We’re

all artists in some sense, whether we paint pictures or plant gardens, cook meals or sing in the shower: every one of us has a natural urge to transform and create. Few are great artists, however, and those who aren’t regard the talented with wonder. If you had the chance to see exactly how Vermeer painted his masterpieces, wouldn’t you jump at it? What if you could become Vermeer?

The protagonist of this story had that opportunity, and he paid a great deal for it. He learned surprising things about art … especially about its ambiguities.

Gordon Eklund is the author of many science fiction stories and novels, including If the Stars Are Gods, a collaboration with Gregory Benford based on their Nebula Award winning novelette from Universe 4.

VERMEER’S WINDOW

Gordon Eklund

The

painting emerges like a risen bird from the burnt substance of light alone. The artist draws no firm lines—either upon or beneath the painting. The colors—blue and gold predominate—flow automatically. As, over the course of many days, the face and shoulder of a wide-eyed young woman appear upon his easel, the artist reacts with excitement. This is the painting commonly identified as “Girl in a Turban,” and it is, he believes, the most profound achievement of Vermeer’s brief career—a painting as subtle, ambiguous, mysterious, and still as the play of sunlight through a half-open window. The swirl of a pearl earring is created in the sudden, swift motion of his brush. The artist is stricken with awe as the woman’s cape, a green, magical garment, appears beneath his hand. He tries to paint with his eyes shut tightly, unable to bear the magnificent sight so near, but, only human, he soon must peek.

Jan

Vermeer (1632-75) is the most enigmatic of great artists. Not only do his works defy precise interpretation, but little or nothing is known of his beliefs, influences, theories, or life. Born in Delph, Holland, Vermeer apparently achieved some degree of local fame, if not wealth, during his own lifetime, but it wasn’t until the early years of the twentieth century that his fewer than forty works were rediscovered and hailed as the creations of fluent genius that they most undoubtedly are. With few exceptions, Vermeer’s paintings depict a few figures—often only one—against the space of a single room. The faces of women predominate, and some critics have seen in these recurring individuals possibly autobiographical figures. Vermeer’s work is further marked by a fascination with the shadings of natural sunlight. Some observers have asserted that the quality of the light in Delph must have been different from that found elsewhere in the world. More likely, the difference is in the painter, not his light.

The

artist as a young boy is burdened by no ambition except to become a great painter. Born in New York City in 1988, he embarks upon his first pilgrimage to the Old World at the age of fourteen, only a few months subsequent to the untimely deaths of both parents. While in Europe, the artist does little but visit one museum after another, where he sits for hours and hours beneath the glorious creations of the old masters. It has been remarked that few individuals are capable of viewing a single painting for longer than it takes to peel and eat an orange. The artist, even as a youth, is one of these few individuals. At eighteen, his inherited fortune now secure, he revisits Europe to enroll as a student at the most famous of Paris’s great art schools. Within two weeks he has left. According to his instructors, the young artist stands totally devoid of profound talent. His hands shake at the easel; he fails to control his brush stroke. His sense of color and paint are acknowledged to be masterful, but he has failed to indicate any ability to transform the gorgeous visions of his mind into a completed canvas. He is called a great critic, a poor painter.

Alone and despondent in twenty-first century Europe, the young artist falls in with a decadent crowd.

Kapp, one of this group, tells the artist of a rare process which makes use of computer fine analyses and brain tapping facilities in order to transform selected people into individuals other than themselves. By means of this process, it is possible for anyone to become nearly anyone he wishes, as long as sufficient data exist concerning the projected new identity. Kapp wished to take advantage of the process himself but was coldly rejected for possible transformation by the corporation marketing the process because of a personal deficiency in funding. The young artist, who is incredibly rich, obtains the name of the corporation from Kapp and immediately books passage to the relevant Eastern European capital. There, a representative of the corporation explains the transformation process in somewhat more detail. “The philosophical foundation which makes our process work,” says the representative, “is the concept of character determinism. In other words, given the facts concerning any man—and I mean all the facts, about his life, his friends, his family, his world—then that man must nearly always be what he will be. The matter of implanting preselected data within the brain is a simple one indeed—we’ve been doing it for years, beginning with computers and working up to flesh-and-blood people. Our corporation, through this transformation process, has taken this old technique and applied it to its fullest extent. All we ask you to do is give us a name. Who do you want to be? It may be any man or woman you wish, real and imaginary, though the former is generally preferred, both by us and our usual clientele. Once we have the name, then we set to work.

