Lost Art of Atropos Radsla

“This next unit is the final unit of the day. Unit A09.4.01.003 in section TA98. You’ll have a thirty second preview of the contents and then the bidding will begin at three hundred and fifty dollars. If you cross the yellow line, you will be disqualified,” said Kooky Kevin of Kooky Kevin’s Storage Emporium. He twirled his el bandito mustache in one finger and started a timer as his mousy assistant slid open the unit.

“What do you think?” Edwin asked.

“It’s a lot of small boxes,” Bliss said.

“Wooden boxes though, not cardboard. We could probably break down and sell the wood to at least break even,” Edwin whispered.

“They could be empty though. I don’t think we should bid over five hundred,” Bliss said. Edwin could tell she was concerned by the way she crinkled one side of her nose up.

The auction attendees had slowly whittled down, many of them attending for specific units or maxing out their funds for the day. There were only three groups left looking at this unit; Edwin and Bliss, two big guys that worked in construction flipping houses together, and a small quiet man who wore beige clothes splattered in paint.

Kooky Kevin motioned that time was up. Before his assistant had fully closed the unit door the two construction guys looked at each other and walked back to the parking lot.

“Bidding starts at three fifty, do we have three fifty?”

Edwin raised his hand.

“Three fifty from the blonde gentleman in the pink cardigan.”

“Three seventy-five.”

“Three seventy-five from the man in the scally cap,” said Kooky Kevin.

“Four hundred,” said Edwin.

The bids went back and forth until the little man, giving Edwin and Bliss a little side-eye, said, “five hundred and fifty.”

“Don’t,” Bliss said with a squeeze of Edwin’s hand.

“Five hundred fifty going once.”

Edwin began to open his mouth and Bliss dug her nails into arm and gently shook her head. “Empty boxes,” her eyes said.

“Five hundred fifty going twice.”

“Six hundred,” said Edwin.

“Six hundred. Do I hear a six fifty? Six fifty?”

The little man smiled at the couple, but didn’t raise his hand or his voice.

“Six hundred going once. Going twice. Sold for six hundred.”

“You better hope those boxes have something in them,” Bliss said to Edwin and then went to pay Kooky Kevin. Edwin pulled their truck around to the unit.

The didn’t have a crowbar in the truck, so they loaded the boxes and drove them back to the suburbs. They unloaded the boxes in Edwin’s workshop in the backyard; a little detached studio made up to look like a red wooden barn. He found a crowbar and cracked open a box. A puff of dust filled the evening air as he tossed the lid aside.

Dried Spanish moss inflated as it pushed out of the box and Bliss shuffled it around.

“What do you feel?” Edwin asked.

“It’s… uh… paintings,” Bliss said as she gingerly pulled the first painting out of the box.

It was an oil painting of an elderly woman, more than elderly, ancient. She sat upright and nude, with her hands folded in her lap, in a highbacked wooden chair. The wood paneled room she sat in was nearly bare, save the sawdust piled on the floor.

“No, that’s a mounted photograph,” Edwin said.

“No, Edwin, feel it, this is oil paints,” Bliss held it out for him.

“It’s so realistic,” Edwin said.

“There are five total in this box,” Bliss said and began to pull out other works.

A beautiful red-headed woman in a bubble bath featured bubbles floating in the air showing different angles of her beauty reflected in each shimmering bubble. Edwin felt like he could almost reach into the photo himself and burst one of the oily bubbles with his finger.

The next had a happy little girl, hair pulled back tight, jumping high into the air. Her background was a blue cloud filled sky angled just right so that you couldn’t see the ground.

There was a man with a beard of bees, each individual bee was crisp and clear. There was an obese woman eating ice cream next to an ornate vanity mirror, her proportions perfectly matching her reflection.

They opened box after box and each portrait held an image of such crisp and clear photo reality that they increased in their ability to astound.

“Atropos Radsla,” Bliss mumbled to a portrait of a man on fire in a field of corn.

“What?”

“I’ve seen this signature on them all, rough cursive, but I can read this one really well. Atropos Radsla. Have you heard of this artist?”

“Oh, fuck, babe, why is that one so creepy?”

“We’re only halfway through the boxes. I am sure not all of them are going to be sunshine and rainbows.”

“I’ve never heard of him, but I think Umar can appraise paintings. I’ll shoot him a quick text with some photos.”

Edwin and Bliss unboxed a total of six hundred and sixty-one oil paintings and pencil sketches of various sizes. Each was an individual portrait and even the pencil sketches had near photorealistic properties. They also found a series of letters in a foreign language dating between the late 1700’s and early 1800’s.

