Leifcrown fascinated not only art critics, but the world at large. Art-school teachers talked about his sculptures in class. His generous contributions to charities touched the imaginations of people who never went to art exhibits. His “Broken Hands” bronze, which he donated for the entrance to the Red Cross building in Geneva, found its way into all the newspapers when it was unveiled.
More than a sculptor, Leifcrown was fast becoming a pop hero: an event, a cult personality, even though he shunned publicity and hardly ever went to social events. That made him all the more interesting.
Then it happened. I was with him.
It was back in Henry Moreland’s gallery, where a grand exhibit celebrating Leifcrown’s fiftieth birthday was being prepared. Leifcrown was always there when his sculptures were moved around. He was overprotective of them. He orchestrated the movements of the strong men who loaded and unloaded, crated and uncrated his art.
Somehow, someone forgot that one of the exhibition rooms was split-leveled. While Leifcrown was talking with Moreland, a mover carted one of the sculptures right through. It bounced on the two steps, fell off the gurney, and crashed to the floor with a sound that rolled through the whole building. And later through the whole country.
We ran to the room. Nothing serious seemed to have happened. Bronze is tough. It was one of those abstract figures that always seemed to be something and was nothing, and there was just a tiny hairline crack running along one side of it, but Leifcrown blew like a landmine. He threw himself against one of the burly men carrying the sculptures until the man gingerly pushed him away and Moreland intervened. I tried to talk with Leifcrown, but he left hurriedly.
He never came back. That night he died, and he was found the next morning by the cleaning woman who took care of his apartment. There was no suicide note, but the circumstances were evident, and many concluded that his inordinate love for his sculptures had detonated all the little problems that had been slowly building inside him. Seeing one of them broken had made him go over the edge.
That was when we all wrote the eulogies that sang his praises to the world. Long-winded pieces, careful analyses, academic considerations, and loving articles. As he lay in state, as he was buried, as the decision was made to open the exhibit as a posthumous homage to Leifcrown, newspapers and magazines ran thousands, maybe millions of words about the late sculptor.
The exhibit opened in a gloomy atmosphere. When I arrived, the whispering that had taken the place of the loud conversation usually found at openings subsided even more. Many of those present knew that Leifcrown and I were close.
I remember going over to the small room where the damning broken sculpture remained, guiltily showing the world the tiny crack through which Leifcrown had fallen along with his talent. I questioned Henry Moreland’s judgment, but the family of our late genius had agreed to let the sculpture be shown. After all, the circumstances surrounding his death were widely known, in part because of me.
The bronze piece stood there as if it had no regrets.
Then I smelled the peppermint odor. It was unlike anything I knew, a piquant faint suggestion of camphor. A man next to me looked worried. He recognized me.
“Phenol,” he said with a hint of accusation in his voice.
So it finally happened: the discovery of the body of a teenaged girl inside the piece, and the sculpture bashing that ensued. Literally. All of Leifcrown’s works were ripped apart.
There were maybe twelve bodies in all, some limbs or organs appearing in this or that sculpture. Certainly not every bronze by Leifcrown was an urn, they were the least, but his work was tainted. His monumental works, notably “Broken Hands,” were tom down hastily and melted away.
The police were able to piece together the image of a “classic” serial murderer, whatever that is. They found incriminating bits and pieces in his studio which had been overlooked while they were only investigating the suicide of an artist, thinking that suicide is the proper exit for eccentrics like Leifcrown. They solved a good number of mysterious disappearances, missing persons reports that were answered by the contents of so many heretofore beautiful pieces, although they are still trying to figure out his M.O.
I really don’t care about that. What he did, he did. We purport to believe that a man’s work must be separated from his personal life, but that is hard to do in Leifcrown’s case. No one has even tried to defend the artistic value of his sculptures since.
But I do care what we are to do, we, those of us who praised Leifcrown, who helped him rise to fame and fortune. What are we to think about any work of art from this day on? Can we ever forgive ourselves?
But perhaps there is nothing to forgive. We can only regret our words. Regret his work. Regret the world that bore Conrad Leifcrown. And wonder...
All in the Eyes
by Barbara Owens
© 1993 by Barbara Owens
San Jose, California resident Barbara Owens is becoming one of our most regular and dependable contributors. This time she weaves a sinister tale of what the media nowadays calls “elderly abuse...”
Mrs. Hucklebee collects things. Not fine crystal, burnished copper, or brass; not antique dolls, elaborate thimbles, or quaint salt and pepper shakers. All are easily obtainable within her city, but such items do not strike a responsive chord in this lady’s individualistic heart.
No, Mrs. Hucklebee is drawn to the ordinary. Everyday things that flick by at vision’s edge, easily overlooked — like wedding announcements in the newspaper. A regular weekend highlight is the clipping of these announcements, careful scrutiny of each smiling face, and then the verdict: an inked X in the picture’s upper right-hand comer — red if the couple will live together long and faithfully, black if their future is doomed by death, divorce, or who can tell. Then placement into a scrapbook, its predecessors lining shelves along one living room wall, and Mrs. Hucklebee sits back, satisfied.
“It’s in the eyes,” she always announces aloud. “All in the eyes.”
The opposite wall shelves contain her dried-leaf scrapbooks, each specimen carefully preserved under plastic wrap, and recently she’s embarked upon a new and exciting accumulation. Already jelly, pickle, and mayonnaise jars soldier the window sills, holding clear-colored glass marbles like those used in flower arrangements. Mrs. Hucklebee loves to sit watching little rainbows slide slowly across the room.
However, it’s a leaf that absorbs her on this sharp bright October day. She has discovered it while walking home from the pharmacy, and when she spies a neighbor in the park Mrs. Hucklebee can’t resist sharing her good fortune. Joining the younger woman on the bench, she unwraps the leaf from its pocket tissue, gently stroking its golden face.
“Look at that. See how coppery the veins are?”
“A beauty,” Mrs. Gambrelli responds warmly. “What a fine one for your collection.”
While Mrs. Hucklebee folds the leaf back into its protective tissue, Mrs. Gambrelli says, “One of the last of the season, I’m afraid. Winter’s knocking. Sometimes I worry about you, Mrs. Hucklebee, alone in that big house. You call if you ever need anything, you understand?”
Mrs. Hucklebee smiles tolerantly. Mrs. Gambrelli is new to the neighborhood.
“Don’t you worry about me, dear. Mr. Hucklebee’s been gone so long I’m used to being on my own.”
Suddenly a wail sounds. Little Joey has swooped down the playground slide and landed hard. Before Mrs. Gambrelli can move a figure appears, scoops up the boy, and trots toward the bench, whispering close against his ear. When Joey is deposited into his mother’s lap he’s sunny again.