Trompe L'Oeil
by K.C. Shaw

Rosemary plunked her brush into the pot of turpentine. “I give up. This looks awful.”

The studio cat, asleep on her cushion in the windowsill, stood and stretched. Rosemary stretched too, grimacing at the stiffness in her back and neck. She’d been working longer than she thought. “What time is it?”

She heard the faint whir as Angelo woke from powersave mode. “Ten minutes until five.”

“I’m about to lose my light anyway, then.” Rosemary frowned at the canvas. It had an amateurish, piecemeal look. She’d fussed over it too long.

She took it off the easel and leaned it against the wall. Maybe it would turn out to be salvageable when she evaluated it in the morning.

“Another canvas?” Angelo said.

“No. I’m through for the day. Well, set me up a canvas for tomorrow.”

Angelo picked up one of the canvases waiting in the corner and brought it over. He walked surprisingly quietly for a robot his size—padded feet and patent spring legs—but Rosemary worried at the faint creaking she heard at each step. His maintenance wasn’t due until February.

Then again, he was almost eight years old. It was time to think about replacing him—but not yet. She ran through the list of her usual excuses: a new robot was too expensive, she didn’t need all the bells and whistles the new ones offered now, Angelo already knew everything she expected of him. That was almost as important as the money. She never had to tell Angelo to feed the cat, for instance, and he knew how to stretch canvases.

She turned her attention to the still life she’d set up on the table. It was a basket of green and red apples sitting on a dark green cloth. It shouldn’t be any trouble to paint, yet she’d spent hours trying to capture the way the apples glowed in the afternoon sunlight.

She had a moment when she wanted to start over, to dash paint on the new canvas as fast as possible—sometimes that worked when a more methodical approach didn’t. But she was getting hungry, and in another hour the light would have shifted so much the shadows would be distracting.

Ten years ago, she knew she’d have worked until she got the painting right, no matter how long it took. She wasn’t sure if she’d become wiser in the last decade, or just lazy.

“Are you done for the day?” Angelo asked.

“Yes,” Rosemary said reluctantly. “Clean up and get everything ready for tomorrow.” She looked again at the still life, then at the canvas propped against the wall, and sighed. “And throw that old canvas away. Put your foot through it or something first.” She shouldered her bag. “I wish you’d paint the damn still life for me. See you tomorrow.”

The autumn light gilded rooftops and windows. Rosemary’s shadow stretched away from her feet. She wanted to paint what she saw, how she felt, and she realized how dull her basket of apples was. She’d throw the still life away in the morning. Maybe she’d take her kit and paint outside; she hadn’t done that in months—maybe she’d visit the same sites she’d painted that spring, display them together.

Full of plans and anticipation, she went home.

#

It rained the next morning. Rosemary arrived at the studio later than usual, feeling grumpy at her ruined plans, and found Bev waiting for her.

Bev was sitting on a stool, her hands on her paint-splotched overall knees, staring at a canvas propped against the wall. The room smelled faintly of souring apples above the stronger smell of turpentine.

 

 

“My still life’s going rotten,” Rosemary said. “In more ways than one. I told Angelo to put his foot through that canvas last night.” She looked around for Angelo, worried suddenly. He never forgot a command. It really was time to replace him.

“I disposed of the canvas as you requested,” Angelo said.

“Then what are you looking at, Bev?”

“Your still life. It’s amazing.”

Rosemary dropped her bag on the floor and joined Bev. The canvas propped against the wall wasn’t the one Rosemary had painted, but it was her still life. The red and green apples glowed warmly in their basket, late afternoon sun and shadow depicted perfectly—and yet, as Rosemary looked, it seemed to her that the shadows lengthened as the sun set, the painter’s skill tricking the eye. Where had the painting come from?

Bev said, “How’d you do it? I keep looking and I can’t decide. It’s almost as if you painted the canvas from right to left. Did you?”

“Er—well, I guess you could say that,” Rosemary managed. She remembered suddenly what she’d said to Angelo as she’d left last night—I wish you’d paint the damn still life for me. And he had. He never disobeyed.

But robots couldn’t paint. And this was a master work.

“It’s the best thing you’ve ever done, Rose, and I’m not kidding. You need to do more like this.”

“I was just experimenting,” Rosemary said weakly. She shot a glance at Angelo but he was in powersave mode now, his blank face staring at nothing.

“Well, keep experimenting. This is fantastic.” Bev slid down from the stool. “You’ll enter it in Dante’s show, of course.”

“I don’t know—it’s not really me.”

