Musca Depicta ~ or ~ A Renaissance Fly

Musca Depicta

~ or ~

A Renaissance Fly

The system is broken. Angelo discovered it yesterday. 

“Fix it,” Dr. Groskopf ordered.

“It’s not that simple,” Angelo started, but the director brushed him off.

“Fix it. That’s your job. Overseeing the entire institution is my job.”

I’ve only been hanging around here for a few weeks, but I’ve observed a lot. For instance, I’ve learned that Angelo has more practical knowledge than Dr. Groskopf does. 

Dr. Groskopf wears custom suits. He has four degrees. He knows who painted what, in which period, and the value of each painting. 

Angelo wears coveralls. He never went to college. He knows the optimal temperature range and humidity ratio to keep fine art at its best. 

Sure, being an expert in the field of art history has its place. But we need practical people to preserve us.

Dr. Groskopf wanted to name the exhibit Musca Depicta. Valerie, the public relations director, thought the title was too scholarly.

“We need something more accessible. Down to earth. The idea is to draw people in, right? Remember, you always talk about the importance of perspective in art! Think about it from the viewpoint of the general public. What would catch their attention?”

Angelo, unnoticed, was tinkering with an electrical panel. He mumbled something. Valerie must have acute hearing. She pounced.

“Say that again, Angelo! So Dr. Groskopf can hear it!”

Angelo looked up from his work.

“Fly on the Wall—that’s what I’d call it. You know how people are always saying they’d like to be a fly on the wall in such-and-such situation?”

“Fly on the Wall. Angelo! You’re brilliant, my friend! We’ll use it! I’ll create a social media buzz for opening day. Oh! Buzz! Hahahahaha!” Valerie chuckled. “Talk about a Freudian slip! Too perfect.” 

Dr. Groskopf’s eyes bugged, and he turned an interesting shade of carmine. 

“All right,” he grumbled, “have it your way!” Blowing an exasperated puff of air, he retreated into his office. Valerie giggled.

“He’s such a stuffed-shirt. I mean, who would come to an exhibit called Musca Depicta? Art historians and elite collectors, that’s who. No one else even knows the term, probably.”

I do, Valerie. I do, because I am one. 

~*~

“Angelo! Waddaya think? This is your brainchild!” Valerie waved a glossy placard with the caption, “Fly on the Wall—Images and Illusions”. She rolled her eyes, adding, “Dr. Groskopf insisted on the second part. I thought something like Picturesque Pranks would be better, but—” she shrugged.

Angelo examined the advertisement and let out a low whistle.

“Looks good! How’d you get it done so fast, Valerie? It’s only been twenty-four hours. Oh, wait—don’t tell me—you did it on the fly!” 

Valerie’s peal of laughter blended with Angelo’s deep, rumbly tone.

Dr. Groskopf emerged from his lair, like a spider approaching a—

I can’t. I can’t say it.

“What is causing such levity?”

“Oh, I was just showing Angelo the, uh, flyer for the exhibit.” She held it up, and I could clearly see it. “Doesn’t it look fab?”

If, in that moment, I could have keeled over, I would have. The picture on the placard was of me. Me, sitting on the white wimple of a young woman in her finery. 

“Ah.” Dr. Groskopf rubbed his chin. “So you chose to feature Portrait of a Young Woman of the Hofer Family. Good choice, I will say. Are you aware, Valerie, that very little is known of the background of this work?” Valerie nodded, but Dr. Groskopf was in lecture mode. “The artist is unknown. The woman is unknown. The reason for the fly sitting on the headdress? Also unknown.”

I could tell you. But I won’t.

Dr. Groskopf continued droning. He was saying nothing I didn’t already know, so I tuned him out. You hang around artists and galleries for five hundred seventy-some years, you learn a lot. 

“Well,” said Angelo, “I gotta get back to my work. The lighting is giving me trouble.”

“Yup, me too!” Valerie took the opportunity to make her escape. “I need to send out an email blitz to the patrons. Toodles!” She waggled her fingers, and disappeared down the corridor.

I was left in the company of Dr. Groskopf, who stood directly in front of me and resumed his monologue.

“A unique specimen,” he commented to himself. (For a split second, I thought he meant me.) “On the one hand, it would be nice to know more about it. On the other hand, it would then lose some of its mystique.” He peered right at me. “Such detail! Even the delicate shadows of the legs, and the veins of the wings!”

I felt twitchy. He was beginning to creep me out a bit, staring like that. I wanted to swat him away. But, of course, I couldn’t move.

“Musca Depicta. The painted fly,” he told himself. Or me, maybe. His gaze was intent on me. “What a peculiar fad that was,” he mused. “Were you a real fly? Did you land on the headdress and inspire the artist to memorialize you? There is a strange beauty in those fine, filmy wings. Those bronze eyes, and that metallic green body!”

I want to get out of here!

My desire was so strong, I felt I could actually jump right out of the painting. But I sat still as ever, waiting… waiting…

And that’s when Angelo announced that the HVAC system was broken. 

“The temperature is dropping. Humidity is rising. If it gets too far out of balance, the artwork will be in danger of degrading.”

That got through to Dr. Groskopf. He turned away from his perusal of my appendages. 

“All right,” he grunted. “We have no choice then. Call the repairmen.”

I got to thinking. Was that faint impulse I had, that notion of movement, an indication that the shroud of paint was breaking down? 

I tried a tentative wiggle. Yes! I felt it give way. And I pushed with all my tiny might.

Wheee! I’m free!

I took a quick circuit around the room, returning to look at the Woman from another perspective. I’m almost sure I saw her wink.