Her scarlet red lips spread into a wicked grin, as she retrieved a small can from her coat — spray paint.
Retrocausal Provenance
To whom it may concern,
This email is to inform you of an upcoming auction to be held at MC&D's New York Auction House, on May 3rd, 2019. There will be 5 lots available, each a previously undiscovered painting by famous artists, many of whom were previously unknown to have created anomalous art.
These lots present a unique opportunity to purchase art unlike any other; these pieces are one-of-a-kind and are guaranteed to sell. All lot estimates and the provenance for each individual piece are available on request.
Lot #3 is included below to highlight the uniqueness of these items. A still version is provided, to accommodate our patrons with epilepsy or other anomalo-visual conditions; interact with the still, to see a recording of the painting.
Yes, it changes colors.
Charlie Marcarcus preferred the finer things. Now, that wasn't to say that he would go for such boorish things as, say, caviar, diamonds, your standard nouveau riche trifles — no, Mr. Marcarcus had far more elegant tastes. Now, say, caviar harvested from the belly of a Solar Whale? Lucent Diamonds, harvested from the rings of Saturn? Those were the fineries that he desired; but more than anything, he longed for recognition.
I've been the auction manager long enough, he thought, looking around his relatively austere workspace. More than that, I have suffered in poverty for long enough. I deserve this.
The only notable fixture in his office was a grotesque statuary which stood behind him. It was dressed like Charlie, twisted into an inhuman shape that loomed over his desk. It was a reminder to some, and a warning for others.
Charlie stood, looking at the lots for the upcoming auction. Each piece was acquired by him, personally, using his own private funds. All it took was some digital forgery, a handful of pitiful bribes, and he was both the specialist and the consignor for the works.
Is that illegal? he thought, pausing to laugh. Sure, but you never get very far in business without breaking a few laws.
The arrogant smirk on his face was disturbed by the sound of his intercom buzzing.
"Excuse me, sir," his airheaded assistant on the other end said. "The journalist is here to see you."
"Are you sure this time?" Charlie asked, the unspoken threat dangling in the empty space.
After a moment, his secretary replied.
"Yes, I'm sure."
Charlie nodded, hanging up without another word. He stood, carefully pressing out any wrinkles in his shirt, donning his suit jacket with a practiced elegance.
Now, he thought, it's time to turn the charm on.
"I'm sorry, miss, he will be righ—"
Of course, Charlie hadn't left his office immediately — no, it wouldn't do to seem too eager to meet with the rabble, let alone the press. This should feel as though he was doing them a favor, not the other way around. After five minutes, he had left his office, and began to meander down the hallway.
He could see the journalist standing in the waiting room. Not unattractive, he evaluated, sizing her up and down. Cheap blazer, scuffs on her shoes, and she didn't even have the decency to wear stockings.
He preferred women who were elites.
"And here he is, Charlie Marcarcus," his secretary said as he approached the journalist, offering his hand in a practiced air of politeness. "Mr. Marcarcus, this is the journalist from Fine Anart Magazine."
"Hello," he said, shaking her hand with an intimidating grip, "apologies for the delay, earlier we had a man try to break into our offices, pretending to be a journalist. With the caliber of items we have listed in the upcoming auction, there have been many thieves attempting to get in."
Standing closer, he could better evaluate the journalist. Between the mousy brown hair, glasses and minimal skincare, Charlie reaffirmed his initial assessment; she was nothing to him, so he could remain professional, and get this done as quickly as possible.
"That's alright," she said, adjusting her blazer awkwardly under his stare. "Somebody tried to break in earlier?"
"Oh, no need to worry, security dealt with him with extreme prejudice." he laughed, and began to walk without another word, the hapless journalist following without indication. Good, she understands who is more important here. Maybe I can maneuver my way into benefitting from this. He smiled, a predator on the prowl.
"Well," the journalist said, "I'm sure! The kinds of pieces you have are incomparable, anybody would be a fool not to appreciate them."