“You’ll sell it, though, and probably win. Besides, if it’s a new direction for you, the show will be good exposure.”

“It’s not a new direction,” Rosemary said, feeling uncomfortable. She should tell Bev it was Angelo’s work, not hers—but what if it wasn’t? She should tell Bev she didn’t know who had painted it. She should tell Bev she wasn’t that good.

She wanted to be that good. She wished she’d painted it.

“I’ll enter it,” she said, “but not under the studio’s name. It was just an experiment, really. I don’t like trompe l’oeil—what’s the point? I have a camera.”

Bev pointed at the table, where the still life—now enlivened by spiraling fruit flies—seemed flat next to the painting. “You’d have to be a damn fine photographer to make that look like this.”

“It’s the light. The light was perfect.” Rosemary crossed to the table hastily and picked up the basket. “I’m going to throw these out. How’s Sammy?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Bev said, and trailed after Rosemary as she carried the basket into the studio’s tiny kitchen. “Let’s go pick up entry forms now. It’s too rainy to do anything else.”

“Not yet. I thought I’d do some cleaning this morning.”

“Get Angelo to do it.”

“I’m worried about him. He’s squeaking.”

Bev snorted. “Look, I’ve told you a thousand times—it’s time to upgrade him to something made this decade. Come over and I’ll show you what my Baritone XT can do.”

“I’m going to stick with Angelo a little longer.”

“Suit yourself.” Bev watched her gather cleaning stuff from under the sink. “I’ll get an entry form for you.”

When Bev was gone Rosemary did a little cleaning, pretending that’s what she’d had in mind all along. Her attention kept straying to the painting. It wasn’t just beautiful, it was riveting. She caught herself thinking up titles for it.

“Angelo?”

She heard the whir, like a wheezy old man. “Yes?”

“Did you paint that still life?”

“Yes. You asked me to.”

Rosemary stared at it a little longer, and felt jealousy and guilt warring inside her. “Why didn’t you tell Bev you were the one who’d painted it, then? You let me take the credit.”

There was a longer whir this time, as though Angelo was thinking. He did that sometimes, if she asked him a question with no real answer. “The brushes did not ask for credit.”

She turned away from the painting and stared at Angelo. He looked the same as usual. “That was philosophical—I think,” she said. She doubted Bev’s Baritone XT could have come up with something that profound. “It doesn’t bother you that I’m taking credit for your work?”

 

 

“No.”

She supposed that should have made her feel better, but instead her guilt only deepened. But when Bev returned with entry forms and brunch, Rosemary titled the painting “Autumn” and priced it at six hundred dollars.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bev snapped when she saw the price.

“You’re right. I just like it, I guess. I’ll drop it to four.” She started to mark out the number but Bev snatched the pen from her hand.

“Give it here.” Bev changed it to 26,000. “You’ll sell it. And if you don’t, I’ll buy it from you for six.”

Rosemary gaped at the price. She sold paintings for seven or eight thousand a few times a year—often enough to keep her from finding a job—but most of her sales were far more modest.

“And you haven’t signed it,” Bev added. “Better do that now.”

Rosemary picked up a brush and a tube of alizarin crimson, and dabbed her signature onto a corner of the painting. She was a little embarrassed at the pleasure she got from the act, as though by signing the painting she could really make it her work.

#

Dante’s show was in January. It snowed the week before, but the snow had melted and a weak winter sun shone in puddles. Rosemary had not spoken to Angelo about the painting again, but she hadn’t asked him to paint another—although she’d been tempted. She kept thinking she’d wait until after the show to decide. The painting might not sell after all.

She and Bev drove to Dante’s together, Rosemary with the familiar flutter of anticipation in her stomach. She loved and hated shows at the same time, and Dante’s was a big one.

“It’s because you’re so competitive,” Bev said, cruising up the street looking for a parking space. It was already crowded, though, and they had to park in a garage two streets over. “And, of course, you’ve got something new entered. You know, you could really hit the big time with that painting. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Don’t keep saying that,” Rosemary said. She almost confessed then, but her hefty entry fee was paid—if she admitted she hadn’t painted “Autumn,” it would be disqualified.

Dante’s was full of friends and acquaintances, and filling up fast with other people—art students, tourists, buyers from the big studios in New York City. Dante met them at the door, his long hair tamed into a smooth ponytail, his black suit expensive-looking.

“Rosemary, dear, you’ve made a tiny piece of history. Your apple painting sold before we’d even officially opened, with no haggling. You didn’t price it high enough, I’m afraid.”