The key factor here is our membership in the International Data Network, which as you probably know links up nearly all the world’s largest and most sophisticated computers, including several whose very existence is a closely guarded state secret. What the Data Network is then able to provide us—at an immense cost, I can assure you—is a socio-historical collage of the individual chosen. This collage is put together—no human being or finite group of human beings could ever hope to duplicate the process—from all the data available from any conceivable source concerning the individual and his world. Once this collage is implanted within the memory circuits of your brain, you will then be, I can assure you, that very individual. What is more, as a bonus, because no memory erasure is required, you will be simultaneously aware of your past identity and thus fully able to appreciate the nuances of being two people at once. The process, I admit this candidly, does fail perhaps once in fifty tries. Should that happen in your case, a full refund will gladly be rendered.” When the artist, after carefully considering all he has heard, tentatively suggests the name of Jan Vermeer, the representative is at first anxious. He agrees to consult with the corporate engineers, who are equally doubtful but also willing to try. So little is known of the life of the so-called Enigma of Delph that the challenge facing the Data Network is undoubtedly immense. Still, the engineers insist that the possibilities of success remain distinctly high.

Vermeer was very much a product of a particular time and place—seventeenth-century Holland—a fact which may prove more consequential to his development as an artist than mere boyhood memories. The artist’s own expectations of success do not run high and yet, returning to Western Europe after the completion of the operation, he is willing to accept that he is now Vermeer. His brain insists upon telling him this is so, and he does not choose, for the moment, to doubt it.

He settles in Amsterdam, a city that lies spiritually distant from the sleepy, silent Delph of Vermeer’s one known cityscape but which is, the artist believes, as close as he might hope to come in twenty-first-century terms to that magical vista from the past. He retains, as guaranteed, all his old memories, but it is his identity as Vermeer which quickly comes to dominate his every conscious act. With his few remaining funds, he rents a small room in an old house and sets up his easel beside the single meshed window. He begins to paint, but the results are at first disastrous, as far from the art of Vermeer as the scribbled splashings of any talentless youth. Full of bitterness, he contemplates a demand for the immediate return of his own identity but then recalls that Vermeer’s earliest accepted work, the Venetian-influenced “Diana and the Nymphs” was not produced until after Vermeer had turned twenty-two. The artist realizes that he must therefore wait for his own dawning moment of inspiration, and so each day until the last smog-bitten rays of the yellow sun vanish from view, he sits motionlessly in front of his barren easel. He sleeps long hours but eats only infrequently.

At last, two months subsequent to his own twenty-second birthday, his fingers begin to move of their own accord. Soon enough, he is actually painting. At the bottom center of the canvas there appears quite magically a small white napkin which resembles in shape the image of a dove about to drink. The artist recognizes this as a crucial element in Vermeer’s “Diana.” He continues to paint, his fingers moving at a speed quite exclusive of his own free will.

After many weeks, the finished work stands before him. Overcome by excitement, he rides his motorbike to The Hague, where he is able to view the original work by the first Vermeer. As far as his sharp eye can deduce, nothing—not even a single casual brush stroke—diverges in the slightest detail from his own recently completed work. Back in Amsterdam, he changes lodgings. With money borrowed from a family lawyer, he purchases a small store, which he opens as an art gallery. The first work that he hangs for sale is his own “Diana and the Nymphs.” Soon, in his adjoining studio, his hands are at work creating “The Procuress.”

In

time the artist takes in marriage a wife, who will eventually bear him eleven children. The appearance neither of the wife nor the children surprises him, for he is aware that one of the few known biographical facts concerning Vermeer is that he was married and had nearly a dozen children. Like Catherina Vermeer, Bonnie, his new wife, is one year older than her husband. She explains how, at twelve, she left the home of her father, an accountant in America, and first came to Europe at the age of sixteen. She admits to two previous marriages and he often suspects that, prior to their marriage, Bonnie lived as a common street prostitute. Little in her manner or bearing has the least resemblance to the wealthy and respectable Catherina, but the artist bears in mind that it is he who is Vermeer and not Bonnie who is Catherina. She remains loyal to him and he feels an often fervent love and devotion toward her. His children, even though he remains uncertain of their actual names or identities, are equally dear to him. He can never be sure whether this love is being excited in his heart or in Vermeer’s. Frequently, on quiet evenings, he sits beside Bonnie, who is experiencing tri-dee television, and studies the contours of her ripe, plump, cowish face. Before his staring eyes, her visage will then transform itself into an image far deeper and more ethereal than her own slack, pink flesh. He is convinced that what he is witnessing at these moments is nothing less than the true face of Vermeer’s Catherina. Some of the features he glimpses seem similar to those he will eventually paint as “Girl with a Flute” and “Girl in a Red Hat,” but the vision is never sufficiently specific for him to claim to have solved this particular biographical mystery.