"Are you a collector?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Me?" she said in shock. "Oh, no, I can't afford that as a journalist. But I take any chance I get to go to galleries, private collections, or early previews to shows. I'm a bit of an anart nut, you know?"
What a poor attempt at a joke, Charlie thought, not bothering to hide his distaste. "An 'anart nut'. Quite."
The two walked in an awkward silence for a few more steps, before the journalist continued.
"So," she asked, "what can you tell me about the upcoming auction?"
"I'm sure you've read the catalog," he said derisively. She nodded. Good, she's done the bare minimum.
"Yes, actually," she said, pulling out a pen and notepad. "I wanted to ask about lot #3, the Kandinsk—"
"Ah yes, the undiscovered Kandinsky. You know, that one is rather unique, given the historical context," Charlie said, having begun to bloviate as he led the journalist through the halls of MC&D's auction house; had he turned around, or paid closer attention, he might have noticed her roll her eyes.
But, of course, she was far too unimportant to even be memorable.
"Where are we going?" the journalist asked, grey corridors having given way to back halls. Concrete and metal surrounded them, security cameras and other defensive measures as far as the eye could see.
"I'm taking you to the holding areas, where our auction lots are kept prior to the date. They are constantly monitored by a security team, and are locked within a hermetically sealed chamber," Charlie said, as if that was the bare minimum.
Of course, he thought, there are other anomalous defenses, not that she would understand them.
"Is this where all of your auction lots are stored?"
"No," he replied, voice full of braggadocio. "Only the finest specimens deserve such elite storage. Of course, all of the items in the upcoming auction are held here, as is the case with any items I serve as consignor for. They say I have an eye for excellence."
"Oh," the journalist said, pencil still. "Can you tell me more about th—"
"Before we go any further, I did want to share this with you," Charlie interrupted her. He paused and gestured towards a slight, warmly lit alcove. On the wall hung a bright and patterned painting, with repeating shapes, carefully lit to perfection.
"What is this?" she asked, slowly approaching the work.
"This is a personal piece of mine," he said, a hint of solemnity to his voice. "It was given to me by my mentor, before his end. A Jasper Johns original, from before 1954."
"Before 1954?" the journalist asked quizzically. "Didn't he destroy his paintings then?"
Charlie smiled, a mix of nostalgia and reluctant respect.
"He did," Charlie confirmed smugly, "but not before my mentor spoke with him, and convinced him to keep one; this one, in fact. When my mentor gave it to me, he told me something very clear, which I have held in my heart to this day."
Charlie brushed some imagined debris from his jacket, remembering his mentor's words.
"He told me, 'Charlie, this company does not understand art. It does not understand why artists create, nor does it understand we enjoy art; it only cares for profit, progress and acquisitions. During your career, you will be faced with a choice: do you work for the company, or do you work for the art? You understand it, in the same way I did. You do it for the art, don't you?'" He shook his head, a slight smile appearing on his face.
"Do you?" the journalist asked, staring into his soul, intense curiosity peering into his life. "Do you do this for the art?"
"I do."
A moment later, Charlie realized that his answer was aloud. He frowned. You idiot, he thought to himself. You showed vulnerability. You cannot afford another mistake like that, not this close to the finish line.
"Did you write that down?" he asked pompously, trying to smooth over his honesty. "I'm sure your readers would appreciate my insights, and personal history, given my caliber of expertise."
The journalist looked down, abashedly, before writing notes into her notebook again. "Of course," she said apologetically, "I didn't want to assume that I could share your personal details, as this article was primarily about the Kandin—"
"Why not both? Wouldn't your readers find it more interesting to learn about a man such as myself?" He looked around, checking his watch.
The woman stood in place, glancing between himself and the painting that hung on the wall.
"Yes?" Charlie asked, prodding the awkward woman to respond.
"I… I'm not quite sure how to say this," the woman began, clearly frazzled.
"Say it," he sneered. "I have no time for those who waste my—"
"The painting," she began, coldly, "is hung upside down."
How dare she? Charlie thought, fury bubbling up. Not only do I grant her an interview, but she has the gall to question me?
