They love you. But you’re nothing special. No, nothing special at all,” Wilfred began, digging up the grass with greater intensity, now pulling up dirt with it. “The sky; now that is beautiful. Yes, red like fire and blood,” Wilfred was on his feet now, looking from the sky to the cows in the distance. He seemed to be trying to make a decision. “There is only one way to make you as breathtaking,” he said in a whisper. Twenty minutes later, the fire department had to arrive to put out the fire caused by cows being set ablaze and released into the field. By the time the fire department arrived, it had spread to a quarter of the farm, where the barn and wooden sheds were located. Wilfred was never questioned about it. He was ignored.

Over the next few years, the grass and flowers grew back around the burnt-down barn and sheds, and once again, Dairy Manor became an inspiration. However, despite serving its purpose for the Franks, they did not officially produce any more art following their brief but grand success.

The Franks did, however, remain overzealous and frequent contributors to the art community, whether appreciated by them or not. In doing so, they made sure that Wilfred was both knowledgeable and established too. I would not go so far as to say Wilfred was trapped within the parameters of Dairy Manor. That cannot be true—he was established and active within the community leading up to his death.

When driving to his application interview for the International Academy of Fine Arts (IAFA), Elizabeth asked,

"What is Art?"

"Not now, Mom. I know this."

"So tell me," snapped Elizabeth, still managing to maintain a polite edge.

"Art is the creative expression of the creator's reality."

"And," said Buchanan.

"Through the application of anarchic form, and once shared with others, does it become Art."

"Is art required to be seen by others to become art? Is it not enough for the creator to claim it as art? Or is anything created art?" Elizabeth retorted in a rehearsed fashion. Wilfred did not answer.

Wilfred got into the IAFA with relative ease, by his account. The classes proved to be easy. Yet, he very quickly faced similar challenges to those from his childhood. General coursework was a breeze, but again, when it came time for projects and original work, he failed. People just didn’t like his art. He failed his midterm creative assignment his first year on the remarks,

"Wilfred, your painting 'Metro Station Mid-Day' lacks accountability and freshness. The colors don't tell me a story, and the picture does not sing to me."

Wilfred had yet to learn what that meant. He failed that midterm, and suddenly, Wilfred felt like his world had become real, and he had nothing to show for it. Distraught, confused, and afraid for the first time, Wilfred spent weeks in the student studio working on his final project; everything hung on that assignment.

Three weeks before the final presentation, Wilfred stumbled upon a classmate, Jeremy, who was also working late at the student studio.

"Is that your final?" asked Wilfred.

Jeremy spread his arms over the painting mockingly, "No, you're not allowed," said Jeremy through smiling teeth. It wasn't forbidden to share unfinished artwork; too much feedback can dilute the integrity of a piece, but there were times when select few were so privileged. "I'm only having a laugh, mate. Come take a look. I trust you."

"Gladly."

Wilfred came up behind Jeremy, peering down over his shoulder—he choked. Wilfred gazed at "Woman Weaving Carpet" for what seemed like forever; the burning rush of emotions in his nose reminded him to speak. Everything suddenly made sense. He would never be this.

"I—that is absolutely breathtaking," the words barely a whisper.

"Really, you think so?" asked Jeremy. "I think it still has a long way."

"I think it's perfect," said Wilfred, awareness still fixed entirely on the painting. Jeremy got slightly uncomfortable after the 30th second of silence when Wilfred started sweating profusely. His mind was churning, and he was coming to a decision. His eyes were red and bulging while a vein in his forehead began to swell. Then, suddenly, he stopped sweating, his face returned to normal, and he broke eye contact with the painting. Wilfred turned to Jeremy, who was now out of his seat and a couple of paces away. Smiling, he said, "I'm sorry. I get these episodes when I don't take my medicine on time." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a medicine bottle for his allergy prescription he got every spring. Covering the label intentionally with his hands, he opened it, took a tablet, and placed it on his tongue. "All better now."

Jeremy relaxed, his regular expression returning to his face. "You gave me a right fright. I thought you were going to die or something, mate."

"Nah, not going to die," said Wilfred as he exited to the other section of the student studio, leaving Jeremy alone.

Wilfred saw Jeremy a lot more than usual in the last three weeks before the final assessment. In that brief moment, looking at the painting, Wilfred got angry because he knew he could never be Jeremy, and he could never birth such passion. Yes, Wilfred would have to commit the unthinkable. Wilfred was going to murder Jeremy and steal his art.

He called them his heists, though artist always ended up dead, and over time, heists seemed to deviate away from the art and closer with having to do with the artist. His main targets were undiscovered and untaught artists. This phase took the longest time; scouting, investigating, and creating detailed dossiers on each of them. Once the initial steps were completed, he established first contact. In this stage of the process, the aim was to gain trust. While not strictly necessary, Wilfred preferred to discover the hidden art more organically. He infiltrated their lives from all aspects, conducting reconnaissance in their homes at night when they were asleep or away. By his final heist, Wilfred had refined his methods to an art form and was able to successfully pull off a heist in only three months.

Jeremy's case was his most significant and, arguably, one of his most challenging, although he had already seen the painting, which was typically the most time-consuming part; the only thing left was to kill. True, Wilfred could have killed Jeremy the night he first saw the painting, but that would have been too reactionary. This had to be meticulously planned. It had to be like that one morning on Dairy manner, red and bloody. So, he decided on the night before the final presentation as the time to sneak into Jeremy's room and end his life.

Dressed in black and practically foaming at the mouth with anticipation, Wilfred picked the lock to Jeremy's dorm and crept inside. Jeremy lay in the far-right corner of the room, his chest rising and falling with each breath. And there, next to his bed on an easel, was "Woman Weaving Carpet"; magnificent. Before he knew it, his feet had already carried him halfway across the room. The painting's beauty made him giddy, and he let out an involuntary noise. Jeremy woke, sitting up in bed. Rubbing his right eye with his left hand and reaching for his glasses on the nightstand with the other, he said, "Wilfred, is that you?" He put on his glasses. "Wilfred, are you trying to scare me? Did you take your medicine?"

"I came for your painting," Wilfred stated, his voice cold.

"I'm sorry, what?" Jeremy replied, disbelief in his voice.

"Your painting is everything, and I want it," Wilfred repeated.

"Mate, stop being ridiculous. You're just having a laugh, right?"

"I want your painting and will kill you for it," Wilfred declared, no trace of humor in his voice.

"Fuck, Wil. That's not funny. Go home," Jeremy said, starting to rise from his bed.

Wilfred did not laugh under his black mask. He reached behind his back for the knife, and before Jeremy could realize what was happening, Wilfred was upon him. The knife pierced the left temple of Jeremy's head. Hot red blood oozed down Wilfred's clenching fist. Jeremy died instantly. Wilfred did not waver or stutter. His actions were as calculated in those few moments as they had been when he stood over the painting those few weeks prior. After the act, Wilfred cleaned up the scene meticulously and hid the body, ensuring it would never be discovered, as were all of his subsequent victims. He took Jeremy's art and presented it to his freshman class, declaring it as his own creation. Murder became a habit for Wilfred, a necessary part of his heists.