The artist’s studio consists of a single cramped cockroach-infested room adjacent to his gallery. In truth, the original purpose of the room was to serve as an automotive garage. There is only one window, which faces north and is heavily meshed against possible late night burglars, and little room for furnishings of any kind. In spite of this, he has no trouble at all from the time of “Young Woman Asleep” onward in painting the sun-bathed room, with its two-paneled window, that serves as a common setting for so much of Vermeer’s mature art. It is neither his mind nor his eye which does the actual painting for him; it is his fingers alone that do the work. The muscles twitch ecstatically as the vision of the artist courses wildly through them. He could no more refuse to paint what they demand than he could willingly cease to make his heart pump blood.

His

art dealership does not prosper. Because of his refusal to deal in works dated later than the seventeenth century, only art of modest quality comes into his hands. He stocks his own works too, of course, but the prices he chooses to ask for them are not severe. (Neither were those asked by the first Vermeer.) His patrons are often amused at discovering a work such as “Soldier and Smiling Girl” decorating a tiny corner of the gallery. A few, those most knowledgeable about painting, are more amazed than amused. They will stand staring for minutes at a time before finally turning away with a startled laugh. “Why, that replica is so good it might be the original.” He replies honestly, “It is not the original.” (It is, of course, an original.) In his spare time, while Bonnie or one of the children mind the gallery, he walks the streets of Amsterdam. The stark contrast between this exterior world of the twenty-first century and that interior seventeenth-century world which, as Vermeer, he paints constantly astonishes him. His favorite days are those in which the actual orb of the sun can be glimpsed past the dank yellow cloud which hovers continually above. Crime is, of course, rampant in Amsterdam as elsewhere and the artist is frequently robbed, mugged, and assaulted. On one occasion, he is stripped of his clothes by young thugs and forced to return home naked. Because of a severe pollution alert, only a few small children wander outside to observe his passage. These soon turn their heads aside in apparent shame and disgust. His dignity as an adult has been shattered in their eyes. Only the knowledge of his true identity—he is Vermeer, one of the half-dozen greatest painters in the history of the world—sustains him. Despite such agonies, the only parts of the city he takes special care to avoid are those housing the city’s few remaining museums, even though four of Vermeer’s most masterful paintings are hung there, including one, “Woman Pouring Milk,” that he has only recently completed. At home in his studio, he keeps detailed notes on all his work. The exact chronology of Vermeer’s career has long been a subject of critical dispute and he hopes to solve this mystery along with many others.

At

times a painting will come to him that is a total surprise. These are, of course, the lost works of Vermeer and will in the end total thirteen. Most are similar in subject matter to other known works. He paints: “Woman Seated in Thought,” “Two Soldiers and a Girl,” “Woman with Pearls,” and an unexpectedly religious work, “Christ and Two Apostles.” The titles are necessarily of his own devising and sheer guesswork, for his fingers refuse to divulge their secret intentions, even while creating these previously unknown works. He hesitates to place any of the paintings in the gallery but finally relents from curiosity and hangs “Christ and Two Apostles.” The sum he is spontaneously offered for the work far exceeds the most he has ever received for a single painting. This gesture pleases him deeply, yet he refuses and thereafter keeps the unknown paintings safely hidden in a dusty corner of his studio.

He

is plagued at times by a certain confusion between his earlier self as a painter and his present identity as Vermeer. When he comes to paint “Street in Delph,” he removes his easel from the studio for the first time and positions it and himself on a nearby avenue. His view here consists of ruined houses, broken windows, two seedy cheese shops, and three aging women who are most likely prostitutes. His fingers rush to interpret this vision as two adjoining brick houses and three faceless working women. The sky, presently saturated in a thick yellow-brown mist, becomes a lovely, cloud-flecked blue. Since he is Vermeer, he must paint what Vermeer has painted. Still, once the work at hand is complete and ready for sale, he returns to the spot and bravely, as an experiment, attempts to paint what he actually sees, wondering how Vermeer would interpret contemporary reality. In spite of his stern efforts, his fingers soon go stiff and refuse to move until he finally relents, stands, and returns to the studio. He makes a second attempt on a second day but once more fails. Some days after this incident, Bonnie, in bed beside him, says, “If you’re such a great artist, how come you’ve never tried to do a picture of me?” Something makes him agree at once to her suggestion. (Perhaps Vermeer in his time had agreed to a similar request.) The following day, she sits for him, but the portrait soon turns stilted, ugly and poorly colored; it lacks both unity and purpose. In despair because his fingers have produced such masterpieces, he takes a butcher knife and destroys the unfinished work. Bonnie, in a rage, refuses to speak to him for nine days. He wonders if a parallel might exist with some similar marital rift in Vermeer’s own life. If so, this would tend to indicate that his wife’s face did not appear among his works. But it is impossible to say for sure.