When the light began to fade the couple retired to their kitchen for some dinner and rest. Bliss was pulling a plate of leftover spaghetti from the microwave when there was a knock on their door.

“Umar, we weren’t expecting you,” Edwin greeted his friend.

“I was in the neighborhood and had to see these paintings for myself. You are sure they aren’t photographs?”

“Come out back and we’ll show you.”

Edwin led their friend to the workshop and flipped on the switch for the string of hanging light bulb he had strewn across the walls. They buzzed, crackled, and flickered to life.

Umar examined the portrait left on the standing easel. It was of a man standing on a stormy beach, his lengthy blond hair blowing in a breeze, holding a lobster fresh from a lobster trap.

“Are any of them damaged? Can I take a sample of paint from the edge of one?”

“We didn’t see any damage on any of them. I trust you, man, sample away,” Edwin said.

Umar pulled a tool and a vial from his bag and scraped at the edge of the lobster man painting. He put the scrapings into the vial and shook the liquid inside around. It swirled like an itty bitty tornado before turning green to clear to a sparkling yellow.

“That can’t be right,” Umar mumbled.

“What is it?”

“I’m not quite sure. What dates were on those letters? Do you mind if I hang out for a bit and look through what you’ve got?”

“It's all in here. Have your way, just don’t keep us up too late. My leftovers are getting cold,” Edwin left Umar to his work.

A couple hours later Umar found his way back inside the house. He had a far off confused look but maintained a smile. He almost looked crazy and sounded just as much when he began to talk.

“Edwin, you have the finding of the century in your workshop. The oil paint alone is unlike anything that has ever been used in the history of art, I can’t identify exactly what makes it up, but it has elements that were primarily out of used by the 1800’s. Then you’ve got the subject matter, these look like they could be contemporary, but they could be as old as 300 to 500 years. The subject matter is timeless. The lines, the shapes, the composition. Then you add the intrigue of the images themselves, these portraits really make you think and, wow. Edwin, just wow. This is huge. These are priceless. Priceless! You won the lottery here my friend. Jackpot. I took the liberty of calling another appraiser, one that I trust, to come have a second look before we get these out to the professionals. He’s going to come by first thing in the morning.”

Edwin and Bliss could barely control their excitement; they weren’t going to sleep anytime soon. They went to the workshop and stared at their haul. They sorted through and pulled out their favorites and set them up like they were a gallery, covering the walls and floor. After a couple hours they started to feel some exhaustion set in. Edwin turned off the light switch with an electric pop and a sizzle and they went to bed.

They were awoken in the morning by sirens blaring directly outside their home. They jumped out of bed and pulled back the curtains.

Firemen were trudging into their backyard with a hose aimed at the workshop that was fully ablaze, flames rocketing as high as the nearby telephone wires.

Edwin ran out to the yard in his red polka-dot boxers, running his hands through his hair and holding back tears. Bliss wasn’t far behind him tugging her robe closed tight around her chest.

“You the homeowners?” asked a large gruff fireman.

“Yes,” squeaked Edwin.

“Building that size, you should really have a fire alarm. Could’ve gotten here much sooner. Wouldn’t have made much difference though, whatever you had in there was extremely flammable. Just lit right up like a giant box of greasy rags. Hope you have good insurance.”

Edwin couldn’t stand to watch the portraits burn. He left Bliss crying in the grass and moved to the front porch. He sat in a rocking chair and pulled a joint out from a box behind the planter. He lit himself a joint and took a large pull from it. He sat this way until the fire was out and the firemen had driven the engine away.

A nerdy businessman found his way up the porch and reached out a hand to Edwin.

“I’m Liev Anderson,” he held out his hand. Edwin just stared at him.

“Umar sent me,” Liev shook his hand at Edwin who’s vacant eyes just stared back at him.

“I’m here to appraise some artwork,” Liev said.

Edwin just sat and stared.

The appraiser walked away.

THE END

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AUTHORS NOTE:

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Without the efforts of Johanna van Gogh we may never have known her brother-in-law, Vincent. After his premature death she championed his artwork relentlessly until the public and the art world were brought to view his genius.

It made me curious how many artistic geniuses were forgotten because their artwork never had a champion or because they were destroyed or silenced and eaten up in the flow of time.

Support your friends creativity. Share their art.

Maybe I'll be lost in time one day myself, but damn if I didn't enjoy the ride. I'll keep writing for now.