"Noted." He hid his reaction, checking his watch. "Unfortunately, our time has ru—"
"You were right, earlier," the journalist admitted abruptly, smiling at him to defuse the tension. "You are fascinating. I'm sorry for my… well, my impudence, I must be wrong. I would love to have an expert such as yourself at the center of my article."
Charlie paused, evaluating the woman. At first glance, she had seemed miniscule, a fleck in a sea of unimportance; now, he saw her for what she was. She was just like he had been: desperate for any chance to get a leg up, willing to grovel when needed, with an intense desire for recognition. After a moment, he nodded in haughty satisfaction. Good, he thought. It seems that she understands how integral I am to the auctions here. Perhaps…
"I have a meeting soon," he said, checking his watch hurriedly. "But, given the focus of your article, would you like a sneak peek at lot #3?"
Charlie knew the game of life, it was all give and take. Everything was transactional; even a child understood that, from the moment the word 'trade' entered their vocabulary. To fight with another was to attempt to assert your dominance in an exchange; a Machiavellian at heart, seeing another bend to his will was delicious to him.
But, he also understood that one cannot only dominate; you must also offer a pittance to another. Especially with a journalist such as her, he thought, despite the hunger I see in her, this is a marrow bone, for the mangy mutt she is.
Charlie silently led the woman further down the hallway, to a dead end. With a quick twist of his watch face, and a memorized combination of buttons, the wall before the two began to open, the metal sliding apart, stacking layers of metal like a cascading shell. A bright light filled the hallway, as the obstruction gave way to an observation window.
Inside the chamber was the ever-shifting Kandinsky.
Both were silent, for some time.
"That piece is truly remarkable," the journalist finally said, reverence evident in her tone. She slowly approached the reinforced glass barrier, reaching out towards the piece. "Would it… would it be possible to get a closer look?"
"No," he said abruptly, sneering as he spoke. "Access is restricted to myself, and the appraisers who validate the work on the day of the auction."
He pressed a button on his watch, and the metal slid shut with a loud, echoing slam — if the journalist had been any closer to the glass, her arm would have been caught between the sliding steel, crushing her bones to dust.
Charlie laughed, recalling the last time it had occurred.
"Now then," he said, turning on his heel. "I have more pressing matters to attend to. Security will be along to escort you out shortly."
He walked away, without a moment of concern; with the billions of dollars of security equipment, there was no chance she could get into any trouble. As he turned the corner, his mind returned to more relevant topics; he had a negotiation to attend to, and Charlie stood to profit quite handsomely if he got his way.
And I always do.
It was the day of the auction, and had Charlie Marcarcus been boorish, one could describe him as 'drooling in anticipation'. However, given the stature he chose to present himself with, his excitement was far more refined; a slight smile graced his face.
Almost everything was in place for the auction today; all preparations had been made in advance, save for one.
The most important aspect, he noted mentally. After all, if the appraiser determines the works to be fake, it would be unconscionable to still offer them at auction.
Of course, Charlie knew that wouldn't happen — he had personally ensured that not only were the affiliated documents authentic, he had, through the use of intentionally applied bribery, established a clear and direct line of provenance for each lot today.
Trifles, he thought, remembering how little it took to convince the border agents and historians to fudge some details. Although the pieces themselves were authentic, his methods of acquisition were frowned upon by most governing bodies.
Not management, though, Charlie smiled. When all of this is said and done, the other managers will be eating out of my palm.
If the sale went through today — and it would — he would secure a position on the MC&D Auction division's Board of Managers. From that point on, he would be set for life.
And I will continue to reap those rewards, so long as I desire to live. He had heard that the highest ranking executives gained access to multiple forms of life-extension, to the point of near immortality.
It was so close, he could almost taste it.
As he shifted forward, out of his towering leather throne, he brushed the creases from his pants, standing.
Just a few more hours, he thought, and then I will finally have the station I deserve.
"Have you heard from the journalist?" Charlie asked, as he waited near the reception desk. "The one from Fine Anart Magazine."
