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Art is not a mere representation of the natural or fictional placed in ink, paint, and stone; instead, it is a unique expression of one's perspective on life, death, and the universe.
Not one man shares the same perspective of such things as another. There are overlaps, to be sure, but never anything exact. Every man has his own dress, his own stride, his own voice. His fingerprint is his and his alone; it cannot be stolen and pawned off as another. This fact, of course, does not stop fools from trying: fools who see art for the wealth and fame it is never guaranteed to bring.
So, although he had no gift in the medium himself, Sherlock Holmes trained himself to know the fingerprint of every artist he could research, as was expected of his profession.
His research began with a thorough understanding of the tools of the trade: pencils, paper, ink, paintbrushes, paints, clay, stone, pottery wheels, and sculptor's tools.
Next, he researched the basics and techniques used by every sculptor, painter, and illustrator: anatomy, perspective, lighting, shading, color theory, outlines, form, strokes, texture, movement, and other terms he couldn't recall the names of but could recognize them when observed.
His pursuit led him to study every painting, sculpture, illustration, and piece of pottery he could find in every book and magazine he could obtain and at every art auction, art gallery, and art museum he could afford to visit.
By the end of all his studies, his head felt as if it was trying to swim through a whirlpool.
Yet, the wealth of knowledge he had acquired proved to be an invaluable asset to his brain attic, and it had significantly aided him in identifying fakes on more than one occasion.
For example, there was a potter whose pottery wheel had an ever so slightly uneven table leg, so his pottery was always ever so slightly tilted to the right. When a collector claimed to own some of the potter's work, Holmes knew the pottery was fraudulent the moment he saw how perfectly straight they were.
There was also a case of a painter who suspected his assistant was selling off his paintings as his own. Holmes did indeed catch the assistant selling the paintings, but that wasn't the real mystery; the real mystery was why an assistant of a gouache painter was selling off his master's oil paintings.
And then there was an adventure involving a haunted sculptor's studio, though that tale would be one of many that would follow Holmes to his grave.
That said, this knowledge was not restricted to his cases. More often than not, he found himself using it in more mundane situations. He would tell how well an illustrator was fairing based on how many prints he found of their works. He would know by a glance if a teacup was factory-produced or not. He would visit art galleries to see if he could adequately identify the artist and note if the description on the accompanying plaque was correct.
On one of these visits to a rather bustling art gallery, a painting caught the attention of Sherlock Holmes. The plaque said that the piece was untitled and the artist unknown. It was incorrect, for he knew the artist's name; although he would never admit it out loud, this particular artist was one of his favorites. So he allowed the gallery's quiet conversations and hushed footsteps to fade into white noise; the menagerie of art pieces became swallowed by the void of nonexistence. It was just him and the painting, and he soaked in its splendor.
An interruption entered this sacred moment, though not an unwelcome one. Based on the unevenness of the gait, the weight of the walking cane, and the scent of Ships, he knew this was the warming presence of Dr. John Watson. The poor doctor had seen and endured hardships that Holmes couldn't begin to fathom: hardships that crippled him, ailed him, and haunted him at odd hours of the night. Despite this, his spirit was exuberant in most things, even when his body failed him. Much as a lighthouse on a foggy night, Watson was a beacon when all seemed dark and unclear.
It was a presence Holmes desperately needed in his line of work, though he would never make that obvious.
Ever the mindful one, Watson remained silent so Holmes could continue his private admiration. The consideration made the corner of Holmes' mouth twitch upward, though he wished Watson would bombard him with questions. Watson's curiosity was a never-sated beast, which, while sometimes a detriment, greatly benefited Holmes' occupation. Not to mention, Holmes enjoyed explaining things to those willing to listen.
"What do you make of it, Holmes?" Watson's baritone voice broke the silence despite the low, almost whisper-like volume he donned.
Speak of the devil, and he shall come.
