Chapter Two
Darcy was draping her coat over the back of her chair when Ida, Otto’s secretary, peered around the doorway.
‘Ah Darcy, you’re back, good. Otto’s been asking for you. He says it’s urgent.’
‘Oh?’ Nothing was ever urgent in Otto Borup’s world. The head of the fine art department and her thesis advisor, he was a man with a leisured manner who believed that words were often overrated and that as much, if not more, could be conveyed by a well-judged silence. So if Otto said something was urgent, either he was dying or the Royal Academy was on fire.
‘Yes. They’re all waiting for you in Workroom 3.’
‘All?’ Darcy felt a shot of alarm that there was to be an audience to whatever this was.
Workroom 3 was where the conservation team were based. As a PhD student and a theoretical academic, Darcy rarely had reason or opportunity to go in there, but she always felt like a child in a sweet shop when she did venture in.
Had she done something wrong? ‘Do you know what it’s about?’
‘I do,’ Ida nodded, making no attempt to enlighten her.
‘I see...Thanks.’ With a gulp of trepidation, Darcy headed for the stairs, walking through the corridor where the faculty offices were set. Otto’s door was ajar, his desk neatly stacked with paper piles and reference books tabbed with Post-it notes; but she noticed his chair was pushed back at an angle, as if he had risen in a hurry.
Was it her thesis? The committee had approved her hypothesis months ago. Had they changed their minds? Could they change their minds?
She walked quickly, with growing dread. The Charlottenborg building, which was the official home of the Royal Academy of Fine Arts, comprised three sides of a square and the workrooms were located on each floor in the central span, the next wing along from here. Long whitewashed spaces, they were usually bright even on the dullest of days thanks to the large graphite-steel windows that ran along either side – but as she pushed on the door into the workroom on the third floor, she saw the black curtains had been drawn so that it was suffused with gloom. Vast tables ran through the centre of the room and workbenches were pushed along each wall. Every surface was piled high with books and papers, a few plaster busts sat on pedestals, canvases were propped on easels and draped with dust sheets. Brushes poked from pots, amber-coloured solutions sat in jars. Stools, chairs, jumpers and bags littered the space, and it smelled of solvents and coffee.
At the far end stood a small group of people clustered around one of the tables. They were standing tightly packed, talking over one another in low voices, but even from here she recognized the redoubtable director of the National Gallery, Margit Kinberg; the Royal Academy’s head conservator, Lauge Bekker; and of course, Otto. Even without the presence of the academy director, currently in New York, it was about as senior a gathering as she could imagine and her pace slowed as she approached. This had been the wrong day to choose to run in. She had been anticipating a quiet afternoon in the stacks. What on earth could they possibly want with her here? Had Ida been pulling a prank on her...?
‘Ah, Darcy,’ Otto said, turning at the sound of her footsteps. He was an elegant man, not tall but very lean, bald, with a close-clipped white beard and watchful blue eyes. He made a point of only ever wearing a sober palette of navy, grey or black; his chunky tortoiseshell-framed glasses were the sole glimpse of personality in his uniform, a snatch of the private man beyond the enigma, for his austere reputation preceded him. He wasn’t inclined towards small talk, undue praise or even smiles – but today appeared to be the exception. She felt herself relax a little. He wouldn’t smile if this was bad news, surely? Unless...pity?
‘Thank you for joining us. You know Lauge, of course.’
‘Lauge,’ Darcy nodded politely.
‘Have you met Margit Kinberg?’
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Darcy said quickly as they shook hands. Kinberg was pale, with a dark bob and glasses; she had a formidable reputation as a straight talker and there was certainly nothing soft and fluffy about her handshake.
‘Ms Cotterell, Otto’s been bringing me up to speed with your work.’ She spoke in English, even though they’d been talking in Danish on her arrival. Everyone spoke English to a high standard here – although Darcy’s Danish was impressive too thanks to her Danish mother, who had raised her and her sister as bilingual back home.
‘He has?’ Darcy looked at Otto with an apprehensive smile, not at all sure why the director of the National Gallery needed to know anything about her PhD thesis – ‘Homemakers and Revolutionaries: A Re-examination of Women in the Modern Breakthrough’.
‘Have a look at this, Darcy,’ Otto said, stepping aside so that she could see a painting set flat upon the table behind him; it had been removed from its frame and an ultraviolet lamp was positioned above it. Her heart beat a little faster, for she recognized the artwork right away – it was Her Children , the Johan Trier masterpiece that had been undergoing light restoration ahead of a large retrospective of the artist at the National Gallery in the new year.
Johan Trier was considered the grandfather of the Danish New Masters and Otto had spent the past two years painstakingly negotiating the loans of works from other museums, galleries and private collections to curate this show, the most comprehensive exhibition of Trier’s work since his death, almost exactly fifty years ago. The Ministry of Culture wanted it to do for them what the Vermeer tribute had done for Amsterdam’s Rijksmuseum a few years earlier.
‘Go on – tell me what you see.’