Soon

after he has completed and hung “Two Gentlemen and a Lady with a Glass of Wine,” a famous art critic from New York enters his shop. The critic’s practiced eye immediately falls upon the recent work and he hastens to a corner to study it.

After several minutes silent observation, he beckons the artist to join him. “This,” the critic says breathlessly, “is simply amazing. Except for the faces, I’d swear it was the genuine Vermeer.” (The artist neglects to point out that the faces visible in the so-called original painting were retouched at a later date by an artist far inferior to Vermeer. What appears on this canvas are Vermeer’s original creations.) “Who painted it?” the critic demands. “It was I,” the artist admits. The critic stares. “Thank God you’re an honest man. I swear you could be greater than Van Meegeren if you wished.”

Van

Meegeren. Even the hint of such an accusation is enough to startle and then depress the artist. Hans van Meegeren was the great art forger of the middle twentieth century who fooled the art world for years with a succession of fake “Vermeers.” The artist believes his own identity to lie far from that of a petty forger: he is as much Vermeer himself as the seventeenth-century Dutchman who first bore that name. Still, he cannot wholly rid his mind of the critic’s foul innuendo.

At last he boards a jettrain to Rotterdam, where “Meeting at Emmaeus,” Van Meegeren’s most successful fake “Vermeer,” hangs in a secluded museum corner.

For some hours, to the bemusement even of a guard, he studies the work. By the time he turns homeward, his heart and soul are much relieved. Van Meegeren, he now understands, was a forger strictly produced by his own limited time; his work, though curious, is utterly without value today. Van Meegeren’s brief success lay in his ability to paint works patterned in the mold of how Vermeer was perceived in the 1930s. But Vermeer has since changed, as all great artists must, and Van Meegeren has not. Studying his own works at home in the studio, the artist remains convinced that he is Vermeer, not Van Meegeren. He does not paint in the manner of Vermeer; he paints as Vermeer.

His

primary responsibility in the creation of the paintings lies in acquiring the proper tools: paints, canvas, brushes. Once such mechanical ends have been met, the paintings will then flow automatically from his finger tips. He may err in the application of a particular brush stroke but, when he does, his fingers immediately rise to correct the mistake. There is no need for thought, consideration, or decision. He recalls the considerable critical speculation over the possible use by Vermeer of a spectroscope. His own work can neither deny nor affirm this possibility. He makes no use of such an instrument and yet the odd perspective that led many critics to this theory remains an integral part of the finished paintings. He is Vermeer, but who was Vermeer? As the years pass, this unanswered question disturbs him more and more. He realizes how little he has learned of the man he has become. If he were to write a book on the subject, what could he say that would be new? He could describe in detail the manner by which Vermeer produced a canvas such as “Woman Weighing Pearls” (a work he has only recently completed), but that would be all. He knows the how but not the why. Theories, principles, motivations, and beliefs continue to elude him. His fingers know but will not speak.

The

artist commences a passionate affair with a young bohemian girl who lives next door. She is tall, with a long rectangular face, full lips, and small brown eyes. She claims to work as a civil servant but the clutter of articles in her rooms suggests a life of crime. He finds in her figure and character the subject for his painting of “Woman with a Flute.” Bonnie, when informed of the affair by a neighborhood warden, refuses to take legal remedies. The artist, deeply wounded by this inaction, confronts his wife alone in the room they share. Stricken by guilt as well as fury, he unburdens himself as never before.