"I do believe it's an Allaway," Homes replied, his more strident voice not allowing him to be as quiet as his associate. He turned his head over his shoulder to see Watson proper. "How have you faired, old boy?" Although he leaned on his walking cane, Watson stood nearly upright, telling Holmes that the doctor's bad leg hadn't been a bother thus far. And yet, his shoulders were tensed up as if in discomfort. No, not discomfort; it was anxiousness, for his fingers were drumming the cane handle. Something must have happened between their splitting up and the current moment.
"Your game is not as simple as it first appeared," Watson admitted with a sigh, his cheeks flushing a light pink. "Apparently, I can't tell apart my Leightons from my Van Goghs." Only one Van Gogh was at the gallery, one of the artist's more famous works; a child could recognize it. No wonder Watson was anxious: he must have embarrassed himself in front of a crowd of observers.
Holmes' chest gave a quick spasm, and he let loose a quiet exclamation of pitiful amusement. "That is quite dreadful, my dear Watson! We'll have to remedy that when we return to Baker Street. I saved my notes regarding famous artists, although I'm afraid most of them are a decade - "
"Oh, now that's just not fair!" Watson's whine raised his voice just a hair, though it was loud enough for the newlywed couple nearby to shoot the pair a sour look. It was clear to Holmes, based on the direction of the eyes, that Watson's attention wasn't entirely on him. There wasn't enough data to draw any deductions; it was better to ask Watson what he was referring to than to assume.
"What's not fair, Watson?"
"That painting, Holmes!" Watson pointed at the artwork with his walking cane for emphasis. "The plaque says the artist is unknown! You could say Leonardo da Vinci painted it, and no one could prove you otherwise!" Ah, so Watson thought he was cheating. He could understand the reasoning but couldn't allow Watson to think of him as a hack.
"To the curators of this art gallery, the artist is unknown; however, when I say Cedric Allaway painted this piece, I mean every word." Watson's brows furrowed, his lips turned downward, and one of his index fingers tapped the cane handle with deep consideration. His eyes may have narrowed in doubt, but Holmes saw that familiar glint of excitement. He was feigning disbelief, the cheeky imp.
"Prove it," Watson finally spoke after a pause or so. He still wore his facade, though his lips began to betray him. The corner of Holmes' mouth twitched again in response. He stepped to the side and beckoned Watson to come close with the wag of his index finger. Mask now completely undone, Watson joined him with restrained glee. The two men stood mere inches from the painting, shoulder touching shoulder.
"Cedric Allaway," Holmes explained, "did not come from a family of artists on either side. He neither attended art school nor did he take any art class of the sort. The man was utterly self-taught; as such, his technique was abstruse and amateurish.
"You see, Watson, when a painter works on a piece, he starts with the background, moves to the midground, and lastly, the foreground. For example, when painting a landscape, most painters would first paint the entire canvas the color they wish the sky to be. He'll then paint the mountains or hills, distant buildings, trees, rivers, animals, people, and finally, the main attribute he wishes to highlight.
"Allaway, however, reversed the order. He began with his piece's main subject, then moved on to everything behind it. This meant he would sometimes accidentally paint over the subject if he wasn't careful enough, and other times, he was too cautious and would leave streaks of white canvas behind. Right here!" Holmes pointed with his index finger. "See the hand? The tip of the pinky finger is brushed over, while there's empty space between the index finger and thumb!"
"I do see! Oh, so that's why the hair appeared so strange! He painted over most of the ends!"
"Indeed, and a rather unfortunate error on his part as well. Allaway wasn't a man of much means, so he only owned one brush. This brush is smaller in variety and is typically used to paint finer details, such as hair, for example. He learned fairly quickly how to paint the tiny things that go unnoticed. See here, with the shirt's buttons and the sleeve's stitching." Indeed, this trademark of Allaway's was one that Holmes admired and respected.
"He must've had an incredibly sharp eye to notice details so minute..." Watson murmured this quiet statement less as an amazed observer and more as an observant medical doctor. It was a part of Watson's nature, and Holmes knew better than to allow it to eat away at his ego. And yet, he felt that pang of jealousy all the same.
