The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [37]
“They’re exploiting him.”
“Not necessarily. Historically, benefactors have been every bit as important to art as paint. No doubt these young men provided Patrick with an income and a roof and access to some kind of health care. In fact, Burning Patrick’s legend grew very quickly. I and others began collecting his work. Prices skyrocketed. I continue to pay them because, while I might not think much of him as a singer, I think he’s a stunning artist.”
There was something about the way Jameson pronounced that phrase. “You’re not sure he’s for real, are you?” Nada said.
Jameson paused to bite his lip. “After he joined the rock band, Blackburn’s output changed. He now paints almost exclusively on six-inch square tiles—like you might find in a public restroom—maybe a hundred of them each year.”
“What are the images like?”
“At first glance, they seem like typical folk art. Almost a parody of folk art. Animals, portraits, rural and urban landscapes. At first glance.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you consider the tiles as a whole, it appears Blackburn is painting a mural on a massive scale. But he’s not doing it in order.”
“What do you mean, not in order?”
Jameson reached into the bag at his feet and pulled out a blue folder. “Here are some photos of Burning Patrick’s tiles. I own seventeen of them, but I have photographs of another several dozen owned by acquaintances.”
“If you’re so rich and so fond of these tiles, why don’t you buy more of them?”
“There are other people who want them just as much as I do. Also, there’s almost no secondary market. Collectors who own them aren’t selling.”
“Burning Patrick is no longer homeless, I take it.”
“He lives in a modest home in a relatively modest neighborhood. Apparently, he barely touches the money, except when he gives chunks of it away to charities.”
“Is that why the rich folks call him crazy?”
Jameson acknowledged the joke with a pretend wince but didn’t respond. “The finished tiles themselves, as you can see, are interesting. Disturbing, passionate, original. But what has become apparent to the community of collectors is that each of these tiles seems to be a part of a larger work. Many of the tiles fit together. Look here, and here. The sides match up perfectly. And although the individual tiles appear to be unrelated and somewhat crude, when you get three of them that fit, you start to get a separate image that is almost photorealistic. Here’s part of the iris of a human eye. Can you see it?”
She could. By themselves, the tiles seemed to her as sophisticated as a fifth grader’s crayon drawing. But looking at these three together after blinking and refocusing, an intense bloodshot eye appeared. The effect was like cold water poured down her back.
“But here’s the thing. He’s painting the tiles out of sequence. So let’s say Blackburn painted this one on Tuesday”—Jameson pointed to a tile in a different picture—“and then this one over here on Wednesday. He might not have painted the tiles that fit next to each of these until months later, maybe after he had already sold the first ones to collectors. Still, when he finished, they fit together perfectly. Can you imagine?” He pulled out three photos and set them on the bar. “Look at these. Adjacent pairs. The holy grail for Burning Patrick collectors. If you have two tiles that fit together, their value goes up by a factor of ten.”
Nada examined the pairs closely. The tiles matched perfectly along their sides, consistent lines of crimson and indigo extending from one tile to the next. She peered again at the eye. The left eye of a man possibly in his last moments stretched over three tiles, its red veins meeting exactly at the