"No," a different, yet still brainless assistant replied. "But the man who tried to break in has tried to reach out multipl—"
Charlie dismissed her with a shush of the hand, waving her off. He had spotted a woman enter the building, carrying a luxury purse. She was Indian, slender with silky black hair, medium length, cascading to one side. By the way she carried herself, and the familiarity with the layout, he recognized her as the external appraiser; they contracted that out to trusted sources, to ensure that there could be no accusations of conspiracy or liability on the part of MC&D.
She approached the security checkpoint, and spoke without being addressed.
"Ms. Sutton," she said firmly, snapping for the guard's attention. "I am here to appraise the auction items."
Before the guard could respond, stunned in a stupor, he advanced.
Show time, he thought. And now, for the charm. After all, it wouldn't hurt to butter her up a bit.
"Ms. Sutton, welcome. I am Mr. Marcarcus, the auction manager. I believe I spoke to your supervisor on the phone?"
"Yes," she said briskly. "Where are the items? I have a busy schedule today, and I would prefer if we eschewed small talk and got started immediately."
She crossed her arms, tapping her foot in impatience.
Interesting, Charlie thought as he leered at Ms. Sutton, peering down the open buttons of her blouse. At last, a woman of interest.
"My apologies, madam," he said half-heartedly. "Our security team just needs to inspect the inside of your bag. Standard security, I'm sure you understand."
She rolled her eyes, setting the luxury purse on the indicated table; she unzipped it, revealing the contents within. Haphazardly strewn at the bottom, many without protective cases, were various tools used for art appraisal and verification. As he peered into the bag in confusion, the pattern of the lining caught his attention.
Ah, he noted, dismissively. A cheap imitation. To the untrained eye, yes, that is luxury, but, the pattern is not seamless. Along the bottom, almost undetectable; the pattern was slightly misaligned.
Any Audicaré purse has lining made from a single bolt of fabric, he thought, his impression of Ms. Sutton falling drastically. She might fool others, but I see her for who she is.
The guard, having finished the inspection, handed the purse to Ms. Sutton. She nodded curtly, and walked towards him with purpose.
"Shall we?" she asked, barely pausing to wait for him to walk alongside her.
"Of course," he said with renewed disinterest. He should have known better; the woman was nobody of substance, just a carnal distraction. Perhaps, he thought, she may be my reward after the auction.
"Can you tell me about the history of the piece?" Ms. Sutton asked, her appraisal tools having been placed carefully on a table. The two had started with what Ms. Sutton believed was the most likely to have provenance issues — after all, an undiscovered Kandinsky was too good to be true, so long after his death. The fact that it was anomalous made it that much more unique. If any of the items for auction today had the chance of being a forgery, this would be it.
Of course, Charlie smirked. It's not. And even if it was, she wouldn't be able to tell.
"The Kandinsky we have here is a truly remarkable piece," he said, gesturing to the flickering canvas. "It was painted by Kandinsky during his time in Pari—"
"Was that," Sutton asked, interrupting him, "during his 'Great Synthesis'?"
At least she is intelligent, he begrudgingly admitted, to none but himself.
"It was," he began, "but, of course, this is the only known anomalous work made during—"
"Yes, yes," Ms. Sutton said, approaching the painting with a jeweler's loupe, inspecting the painting as close as possible without touching the surface. "But, of course, that was during the period where he was recorded as having connections, through the Bauhaus, to members of what would later become Are We Cool Yet?"
"You are an art historian?" he said, unable to mask the surprise in his voice. "Not many are familiar with such esoteric details."
"One in my line of work must be," she muttered, scouring the frame for any inscrutable details that would reveal an error or flaw — not that there would be one to notice.
"Well, yes," he said, "you are correct. The piece was created using anima-infused pigments, stabilized thaumic suspensions, and other anomalous implements; our internal appraiser found no issues."
Sutton paused, calmly turning to face Charlie.
"Yes," she said sharply. "However, I am the expert you requested. There is a very good reason why I am here. Of course, if you are positive that this piece is real, well then I would be a fool not to trust your word. After all, you are an honest man, aren't you, Mr. Marcarcus?"