"Of course," Holmes continued, "Allaway only had one tiny brush. A brush, mind you, that wasn't made with ample coverage in mind. Instead of utilizing long, broad strokes, he was restricted to short, tiny ones. So, he developed a crosshatching technique to compensate for this handicap.
"Unfortunately, paint isn't made with crosshatching in mind. If you continually paint in the same place, within the same moment, for too long, you remove paint instead of applying it. Notice how some strokes are fainter than others?"
"A result of the... 'crosshatching,' you called it?"
"Yes, Watson, crosshatching. Another thing of note is that while Allaway understood bright and dark, he didn't quite grasp lighting and shading. His paintings are normally either exclusively bright or exclusively dark; if a mixture of the two existed, there was a clear separation."
"Such as the wall?"
"Precisely! The exterior is bright, the interior is dark, and the wall separates the two."
"Any other facts I should know, Holmes?"
"Allaway tended to smoke a cheap tobacco with a very pungent stench."
Watson leaned closer to the painting, gave a good-sized whiff, and recoiled back in repulsion. With a wheeze, Watson responded a little too loudly, "Oh yes, that's an Allaway alright!" Holmes' chest spasmed and let loose what sounded like a brief fit of giggles.
The nearby newlyweds rudely hushed the pair.
"He's definitely a unique painter," Watson quietly remarked after a pause, "I'll give him that."
"Yea verily," Holmes agreed. Abstruse and amateurish Cedric Allaway may have been, but that was why he enjoyed the painter so. Everything he did was absolutely bewildering, and it never ceased to make Holmes' mind reel with questions. One must never allow the mind to dottle, after all.
"I wonder... why didn't the curators recognize him?"
"As I stated previously, Watson, the curators of this art gallery don't know him. As a matter of fact, no one in the world of visual art knows the name of Cedric Allaway. Allaway, you see, could barely afford the canvas and paint he worked with. When it came to matters of finances, he was outrageously unwise. The man had accumulated such a high debt, in fact, that he was forced to auction off all his possessions, right down to the clothes off his own back. His paintings, collectively, sold for only a shilling, and it all went to his debtors."
"Poor devil!"
"I was in a deep study of the visual arts at the time and happened to come across the auction by sheer happenstance. Otherwise, I too would have been oblivious to the name of the artist." As he gave this truth of fact, Holmes stole a glance at Watson. His companion bore a melancholic look, and his eyes were full of concern. Watson was, after all, a very empathetic individual, and the topic of debts and nonentity most likely drudged up some ill thoughts.
Yes, Watson was Holmes' beacon, but even his beacon wasn't immune to the storms that plagued them both. On occasion, Watson's romanticisms would turn against him and torment him with frights of fancy or trap him in death spirals of self-loathing. Watson only spoke of these things when he couldn't hide them as reliably as he wished, but the pair knew quite well that he couldn't hide anything at all. For Holmes could see the pain in his countenance and hear it through the walls in the dead of night. It haunted his ever-racing conscious.
And broke his sick heart.
So Holmes vowed to himself that he would serve as his friend's anchor whenever he found himself in these horrid rip currents of thought and help guide him back to safer waters.
"That said," Holmes amended, "I still would have recognized the artist by his technique." To this fact, surprise spread across Watson's melancholy, and hope overrode the concern in his eyes. "There's one attribute of Allaways that I've neglected to mention, but one that is essential for you to understand, my dear Watson: Allaways never appear in reasonable places.
"I mentioned a moment ago that Allaway was forced to auction his paintings. Well, they tend to switch hands more frequently than the average painting due to their - we'll be generous and say 'quaint' - nature. The end result is that, more often than not, they are acquired by peculiar individuals who feel the need to display their Allaways in their homes or places of business.
"The first time I saw an Allaway - outside the auction, mind you - was at a funeral for a client's relative - "
"Your client invited you to a funeral?"
"Yes - well, no - it's a long story, Watson, and I'll tell you about it another time. The point being hanging in the parlor of a wealthy factory owner, right over the casket, was an Allaway for all to see. It was a startling juxtaposition, Watson, and one that threw me for quite a loop."