Darcy, seeing how everyone watched her closely, leaned over and peered down at the famous oil. She had seen the painting countless times – it showed a woman standing by the shore, watching as her children waded in the shallows. One hand was perched on her hip, the tip of her chin betraying a watchful gaze over the frothy surf. Her skirt and blouse were pushed back against her body by the strong breeze, the ribbon of her apron flying behind her.
‘This is Trier’s Her Children . One of his most iconic paintings.’ It was famous not because of the expert figuring of the children or the tumbling light in the sky, but because in the precise posturing of the woman – her close, watchful stare counterposed with a relaxed patience – he had captured the fierce complexity and intensity of motherhood.
‘And what do you know about Trier?’
‘Off the top of my head?’ Darcy was a little taken aback. Being interrogated on native artists by someone in Kinberg’s esteemed position was intimidating, to say the least. ‘I know that he was a master draughtsman; he specialized in plein air landscapes, particularly beach scenes later on, although he made his name originally with formal portraits. He was often likened to John Singer Sargent for his renderings of texture in women’s fashions and his use of colour. He was especially well known for his strong use of white, and also pink...Um, he was very preoccupied with natural light. He was highly influenced by the impressionists and adopted their technique of impasto paint application and rapid brushwork.’ She looked down at the oil. To be this close to it, to see it as the artist had, without its frame, was a truly rare privilege. It was a jewel in the crown of Danish art.
Kinberg nodded. ‘And now? Tell me what you see.’
Beside her, Otto switched on the lamp and a vivid purple light washed down upon the painting. The image she knew so well remained visible but beyond it, she also saw a face – a woman’s face – staring back at her.
She gasped and pulled back with surprise. Seeing the similarly excited looks from the rest of the group, she guessed they had all had exactly the same response. She looked back down again, as if unable to trust her own eyes, but there it was once more – the head and shoulders portrait of a young woman. The colours and details were indistinct, as if the image was being seen through a muddied window, but even with that, there was clear accomplishment in the tilt of the woman’s head and the directness of her gaze.
‘Oh!’ she breathed. ‘She’s beautiful.’
‘Yes, she is,’ Margit Kinberg nodded, looking down at the portrait too. ‘It was quite a surprise to find her there.’
‘...You never knew before?’ Darcy asked.
‘The painting hasn’t been touched since ’59, when a plumbing leak altered the humidity and affected some of the original paint,’ Lauge Bekker said, breaking his silence. ‘The remedial work was done but there were no further explorations and the painting’s been hanging in a stabilized environment ever since, so there was no need to look. It only came in for a light clean ahead of the retrospective.’
Darcy was no conservator, but she knew ultraviolet light, although first used in fine art conservation from the early 1930s, hadn’t become commonplace until the 1980s.
She also immediately understood the importance of the discovery. Johan Trier was Denmark’s pre-eminent painter of the twentieth century; his former home was a tourist attraction in its own right and his brand was one of the country’s greatest exports. He had come to prominence in the 1920s and many of his paintings were recognizable the world over.
‘What a shame he overpainted this,’ she deplored, scrutinizing the ghostly image again. Many painters, obsessed with notions of their ‘legacy’, painted over what they considered to be inferior or lesser pieces.
‘Well, that’s what’s so exciting about this,’ Margit said with a direct look. ‘He didn’t. The portrait is painted on the reverse of the board. It’s not beneath Her Children , it’s on the back of it.’
‘Two paintings in one?’
‘Yes,’ Lauge said. ‘Unfortunately, initial investigation is suggesting the backing is made up of several sheets of board, which have been glued on –’
Glued? Darcy winced. Otto and Margit too.
‘– Meaning the portrait is sandwiched between the board layers.’
‘Is it reachable?’ Darcy asked.
‘That is certainly the great hope,’ Lauge Bekker said. ‘But it’s going to be painstaking work trying to remove it. Clearly we cannot risk any potential damage to Her Children and if it is deemed too risky, we’ll stop. If we have to choose between the two, then of course we’ll choose the bird in hand.’
‘Of course,’ Darcy nodded, staring still at the ghostly outline of the woman shimmering beneath the paint. Her Children was a flagship painting, appearing on postcards in the Academy’s gift shop, but for this portrait to remain trapped – hidden – under boards, would be such a shame too. There was something special about this woman; Darcy could feel it somehow, even though she could barely see her. ‘How long will it take to try to remove the backing?’
‘Ordinarily we’d be looking at a couple of months but with the retrospective coming up in the new year, we’re under extraordinary pressure to move more quickly.’ From the way Lauge’s eyes darted over to Kinberg, Darcy sensed tension between the two on the matter.
‘We’re deciding on a course of optimism,’ Margit said firmly. ‘It’s in everyone’s best interests to work towards the best-case scenario: unveiling a newly discovered Johan Trier masterpiece at the retrospective.’
‘Margit...’ Lauge frowned.
‘I know. It might not happen,’ she said, looking back at him sternly. ‘But we will certainly reach for it. We’re going to move as quickly as we can on all fronts.’