He confesses the fact of his dual identity and demands to know which it is that Bonnie truly loves. She is amazed and shakes her head. “Why, I love you, of course. Who else?” “But that is what I am asking,” says the artist. “Which of me is it that you love? Is it me as I was born, or is it me as I have become—Vermeer?” Bonnie remains puzzled. “Why, both of you, I guess. It’s the only way I’ve ever known you.” He refuses to be so easily pacified and perseveres. “But you can’t love two people at once. It’s got to be one or the other.” Bonnie laughs. “Are you sure?” She nods toward the adjoining house. “Did she make a choice?” Contrite, the artist breaks off his affair with the young girl. He puzzles over the possibility of a similar act of passion in the life of the earlier Vermeer. Within a few weeks, the young girl is conscripted into the army fighting in Yugoslavia. When the conflict is at last resolved, the girl fails to return. He notices her name among a list of casualties but remains unmoved. She was more Vermeer’s lover than his own, and Vermeer refuses to mourn.

A

leading American astronomer announces the approach toward the earth of a large comet, and this is immediately interpreted by many as an indication of impending doom. As the comet draws closer, the end of the world is generally proclaimed, and a series of disturbances ensues. When the comet first appears in the sky, the turmoil becomes much worse. The artist decides to postpone his walks through the city for the duration of the trouble. One evening, all of the houses on the nearest two city blocks are burned to the ground. His gallery is spared and, in the privacy of his studio, his fingers work to complete two of Vermeer’s most distinctive works, “The Geographer” and, ironically, “The Astronomer.” The artist, who seldom attempts to interpret his own work, is unable not to see in these questing, probing figures all that was once most promising in human science. It was the questions that these men dared to ask which for a time forestalled the horror of existence, but once the questions were answered and the answers found to be lacking, the dark undercurrent of humanity’s ocean again rose to the surface. Through the window, the artist observes a black cloud hanging like a wreath above the ruined city. Even the shining comet fails to penetrate this bleak veil, and its disappearance serves to calm the general turmoil. Within a few weeks, an army has appeared to restore order and begin the process of reconstruction. The artist resumes his walks but continues to paint in a furious manner. Inside of a week, he produces “Lady Standing at the Virginals.” The sight of it moves him to tears. He attempts to explain the experience to Bonnie but fails. It is not the sight of the painting, he decides, but the sound. In Vermeer’s work, harmony can be heard to speak.

On

a late summer’s Sunday afternoon, while Bonnie is at church and the children at play, a small, withered, bald-headed man with broad eyes and large ears enters the shop. Going at once to the wall upon which such recent creations as “Lady Playing a Guitar” and “The Astronomer” are hanging, the small man laughs sharply. The gallery is empty, as it most usually is on a Sunday, and the two of them are quite alone. Turning away from the wall, the small man approaches the counter by a circuitous route that allows him to peep into every shadowed corner as a precaution against hidden intruders. “Vermeer,” he says, extending a hand toward the artist, “I am Picasso.” The artist is startled by this unanticipated revelation but subsequent conversation (conducted by both in harsh, furtive whispers) reveals that this small man has become the great twentieth-century Spanish artist by means similar to those used by the artist in becoming Vermeer. “Well,” says the man who is now Picasso, “so what have you found out about the mysterious Vermeer?” The artist is forced to hang his head at this question and reveal his limited success. “I know that he was a very great painter and I know exactly how he applied his paint during the course of each work.” “Yes, yes,” Picasso says impatiently, “that is all well and good, but what of the man’s motivation? What is the character that led him to produce such great works?” “I …” The artist feels shamed. “I do not know. The paintings flow automatically from my finger tips—my brain learns nothing.” The small man expresses his shock and surprise. “Why, that is how it always must be. It is necessary for one to deduce the truth from, so to speak, the facts at hand. With Picasso, I must admit the task was not difficult.” “Oh?” says the artist. “And what then was Picasso’s character?” The small man grins (his teeth are unclean): “A charlatan. An absolute charlatan.” Irritated by this facile slander, the artist demands a quick explanation. The small man says, “Pablo was no genius—I found that out right away. Do you know why he painted the way he did? Of course you don’t, but I’m him, and I know. He painted exactly what the audience of his time demanded, but— and this is the crucial point—what the audience demanded were works of genius. So Pablo, to fill that need, became a genius, but is he the one who deserves the credit? I say no, never. The inspiration lay with the audience, not with the painter. Picasso was a whore with a few tubes of paint—his audience was a creature of true genius.” Later the man who claims to be Picasso purchases two inexpensive seventeenth-century landscapes and departs. The artist is greatly disturbed by this visit and goes over and over what he has learned from the small man in hopes of uncovering a fallacy in his thinking. When Bonnie returns, she carries beneath an arm the two landscapes. She glares at the artist and says, “Damn it, what are you up to now? I found these things outside in the trash. We haven’t enough money to go throwing such things away.” On an impulse, the artist shakes his head sadly. “They are rank forgeries, I am afraid. While you were gone, a man came to me with absolute proof.”