"You laughed, didn't you?"
"The second time," Holmes continued, ignoring the inquiry entirely, though it seemed to get a smirk out of Watson, "I was investigating an opera house when I saw it in one of its entryways. The third time, it was in the hall of a manor up north. I even found one in an art museum in Paris. Paris, Watson!"
"Any idea how they ended up in such unreasonable places?"
"No, and that's what makes them unreasonable: there is no reason behind them!"
The newlyweds hushed them again.
"I suppose," Holmes resumed after a moment, "the only explanation I can conjure that is the slightest bit logical is that the owners of the Allaways genuinely wanted to show off their taste in art."
"What would the illogical explanation be?"
"That Cedric Allaway is a wizard, and his paintings have the power to teleport." Watson let loose an amused snort in an attempt to suppress a laugh. Now that his friend was in lighter spirits, Holmes felt comfortable enough to continue his "game," as Watson called it. "The gallery closes in a few hours, and there are works of art I still have yet to examine. I wish you better luck on your attempts, old boy." And with that, Holmes began to walk away.
"Might I ask you one last question, Holmes?" As if Holmes was one to suppress another's curiosity.
"Ask away, Watson!"
"Was Allaway a lover of gothic literature?"
Holmes froze midstep.
That was a question Holmes wasn't expecting. Then again, Watson typically did things Holmes couldn't reliably predict. "I'm... afraid I don't know the answer, Watson. Why do you ask?"
"Well, there's a raven over the archway, and I was just curious, is all."
... What raven?
What archway?
What was Watson talking about?
Holmes was self-aware enough to know that he was quite prideful in his gift of observation. Watson even called it "smug" at one point. He reluctantly had to admit that such episodes of pridefulness needed bouts of humility to balance it out. However, Holmes couldn't say he enjoyed it, as it always occurred whenever people were around to take advantage of it. The better ones would shoot him strange looks of doubt or gloom; the worse ones would rub it in his face and call him an imbecile. The latter was the more common occurrence of the two, but Holmes had developed thicker skin to combat it.
That said, there were days when his skin was thinner than usual.
Watson, to Holmes' surprise and thankfulness, would do none of the previously stated, and it seemed Holmes had let his puzzlement seep through the cracks of his stronghold, for Watson wore a look of gentleness he reserved for whenever Holmes observed but didn't see. He beckoned with his hand, and both men joined again in front of the painting, shoulder to shoulder.
"Near the top," Watson explained, pointing at the location with his little finger. "In the middle. There's a raven perched on the archway. Ravens are omens in tradition. Whether they are good or bad depends on how many appear. A single raven, as you can see, is an omen of sorrow.
"Edgar Allen Poe used a raven in his most famous poem. The narrator would ask the raven numerous questions, mainly if he would ever see his deceased lover again. But the raven would only give him one answer: 'Nevermore!'
"The raven in this painting reminded me of the poem, and I wondered if Allaway also read it. If he did, perhaps he was making reference to it? Using it as an allusion to a bereavement of his own?"
And there it was: the raven Watson spoke of. A terrible creature, wings a spread, beak agape, eyes a wild purple. It scowled down upon the subject. An ill omen indeed.
" 'His own', Watson?"
"Well, art tends to reflect the artist's mindset at the time of creation. Not always, but usually."
It never occurred to Holmes that an artist's personal history was as equally as important as the mastery of his craft.
An awkward silence lingered in the air.
"... Well, go on, Watson!"
"Pardon?"
"It's not every day you are the one who wows me with your deductions."
"I suppose not..." A sheepish grin spread itself across his friend's face.
"So, wow me, Watson!" Nothing brought Sherlock Holmes more pleasure than showing off his cleverness, although watching Watson show off was a close second.
A third hush was hurled in their direction, followed by Holmes' childish and exaggerated hushing.
"Very well," Watson sighed, feigning annoyance; whether it be from Holmes' praises or immaturity, he couldn't discern. "If you insist. Now let's see..." He scrunched up his nose and tapped his little finger against his upper lip in deep thought. "... Well, I suppose I could talk about some of the plants. To the right of the archway, closer to the background. There's a portrait of a young lady on the wall. In her hands is a tussie-mussie of aloe and red carnations held upright, and the ribbon tied around the doily is tied to the left.
