Nothing’s Lost Forever EDMUND RICHARDSON I saw something that only I could see, because of my astonishing ability to see such things: Souls were rising, from the earth far below, souls of the dead, of people who had perished, from famine, from war, from the plague, and they floated up, like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning. And the souls of these departed joined hands, clasped ankles, and formed a web, a great net of souls, and the souls were three-atom oxygen molecules, of the stuff of ozone, and the outer rim absorbed them, and was repaired. Nothing’s lost forever . In this world, there’s a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we’ve left behind, and dreaming ahead. At least I think that’s so. —Tony Kushner, Angels in America On March 27, 1888, as the light was fading, several reporters knocked—softly and suspiciously—at the door of 166 Madison Avenue, New York. They were welcomed by one of the city’s most distinguished lawyers, Luther Marsh, “looking almost precisely as all New York was used to seeing him at the bar—a short, well-built, kindly man, with a square, firm face, enclosed between white side whiskers.”1 Marsh ushered them upstairs into his study, where for decades the city’s elite had done business amongst the law-books. That night, the familiar room was unrecognizable . Dozens of strange new paintings were propped on the shelves, stood against the chairs and tables, and fixed to every spare inch of wall-space. The reporters gaped. Then Marsh began to tell them where the pictures had come from. All of the works they saw, he said, were painted not by mortal hands, but by the spirits of the great artists of the past—who had turned blank canvases into finished masterpieces in an instant, here in New York, this very year, before his very eyes: arion 20.2 fall 2012 The history of two medallion groups was thus given by Mr. Marsh: “Apelles, the Court painter to Alexander of Macedon, said in a communication : ‘I shall paint you medallions of Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, Pythagoras and Archimedes.’ All five of them came out together. There they are. Then Polygnotus, a famous painter of the ancients, promised five others, and I had so much faith in that, that I had a double frame made. It is now, you see, filled, Polygnotus having given me Pelopidas, Epaminondas, Pericles, Homer and Cicero.”2 And there were many, many more: portraits by Raphael and Rembrandt, subjects from Pythagoras and Archimedes to Queen Elizabeth 1 and St. Paul.3 Marsh was all eagerness, “and spent several hours in pointing out the beauties of his unique collection.”4 One he was especially proud of: “a fine, large one, nearly as big as a window, which is a portrait of the man [Appius Claudius Caecus] who built the Appian Way out of Rome over two thousand years ago and who was . . . an ancestor of mine [Marsh’s], as I am informed by the spirit.”5 All the paintings had been brought into the world through the incredible powers of a certain Madame Diss Debar. “He [Marsh] buys mounted canvases and he holds them up above his head while Mme. Debar is present, and the painting[s] appear on them, all wet and sticky and smelling of paint.” The reporters looked and wondered, and noted the badness of the brushwork. “The ordinary man with a knowledge of art,” one murmured, “might wish that the spirits would paint in a less degree like the works that are sold on Vesey street, frame and all, for $1.75.”6 But there was more: some spirits, including Aristotle and Socrates, had even written messages to Marsh. To receive them, “he presses the edges of a pad that he has just bought and knows to be fresh, and the always-present Mme. Debar also presses it. Suddenly the sound of writing is heard followed by two or three soft, low raps. The pad is then opened and found to contain twenty or thirty or even sixty pages of writing from . . . some ancient Greek or Roman...
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