Recent showings, in the galleries, had proven how very competitive the
art world had become. Hans Brottmeyer was well known. He had shown
works in most of the major cities. The prices had been rising
steadily, across the span of a dozen years. Nevertheless the critics
were demanding something new. Hans knew that he had to come up with
something utterly new and astounding that would placate the dissonant
voices. Either that or his artistic career would quickly come to an
ignominious end. He would become a forgotten has been. He would be
hardly a footnote, if that, in the history of art. The new showing was
sure to bring all of those voices out for its opening. That was to
happen in only a few hours. The difficulty was that there was no new
and astounding work of art to show. The large canvas, apart from a few
brush strokes of color, was utterly blank and unfinished. There was
nothing new. There was nothing inspiring. There was nothing to provoke
response in that most demanding of audiences. They would all be there.
Nevertheless it was time to begin the journey to the gallery.
Hans summoned three of his assistants. He had an idea. He whispered
something in one of their ears. The assistant nodded solemnly and went
off on the assigned errand. The other two were commandeered into
gathering several pails of liquid resin, some large brushes, and the
unfinished canvas. They would load it into the truck and in a short
time they would be at the gallery. Hans urged them into the truck,
assuring them that nothing else was needed and that all was well. They
had everything they needed.
They arrived at the gallery, and Hans directed his assistants to take
the large canvas inside, where they were to prop it up against the far
end wall. That was all for now. The pails of resin and brushes were to
be placed near it and they were to wait for his instructions. The
various critics, from all the most prominent arts publications were
already beginning to arrive. They muttered, under their breaths, as
soon as they saw what Hans had done. It was nothing new, one said.
Another coughed and said nothing. A third loosened a collar, as if
choking and then glared across the room. Hans smiled and greeted those
who would allow themselves to be recognized. The owner of the gallery
blushed and seemed apologetic. This was far from what he had expected.
Far from what he thought that Hans would grace his premises with, on
this important occasion. Nevertheless, Hans had a reputation for
innovation in a time when some said that nothing new could be done,
and that it had all been done before.
The third assistant arrived a short time later. He nodded at Hans, and
Hans nodded back upon seeing the long narrow package in the
assistant's hands. The assistant walked over to a position where he
stood across the room, facing the canvas. Hans then directed the other
assistants to open and prepare the resin. They were to paint a coating
of the liquid onto the canvas. Then they were to await further
instructions. The work would be completed within the hour. Hans began
to assure the guests who were now crowding into the gallery, in
anticipation of something new and different. The conversation
invariably turning to the subject of their disappointment.
The resin still wet, and some of it dripping onto the gallery floor,
Hans now went and stood a few yards away and in front of the canvas.
He then motioned all of the guests to pay attention and to watch the
canvas. He announced that he was about to create the final and
ultimate work of art. There was near silence, and barely a few
whispers. He made them wait. A few tried to crowd in closer, but Hans
gestured them back. They were not to approach. It would ruin the work.
He then called to his assistants and they huddled together. They had
their instructions. They would do what they had been told. It was for
the sake of art. They would do exactly as he had told them to do.
Hans turned towards his audience and smiled. Once again he announced
the final work of art. Then the assistant who was still holding the
long paper wrapped package, and standing at the far wall, behind Hans,
tore away the wrappings. There was a gasp of surprise and a muffled
scream from among the onlookers. In moments both barrels of the
shotgun had discharged and pieces of Hans's head were seen flying
across the space between Hans and the canvas. Blood, hair, pieces of
skull, and what might have been portions of the brain, were flung
against the resin, while pellets pierced the canvas. What remained of
Hans crumpled to the floor. The two assistants nearest to the large
canvas quickly took it and laid it down onto the floor, covering the
bits of brain, skull, fragments of hair, and the splatter of blood
with additional resin sealing it onto the surface. They would let it
harden and then hang the work.
The assistant who had fired the shotgun blast now bowed to the
audience. Then the audience began to applaud and shout "bravo". It was
the final work of art. The gallery owner was smiling. He knew he could
get at least twenty million for it. At least that. It was utterly
original. No one had done anything like it before. In fact several
offers had already been whispered into his ear. One for at least
fifteen, possibly more. He knew that Hans Brottmeyer would be
remembered. Yes, he would be remembered. The history of art would
remember him.
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