"Red carnations represent deep love or are a quiet way of saying 'My heart aches for you!' Aloe, meanwhile, is a sign of affection mixed with grief. Holding the tussie-mussie upright means the flowers' definition holds true. If it was held upside-down, then the definitions would be reversed. Ribbons tied to the left mean that the message is directed toward the giver of the tussie-mussie.
"If the raven is an allusion to Poe's poem, then the subject might be the giver in question. He has a deep love and affection for this young lady, most likely his lover, but now, he grieves for his loss, and his heart aches to be with her."
It was hard for Holmes to sympathize with such sentiments, not just because he was the exact opposite of a romantic but also because the portrait unnerved him. The woman's color palette was a monotone red, save only for the void of charcoal that was the eyes. Her face lacked nostrils and lips, and she stared down Holmes straight on.
"Are you certain he wasn't denied her hand in marriage?"
"No, most likely she passed on. See the skull on the table? Skulls usually mean that the subject knows his mortality or is near death. If denied, he might have added some anemone along with the aloe and the red carnations. At least, that's what I assume." Holmes almost didn't recognize it as a skull at first. It was an unusual shade of brown, and it was turned away from the observer so it could face the subject.
"Forgive me, Watson, but it's quite a sinister way to depict a loved one."
"... It is, isn't it? It's if her image haunts him..."
The subject wasn't the only person she was haunting, it seemed.
"You mentioned other plants?"
"Hm? Oh! Yes, on the table, next to the skull. There's an old vase full of gladiolus, lilac, and goldenrod. Gladiolus, as the name may remind you, is the flower of the gladiators. It represents strength, integrity, and victory. Lilac represents the joy of youth, and goldenrod represents good fortune.
"The flowers inside the vase are covered in insects. Insects are a more subtle way of signifying death, as they tend to eat and, by proxy, kill anything organic. Wrapped around the vase are cyclamen, purple hyacinth, and clematis. Cyclamen represents resignation or diffidence. Purple hyacinth represents sorrow, and clematis represents poverty.
"If I had to make an estimation, I'd say the subject either hoped for or was promised a happy and prosperous life. However, based on the wild growth of the other flowers, it seemed fate took some unexpected turns; he's now resigned himself to a sorrowful and impoverished life, his hope for better things slowly dying."
"Wrapped" was a vast understatement. The more despairing flowers were crushing the vase, causing it to break and leak dirty water. Holmes couldn't even call them flowers; they were more as weeds, determined to choke out all life that crossed their path. They invaded nearly half the tabletop in a knot of stems and covered the dirt wood floor below as carpet.
"What else do you see, Watson?"
"What else? Hmm... there's an extinguished candlestick behind the skull and vase. Another symbol of death... The mirror in the corner is cracked, a sign of bad luck or ill omen... I'm still unsure what the broken sword leaning next to the archway is supposed to mean... Cobwebs are everywhere..." And there seemed to be jeering faces hidden in the shadows. They snarled at the subject, yanking at the chain clasped around his left ankle.
Holmes began to understand Watson's worry all the more.
"What of the exterior? What symbolism lies there?"
"I'm afraid there's little to say. There's nothing really worthy of note."
"What about the sun?"
"I'm... sure it means something, but I have no clue if it's a sunrise or sunset. It's if Allaway wanted it to remain ambiguous."
"Why would he do that?"
"Some artists want observers to place their own perspective on their works. To encourage dialogue, I believe. Can't say I fancy the notion, myself..."
Holmes ruminated over Watson's words. The discussion behind the painting was more apparent to him than it had been, but Allaway wanted him to find the conclusion to the conversation. He would need to observe it again, and thanks to Watson's out-of-the-way knowledge, he could now do so from a different perspective.