She has a bite, he mused, his eyebrow cocking. "Of course, my apologies, Ms. Sutton, is there further information I can provide? Perhaps, would you like to see the papers that prove provenan—"
"No thank you," she said dismissively, placing her loupe on the table. "I am afraid I have some concerns regarding the authenticity of this work."
"What?" he nearly shouted, confusion flooding into his voice. "I can assure you, this piece is authentic. I myself confirmed as such, as did many others. You are simply here for a final validation; are you truly questioning so many other experts?"
Her reaction was inscrutable.
"Is that an issue?" she asked, daring him to respond.
The room was silent, just for a second, before Charlie regained his composure.
"My apologies," he said. Bitch.
"Thank you." Ms. Sutton walked to the table, and placed the loupe down carefully. "Thankfully, I will be able to confirm the authenticity of this piece in one test."
"Oh?" he asked, skeptically.
"It is, unfortunately, a trade secret." She looked at him and offered a glib, yet apologetic smile. "And must be performed in absolute darkness."
"Darkness? I'm afraid that unless you can tell me the nature of the test, I couldn't possibly allow—"
"It will not damage the work, nor will I come into contact with it," she responded, trying to reassure him. "In fact, you may even remain in the room with me during it. However, due to the anomalous chemicals used in the process, any exposure to light, visible or infrared, would be catastrophic."
She's joking, he thought, eyes wide in disbelief. Ms. Sutton stared back at him, unimpressed. She has to be.
"How can this method—"
"Sir," she said, firmly. "As I told you earlier, my time is precious, and you have already wasted enough of it with your pointless objections. If you want to auction this lot today, I would suggest you allow me to complete my inspection. Otherwise, I'm sure that my firm would be happy to supply another appraiser; I believe the wait time is approximately 6 weeks. If that is what you would prefer—"
"No, no," he said quickly, hands out in a placating gesture. "My apologies, I was simply unaware of such a method. So long as I can remain in the room, you may continue."
She smiled in satisfaction.
"Thank you, Charlie. Can you get the lights?"
He paused, and then hesitantly walked towards the entrance to the chamber — switches were inlaid next to the security panel. He raised his hand, hovering beside the switch.
"At your command," he said, tone dripping with annoyance, "Ms. Sutton."
"Thank you," she said, turning to face the painting. "You may turn them off now."
The room was plunged into darkness, complete and utter black. The metal barriers were fully extended, obfuscating any external light sources; the chamber itself had no security cameras on the interior, due to the potential damage they could cause to some of their more unstable offerings. Standing in the abyssal room, Charlie held his breath.
This is a farce, he thought, crossing his arms. He focused, trying to hear her movements in the room. She was gingerly stepping, moving, presumably, from the table towards the painting. It was silent other than that; no mechanical noises, organic or otherwise could be heard.
A dull light flickered to life before him, fading away instantly. What was that? he wondered, peering into the ink as if it held the answers. Finding nothing other than the uniform darkness, he shrugged. I haven't been sleeping enough, he decided, and now I am seeing things. Thankfully, this will all be over soon.
"You may turn the lights back on," Ms. Sutton said, her voice cutting through the silence abruptly. A second later, and the room was lit — Charlie blinked, eyes straining from the sudden luminance; seconds later, it faded. Ms. Sutton stood, near her purse, a frown on her face.
"Is there a problem?" he asked, quickly. "I'm sure you also found that the painting was authentic?"
She hesitated, rocking back and forth on her heels.
"I'm unsure," she finally admitted, shaking her head. "The test was inconclusive, and I'm afraid I do not have the time to do additional testing, due to my prior obligations."
"What does that mean?" he asked, gobsmacked. "Will we be able to auction the item today?"
"Of course," she reassured him. "I will have the firm send a secondary appraiser, one with the needed skillset. I am sure that, following their appraisal, you will have your answer."
Without waiting for his response, Ms. Sutton began to pack her implements back into her reproduction purse.