She turned the stare onto Darcy. ‘We’re making this a cross-organizational project. While Lauge’s team here work to release the board backings, the gallery’s conservation preparators will be commissioned to design and build a double-sided exhibition mount. We must have a way to display both paintings at once.’
‘Yes.’ Darcy waited with a gathering sense of anticipation to learn what her role would be in all of this. Clearly she hadn’t been called in simply to admire the discovery.
‘Which brings us to you, Darcy,’ Otto said, interjecting smoothly as if he could read her thoughts. ‘You won’t have met Ebbe Busk, our chief researcher – she’s on maternity leave until mid-March.’
‘I know the name.’
‘We’ve got someone covering for her on a part-time basis but they’re already fully occupied with prepping for the retrospective. We’ve put our heads together trying to think who would be next best qualified, as well as available at such short notice, and I thought of you.’
Darcy blinked. ‘Otto, I’m incredibly honoured, but I’m not employed by the Academy. From an insurance perspective—’
‘You won’t be in direct contact with the painting. And given that you are studying for a professorship and you have a special interest in the women artists of the period, you are best placed to take the reins on this.’
‘Is that woman an artist, then?’ Darcy asked, glancing at the portrait again.
‘Probably not, but the fact she was painted by the greatest artist of the day means she’s no unknown either. Patrons and artists move in interconnecting circles. I’m sure she’s only a step removed.’
Darcy swallowed, knowing exactly what was being asked of her here – and it was no small task. ‘But what about my thesis? My next deadline is—’
‘Negotiable. I’m your advisor. I’m happy to do the paperwork to push everything back a little, given these extraordinary circumstances.’
Margit cleared her throat. ‘Not to mention, this could help to boost your profile in the sector. Otto tells me you have already rediscovered a long-lost artist from the Skagen group?’
‘Yes, Katje Lange.’
‘Katje Lange, that’s right,’ Margit nodded. ‘Posterity recorded her as a farm labourer, I understand?’
Darcy nodded. Her entire master’s dissertation had hung upon proving that a small portfolio discovered in a farmhouse loft on the northern coast had been created by Katje’s hand and not her more famous husband’s, as had been the original presumption.
‘Her name would have slipped into obscurity but for your research putting her back on the map,’ Margit said pointedly.
‘And that’s what you want me to do here? Identify this woman, find her name?’
‘Find her name – and then dig out everything you can on her, Darcy. If we’re unveiling a hitherto unknown Johan Trier to the world, then we’ll need to work up a thorough biography. The coverage will be global.’
Darcy swallowed. On the one hand, this was a dream opportunity; on the other, with only a month till Christmas and five weeks till the retrospective, it was a giant headache.
‘At a first look, does the woman in the portrait look familiar to you?’ Otto asked her.
Darcy hesitated as she was put on the spot. She was surrounded by some of the most senior figures in the Danish fine art establishment and they wanted her expertise? There had certainly been no obvious, immediate recognition for her of the subject.
‘No...But I could certainly tell you who she isn’t,’ she said. Her thesis was focused on the lesser-known women artists contemporary to Trier, and off the bat, Darcy knew the woman in this painting wasn’t any of them. ‘She’s not Anna Felsing, Ingrid Hjort or Charlotta Juhl. Not Elsa Tobiassen, Dorrit Knudsen or Grete Caspersen. But it’s a very indistinct image at the moment. I would really need to get a higher-res version in order to study her properly...’
Otto nodded. ‘The imaging team is already on it.’
‘Okay.’ But Darcy was sceptical about the likelihood of it revealing much. How were they supposed to sharpen up clarity until the backings came off? Without a clear view of the painting, it was impossible to tell even this woman’s hair or eye colour. She was little more than a silhouette, a shadow from the past. How was Darcy supposed to find her when there had never been any record of this portrait even existing?
Margit must have read her hesitation because she cleared her throat, bringing attention back to her again. ‘Darcy, I appreciate that you are only a term into your residency at the Academy and your focus is on your PhD work. But I hope you understand the significance of this find – not only to the retrospective but to Danish culture in general.’
‘Of course. It’s an incredible opportunity. I feel honoured to be asked to be a part of it.’
‘Good.’
Darcy looked down again at the painting. The woman quivered like a mirage until Otto switched off the lamp and she was eclipsed once more, falling back into the depths.
The black curtains were drawn back, daylight falling in with alacrity.
‘Okay, well, now that we’re all up to speed, let’s get to work,’ Margit said, checking her watch. ‘I’ve got a press conference announcing the find in fifteen minutes, so brief your departments to direct all enquiries to the press team if you get any calls.’
Darcy watched everyone scatter, the timer already ticking.
‘Darcy, I’ve got some calls to make,’ Otto said. ‘But come to my office in an hour and we can talk through first steps?’
‘Sure.’
She watched him walk calmly across the workroom floor back to his office; the conservators pulling on their white gloves and lifting the Trier canvas with a care reserved for carrying injured fairies. Her own role was clear. She had one thing and one thing alone to do: identify a random woman who had lived a century earlier.
Give her a name. Give her a life.
Just find a ghost.