Judith said, “The collages are in the studio. You might be interested in one of them.”
Andrea sniffed as she turned back around. She was forced to wipe her eyes.
“Sorry, I’ve worked with acids so long that my eyes barely register the burn anymore.” Judith motioned for Andrea to follow her into the next room. “There’s a cross-breeze in the studio.”
They walked through a door and into a large, welcoming space. Windows and fixed glass panes were everywhere, even in the ceiling. Easels showcased various stages of creativity. Judith wasn’t a hobbyist or a crafter. She was an artist whose work brought to mind Kurt Schwitters and Man Ray. Paint spattered the floor. Pots of glue and scissors and cutting boards and spools of thread and blades and varnishes and spray fixatives were splayed on the tables besides magazines, photographs, and found pieces that would be refashioned into a new statement.
It was the most perfect studio Andrea had ever been inside.
“The sun can be brutal during the dog days of summer, but it’s worth it.” Judith had stopped in front of an easel that held what was clearly her latest work. “This is what I thought you’d want to see.”
Andrea didn’t let her eyes take in the details. First, she felt the piece, which gave her the sensation of standing on the deck of a tiny boat that was shifting against the waves of an oncoming storm. Judith had used solarization to create a sense of uncertainty. Bits of torn letters and photographs kaleidoscoped together to create a darkly ominous collage.
“This is one of my heavier pieces,” Judith said, almost apologetic. “My work is usually called masculine or muscular, but—”
“They don’t understand a woman’s anger,” Andrea finished. She had experienced a similar dismissiveness from some of her male professors. “Hannah Höch got the same bullshit when she exhibited with the Dada group, but she had her own exhibition at MoMa less than twenty years after her death.”
Judith shook her head. “You’re really the most fascinating Marshal I’ve ever met.”
Andrea didn’t tell her she’d only been a Marshal for a day and a half. She carefully studied the piece, reading the words that had been excised from letters, some handwritten on notebook paper, some clearly typed, some computer-generated.
Kill you fucking bitch die Jew slut temptress cunt jewess devil murderer ice queen motherfucker cocksucker pedophile blood-drinking ball-buster Soros-backed whore …
Andrea asked, “These are death threats that your grandmother received?”
“Not the death threats, but some of them from over the years. They’re actually not bad, comparatively speaking.” Judith laughed without really laughing. “My politics certainly don’t align with my grandparents’, but one thing we can agree on is that the current conspiracy theory whack-a-doos are pretty terrifying. My family isn’t Jewish, by the way. I suppose the nuts think it’s one of the worst things they can call us.”
Andrea studied the photographs scattered around the nasty invective. Judith had used stitch and colored pencils to unify the theme. Franklin Vaughn with a Star of David drawn over his face. A younger Judith in a school uniform with the breasts cut out. Esther in her robes with ‘X’s scratched over her eyes. A dead rat with its feet in the air and foam coming out of its mouth.
“Found the poor thing floating in the pool.” Judith pointed at the rat. “Granny put up a bird feeder last month and they showed up with their hands out.”
Andrea shuddered. She didn’t want to think about rats having hands.
“I paid some guy in New Zealand to Photoshop the foam around its mouth,” Judith supplied. “It’s amazing what you can find online.”
“It is.” Though Andrea knew that there were a lot of things—and people—who were invisible as far as the internet was concerned. She forced down her artistic jealousy and tried to remember why she was really here. Judith clearly had that small-town habit of oversharing with new people. Or maybe she was simply desperate for someone who understood what she was doing out in the studio. Either way, the woman seemed ripe for some directed questioning.
Andrea asked, “Do you use the Vaughn name for your art?”
“Oh, God no. I couldn’t stand the scrutiny. I use my mother’s middle name, Rose.” She said, “Judith Rose.”
Andrea nodded, pretending like her heart hadn’t fallen out of her chest at the mention of Emily. “You’re really good. She must be very proud of you.”
Judith looked confused. “Cat didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Judith silently gestured for Andrea to follow her toward the back of the room. She stopped in front of the floor-to-ceiling storage racks that held large canvas panels. She thumbed through several pieces before stopping to look at Andrea over her shoulder. “Be kind. This was the first collage I ever attempted. I was Guinevere’s age. I was full of angst and hormones.”
Andrea didn’t know what to expect when Judith flipped around a canvas that showed a very primitive collage. The feelings it evoked were still dark and troubling, but not as focused. It was clear that Judith had been working on finding her vision, just as it was clear to Andrea that the subject she’d chosen was her dead mother. Photographs of Emily framed the periphery, stitched together with heavy black thread like you’d see after an autopsy.
Andrea searched for something to say. “It’s—”
“Raw?” Judith gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Right, well, there’s a reason I don’t show this to just anybody. Even my agent hasn’t seen it.”
Andrea tried to ask a question that a stranger would ask. “Is that your mother?”
Judith nodded, but the senior photo of Emily Vaughn in the corner of the piece was so familiar to Andrea that she could’ve described it with her eyes closed. Poofy permed hair. Light blue eyeshadow. Lips drawn into a bow tie. Mascara clumped like cobwebs.
Judith said, “Everyone always says that Guinevere favors her.”
“She does.” Andrea leaned in for a closer look. As with the more recent piece, Judith had broken up the images with strips of text. Lined school notebook was staggered around the canvas in no particular pattern. The missives were all written in the same loopy, round handwriting of a clearly emotional young girl—
People are SO MEAN … You DO NOT deserve what they are saying … Keep working it out … YOU WILL FIND THE TRUTH!!!
Andrea asked, “Did you write the text?”
“No, they’re from a letter I found in my mother’s things. I think she wrote it to herself. Affirmations were big in the eighties. I really wish I hadn’t torn it up. For the life of me, I can’t remember what else it said.”
Andrea forced herself to turn toward Judith. She didn’t want to seem too eager or excited or nervous or afraid or show whatever emotion was making her feel like the soles of her feet were tingling. So many photos of Emily. Some with friends. Some with her caught in moments of searing aloneness.
What could sixteen-year-old Judith’s art tell her about seventeen-year-old Emily’s murder?
“Is it that bad?” Judith was clearly anxious. Andrea knew what it was like to value someone’s opinion and have them look away.