"Do forgive me, Holmes," Watson spoke, turning as to begin walking away; his weight shifted toward his cane, indicating his bad leg was in the beginning stages of bothering him. "I didn't mean to ruin the painting for you."
"On the contrary, my dear Watson," Holmes countered, grabbing his friend by the arm and interlocking it with his own, simultaneously keeping him near and supporting him. "Your input has vastly improved it."
"Truly?"
"Truly."
Now, deductions could be appropriately made.
The painting depicted a room high in a stone tower. To the right was the interior: a simple circular room. Objects were difficult to see, for most of the room was plunged in sickly green. Any objects that could be seen were grave in their purpose and despairing in their meaning. No source of light could be found.
To the left was the exterior: a balcony overlooking the endless sky. An euphony of colors alit the atmosphere in swirling reds, oranges, pinks, and magentas. A bright yellow line bordered the canvas's edge, representing the sun.
In the middle was the subject: a young man, no older than two and twenty. His dress belonged to a modest rail worker; his clothes were faded and torn, and stained in coal; his boots and cap were misplaced. His left ankle bore a chain tightly held back, imprisoning him in the despairing air of the interior. His left hand firmly grasped the balcony railing while his right desperately reached for the sun. His hair lay matted across his crown, and his countenance lay scarred from hardship, twisted from grief.
His eyes bulged and leaked tears.
That's when Holmes realized why the painting unnerved him: he'd been in this situation before.
For not that long ago, Holmes, too, was in a dark, despairing place. The people in his life were aloof and deceitful, either laughing at his expense or despising him deeply. His profession didn't help improve his opinion of mankind, as now he had surrounded himself with those who were quick to steal and kill. He had long forgone any attempt to make friends, knowing full well that none of them would stay.
His heart grew sick, and he had to remind himself daily that he didn't care that he now loathed humanity.
Out of spite, or perhaps desperation, Holmes prayed what he believed to be an impossible prayer: he prayed for a new heart, one that allowed him to love his fellow man again; for a heart that did things he couldn't predict, and spoke truths he didn't know. And for years, Sherlock Holmes truly believed he had outsmarted God. After all, there wasn't an action he couldn't foresee nor a truth he couldn't unearth. He constantly told himself to be proud of this fact, and his heart grew sick beyond healing as the years passed.
Until that fateful day when Holmes was introduced to an army doctor, wounded and ailed from the war in Afghanistan. In an act of callousness, he tore apart the man's life story, including his darkest and most vulnerable secrets.
To Holmes' confusion and fright, the doctor did something he could've never predicted and spoke a truth he genuinely didn't know:
He smiled in amazement and called him brilliant.
It was as if a beam of light had pierced the dark; as if a beacon lit over a foggy bay; as if a sunrise emerged after the longest night of the year. For the first time in possibly forever, Holmes felt almost hopeful.
Observing the subject closer, Holmes swore he could see that same expression in his eyes.
"What do you make of it, Holmes?"
"I do believe it's a sunrise."
"How do you know?"
"I don't." At this, Holmes turned to look at his confidant, his lips twisted upward. Watson, in response, gave him a genuine smile.
And the gallery returned, menagerie and all.
A thought suddenly came to Holmes, and it admittedly excited him. "A series of paintings down in the west wing didn't particularly strike my fancy. Perhaps an alternative perspective would remedy that?"
"On the condition you share those notes on famous artists."
"My dear Watson, I would've done so regardless," Holmes stated as the pair departed from the painting, Watson leaning on him for support. "Can't have my associate mistaking stick figures for Michelangelos!" he teasingly added.
"Oh, Holmes?"
"Yes, Watson?"
"You had no idea what the painting depicted until I pointed it out, didn't you?"
That cheeky imp.
"... I will neither confirm nor deny your deduction, Watson." Upon hearing this, Watson released a long wheeze, immediately followed by contagious, hearty laughter. Holmes tried to quiet his friend, but he couldn't help but spastically giggle along with him. Watson's laughs were too warm and bright to extinguish.
Besides, it was fun to learn what tickled Watson's funny bone. His perspective of the world was a work of art, and he desired to understand it.