Of course the purse is an imitation, Charlie noted. It appears Ms. Sutton is unable to distinguish an authentic work from a forgery. She has wasted more than enough of my tim—
At that moment, a twist in the fabric caught his eye. Down, at the bottom of the bag, was a nearly undetectable slip of fabric, nestled along what he had believed was an incongruent seam. This close to the bag, he could make out the truth: the mismatched pattern that he had previously believed was evidence of an imitation was something far more significant: it was a hand-embossed tag, indicating that this Audicaré was, in fact, handmade by Madame Audicaré; he had only seen a matching bag once, carried by a Darke.
As Ms. Sutton haphazardly threw her tools into the bag, Charlie's eyes bulged.
To think, he mused, somebody would treat a million dollar handbag with such disregard.
As Ms. Sutton closed her bag, and moved towards the doorway, he shook his head.
Some people, he thought, have no clue how to handle wealth.
"Sir?" a man said, freezing in the threshold to the room holding the Kandinsky. It was the second appraiser, who had arrived just a few minutes following Ms. Sutton's departure.
Despite the initial confusion — both about why multiple appraisers were needed, on Charlie's part, and about the identity of the former appraiser, on the new appraiser's part — given how close the hammer time was, he rushed the man through the hallways, to validate the Kandinsky.
"Is there a problem?" Charlie asked, glaring. "This entire day is a farce, your coworker clearly has no skill in identifying authentic artworks; I'm sure that, after you check the provenance papers, and give the piece a visual inspection, it will be clear that the piece is authentic. Any fool could see tha—"
"I—" the appraiser said, interrupting him, before trailing off.
"Yes?" Charlie prodded, getting more frustrated. First, they sent me a woman who lied, and now they send me an idiot who can't speak. Of course, I should have expected this from external vendors.
"I'm not quite sure how to say this," the appraiser said, fidgeting with his sleeves. "But, I am afraid that I concur with Ms. Sutton. This lot is a fake."
"What?" Charlie raged. "Are you a fucking imbecile? You claim to be a professional, and yet, you failed to even examine the piece, or the documents tha—"
"Sir," the appraiser said, straightening his spine, and adjusting his suit jacket. "Despite what the documents may say, and your claims of authenticity — anybody with a basic understanding of art history, with minimal experience in evaluations would be able to tell you the issue."
"And that is?" he demanded, advancing on the man who shrank in fear.
"The signature, the pigment choices, the line work and framing — all evidence clearly point to this being a modern forgery. I'm afraid that you have been duped, Mr. Marcarcus. This piece is worth a few thousand, at most."
What the fuck is going on here? he fumed, storming out of the room. My destiny is greater than this.
Unfortunately for Charlie Marcarcus — his fate was a lapidified immortality.
The next morning, early, as the sun rose high above, cresting between the high-rise buildings that filled downtown Manhattan, a woman walked down an alleyway, heels clicking as she did. Dumpsters surrounded her on all sides; the stench of filth filled the morning air, not that the woman seemed to notice.
She stalked down the pavement, black hair flowing down her back, an architect's tube swinging casually over her shoulder; she was fashionably dressed, and firmly out of place in the back alleyways she trod with such comfort and familiarity.
She arrived at a dumpster, stopping and removing a blade from her pocket. She began to root through the piles of trash, stored behind an unassuming office; after a few moments, she found what she was looking for. A painting, discarded, sat surrounded by refuse, cheap, disposable, forgotten; the ornate frame stood out, a treasure trove within this ocean of waste.
Deftly, the woman slid her blade around the edges of the frame, the canvas tearing cleanly away. The beautiful frame fell to her feet, discarded, as she rolled the painting up, and placed her prize within the architect's tube.
Her scarlet red lips spread into a wicked grin, as she retrieved a small can from her coat — spray paint. A few smooth, practiced motions, and she walked away; just as calmly as she had approached, she disappeared into the waking crowds that filled the city.
On the brick wall, beside the dumpster, she had left a signature, a solitary piece of evidence attesting to her presence — emblazoned across the stone, sparkling in freshly dripping spray paint, was a single word:
MARGINALIA