“What?” Rosemary said. “It sold?”

“Yes. Sold,” Dante said, smiling, and Bev told him how much she had originally planned to price it.

Rosemary thought uncomfortably about the sale. The painting would stay in place with that discreet “sold” sign next to it for the entire two-week show, attracting attention. She’d get commissions she couldn’t honor without Angelo’s help. She did have two of her own paintings in the show, but next to “Autumn” they seemed—not amateurish, but not deathless.

The money would be good, even after Dante’s commission. She could get Angelo’s squeaking looked at.

#

Rosemary got to the studio as early as she could the next morning, still slightly hung over. Angelo had cleaned up after the late-night celebration party without needing to be told. He was standing in the corner in powersave mode as usual; a fresh canvas waited on the easel.

Rosemary prepared her palette, but she couldn’t concentrate. The apple painting’s buyer had called her that morning. He wanted more of her stuff.

She sighed. “Angelo,” she said, and heard the soft whir as he came to attention, “do you think you could do another painting like the apples? I’d like to see your technique,” she added, and was immediately embarrassed. Lying to a robot.

“Of course,” Angelo said, squeaking his way across the studio. “I have a memory file of the painting.”

“No—I don’t mean do the same painting,” Rosemary said quickly. “A new one.” She picked the easel up and carried it to the window, with its always-interesting view of rooftops. She’d painted it dozens of times but never tired of it. “Paint the cityscape.”

 

 

Angelo took the palette and selected a brush from the jar; he began painting immediately, without hesitation. Rosemary stared. Paintings were properly done in layers, back to front. Angelo began on the right side of the canvas and worked his way across. He painted briskly, every touch of the brush precise.

The result should have been a mess, should have looked dead and flat. But Angelo understood light. The early winter sunshine seemed to pour across the painted buildings, the sky looked brittle and cold. All of Angelo’s techniques were Rosemary’s—his selection of brushes, his color combinations, even the way he held his brush—and she supposed he’d learned them from watching her. But what he did with the techniques eclipsed Rosemary’s best.

Angelo painted without pause for a full hour. He never needed to touch up or change an earlier stroke, never even stepped back to see how the painting looked as a whole. When he was done, he was done. He put the palette down and began to clean the brushes.

Rosemary gazed at the painting. If she sold it—when she sold it—she would be flush for the next year. But she hadn’t painted it.

She realized her jaw was clenched. She made herself relax. “Did you enjoy painting it?” she asked Angelo.

He straightened up but didn’t answer right away. Finally he said, “I am pleased to do all the tasks you require of me.” It was one of his pre-programmed responses.

“Well, would you mind if I took credit for this one too?” Guilt and jealousy seethed together inside her, until she felt a little sick—unless that was still her hangover.

“I do not mind.”

“Maybe you could paint me a few more later this week.” She couldn’t look away from the painting. She had tried to capture the spirit of that view for years. Angelo had succeeded in one hour.

She lifted the canvas off the easel and set it aside to dry. She would sign it later.

#

Winter shaded into spring, and with the green-gold light and longer days Rosemary plunged into her work as she always did around April. She was surveying the row of drying canvases with pleasure when the studio door jingled and Bev came in.

“Hey, I just sold that awful abstract thing I did last year,” Bev said. “Let’s go celebrate.”

“Okay. Look what I’m working on.”

Bev surveyed the paintings. “The middle one’s the best, the one where you painted the bridge from below. I like the way you made it seem so menacing. Hurry up—let’s go.”

“Hang on—robot, I need the brushes cleaned, but leave the palette.” She turned to Bev. “Okay, I think that’s all, as long as we’re not gone all day.”

“No, just lunch, I thought. Where’s Angelo?” Bev asked, looking at the sleek robot approaching noiselessly.

“They stopped making parts for him. I finally upgraded.”

“Good for you. What are you calling this one?”

“Nothing, I guess. It’s silly to name a robot. They’re just machines.”

“Yeah.” Bev glanced at the canvas on the nearby easel. “I like those sketches of the cat.”

“They’re only sketches because every time I start painting she gets up and moves. It’s an exercise in working quickly.”

“They’re good,” Bev said, but she glanced around the studio as though looking for something. “I wish I had that apple painting you sold. Dante said you’ve stopped working with that right-to-left technique.”

“Yes,” Rosemary said. She thought of Angelo, and the relief she’d felt when the technician switched him off for the last time before he was sent for recycling. “I decided it wasn’t for me.”