When the Marden theater offered its old
river backdrop to the civic museum, the
gift arrived with a photograph that made
the canvas look considerably better than
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it looked unrolled across our workroom.
In the photograph, the river disappeared
convincingly behind a row of warehouses;
on the floor, it resembled a gray strap.
I had been hired to prepare the display,
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and my first proposal treated that loss
of conviction as damage. We would repair
the surface until visitors could admire
what the theater’s original audience had
admired. I had assumed that the picture
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contained its own instructions for being
seen.
Our curator, Irena Pell, proposed using
the photograph to identify later paint.
A narrow footbridge, visible on the cloth
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but absent from the image, particularly
troubled her. The museum had promised to
preserve a surviving work by the scenic
studio that supplied the theater, and a
recent bridge might obscure that work.
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Yet Pell did not propose scraping away
every addition. Where a later coat could
not be removed without injuring earlier
paint, she would leave it and record the
compromise. Her preference was for the
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earliest recoverable design, not for an
immaculate surface obtained at any cost.
Nolan Veer, who had painted scenery for
the theater before its closing, thought
we were identifying the wrong injury.
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He asked us to suspend one corner of the
canvas and stand at the far end of the
workroom. The warehouses straightened;
the strap became water. Veer explained
that blunt strokes allowed the picture
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to cohere across a theater, while the
overhead lamps in our gallery exposed
each stroke separately. His objection
was not that age should be concealed.
A backdrop, he argued, was a device for
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producing an effect at a distance; its
physical survival preserved only part
of what the painters had accomplished.
Veer also remembered the footbridge. It
had been added for a revival whose last
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act required an actor to appear to cross
the river, though no surviving program
supplied the revival’s date. Pell agreed
that this made the bridge more than an
idle alteration. She nevertheless asked
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whether one worker’s memory could justify
presenting it as part of the first design.
The recollection established a use, she
said, not an origin. I initially heard
this distinction as professional caution
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obstructing a richer story. But Veer
could describe the crossing vividly and
still be uncertain which production had
required it. His certainty had borders.
The photograph, however, had borders too.
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Its reverse carried a photographer’s
address but no date, and a penciled note
referred to a “new river” without saying
whether the canvas or its painting was
new. A theater inventory listed several
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river scenes, all in dimensions close to
those of our gift. The image could show
an earlier version of this backdrop or a
different backdrop from the same studio.
Pell withdrew her plan to use it as a
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map for removing paint. She continued,
however, to distinguish uncertainty about
an alteration from proof of its value.
We eventually displayed the canvas with
its bridge, placing a low rail far enough
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away to let the river gather itself into
depth. Near the rail, a small photograph
showed the scene under theatrical light;
beside it, an enlargement made the coarse
brushwork legible. The two views were
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deliberately unequal: neither claimed to
reproduce a historical performance, whose
lamps, actors, and neighboring scenery
we could only partly reconstruct. Pell’s
label distinguished what the cloth showed
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from what Veer remembered. His account
appeared in a recording, introduced as a
recollection rather than as the missing
page of the museum’s inventory.
I had wanted the display to settle our
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argument, but it made the disagreement
available to visitors instead. A visitor
who moved closer lost the river and found
the labor; another who stepped back
recovered the illusion while surrendering
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some evidence of how it had been made.
Neither position was a correction of the
other. Nor did offering both release us
from choosing: the rail, the lighting,
and the label all guided attention. We
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could disclose those choices, but we
could not convert the gallery into a
place from which nobody had arranged
the view.
This seems to me a modest achievement,
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though modesty should not become an
excuse for leaving every decision open.
Had the photograph securely identified
the first design, its evidence would have
deserved greater weight. In this case,
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restraint protected a question we could
not answer, while distance restored an
effect we could demonstrate. The museum
had neither returned the backdrop to its
first evening nor merely stored a piece
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of cloth. It had given visitors a way to
examine the interval between those two
claims, an interval my original proposal
had so confidently painted out.