He

believes he should be seeing the world with the eyes of Vermeer, and yet he finds almost no beauty at all outside his own cloistered studio. The contrast is too immense. The jettrains roar past his home, shaking the studio like a leaf caught in a wind; yet he can observe the stillness and silence of “Maid Holding Out a Letter to her Mistress.” He discovers a child of nine starving in a secluded street and her eyes speak to him of lifetimes endured in the passing of a day; but he also knows the passive otherworldliness of “Girl in a Turban.” The streets he walks are a mad cacophony of destruction and construction, falling concrete and rising steel; he views the mysterious orderliness of “View of Delph.” The spirit of the artist is like a maddened pendulum, thrust wildly from one extreme to another. A great despair overwhelms him and in his studio one afternoon after completing Vermeer’s masterwork, “An Artist in His Studio,” he contemplates suicide and raises a knife to his chest, but before he can successfully plunge the sharp blade into his heart, too many questions rise to assail him. Did the first Vermeer suffer from despair? Did he once—perhaps at this very time in his life—attempt suicide? No, no, the artist realizes. He can become only what has already been lived. Vermeer did not kill himself and neither can he. Dropping the dagger, the artist rushes outside. He runs madly down the garbage-strewn streets of his neighborhood. The contrast remains: beauty and ugliness; order and chaos; pain and love. To survive, he must make his spirit blind to all that his fingers do not paint.

A

wizened priest from a nearby cathedral visits the gallery one day and tells the artist, “My wife has told me of the excellence of your work. I would like to offer you a commission, if I may.” Because of the nearby hovering presence of Bonnie, the artist agrees to accept the commission. Their poverty has increased with the passing years. The priest desires an allegorical painting on a New Testament theme. That same night, at Bonnie’s urging, the artist sets to work in his studio. By the third day, he is aware that what his fingers are creating is the “Allegory of Faith,” a work commonly accepted as Vermeer’s very last. Surprised at the suddenness of this event, he takes time to calculate and determines that his present age is thirty-eight. Because Vermeer did not die until he was forty-three, that leaves him five full years in which to live without art.

Almost deliberately, it takes him six months to complete the finished “Allegory.” The wizened priest, angered at the delay, refuses to pay the artist more than half the agreed commission. The artist closes up his studio and never paints again.

*

During

the final five years of his life, the artist finds that his love for his wife has grown stronger. He takes a new and powerful interest in his surviving children and even memorizes, for the first time, their complete names. Often now the entire family takes long walks through the closely guarded paths of the open city parks. At these times, alone with his wife while the children play, the artist reveals many of the concerns that have lately come to dominate his mind. He has spent many hours in the careful study of Vermeer’s work; he has discovered little of value but now believes that this failure may be of significance in itself. He explains to Bonnie: “The greatness of an artist lies not in his mind, which may be a very ordinary one indeed, but rather in his finger tips or, to be less concrete, in his soul. Most people, if asked, will say that a great artist must also be a great man, but such is rarely, if ever, the case. When great artists fail to express great thoughts, we either blame ourselves or the limitations of the language, but a great artist must invariably express great thoughts—as they should, through their work. Take, for example, the seventeenth-century Dutch painter, Jan Vermeer. His paintings express the thought that our perception of reality really consists of nothing beyond the observable effects of sunlight. Is this a great thought, a truly profound one? I do not think so—not as I have expressed it—not in words. But the paintings Vermeer created in order to express this thought—now they are great works indeed.” Bonnie seems puzzled by this outburst. Shaking her head tentatively, she says, “But I thought you were Vermeer. You told me that once.” The artist says, “No, I was mistaken.” “But you had an operation.” “True, but it was a failure.” “Then,” says Bonnie, “you are not a great artist yourself.” He pauses upon the path and speaks slowly: “No, I think I am. I am a great artist, yes, but I am not Vermeer. There can be only one Vermeer and he has been dead more than three hundred years. I am someone else—me. I speak to my own age, having seen and endured these times.” “But aren’t your paintings all the same?” asked Bonnie. “The same as this other man’s—Vermeer’s?” “They are the same,” says the artist, “but I am different.” In this, the artist is convinced that he has at last discovered Vermeer.

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