Sheila Sharpe
Stories
Published
Submitted
(not yet published)
•Field of Gold, Fiction on the Web, January 2021
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•Chasing the Voice, Memoir Mixtapes, August 2020
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•The Toreador of the Tunnels (2024) was awarded Honorable Mention in the Annual Writer's Digest Writing Competition.
In its original form, this story won Best First Chapter at The Southern California Writers' Conference San Diego.​
The Story Preceding the Novel:
Artist, Lover, Forger, Thief
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Early research for Artist, Lover, Forger, Thief required me to interview an art conservator. Like a couple of the famous British art forgers—Keating and Hebborn—my forger, Nick, also worked legitimately as an art conservator for a museum. So, I needed to learn about conservation work. I knew from my study of forging techniques that several of the skills are similar to those used in conservation and restoration.
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A good friend of mine had an oil painting inherited from her grandfather. Being old and dirty and reminiscent of the California Impressionist Maurice Braun, it was ideal for the purpose, so I took it to a highly recommended conservator to be examined and cleaned.
I based the following story (revised from the original published story) on this enlightening visit. Recently the conservator allowed me to take pictures illustrating the scene.
Field of Gold
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The first occupant I saw in Julia’s conservation studio was a nine-foot-tall Madonna. She was a fright—her face flaking, her oversized halo full of cracks, her dull white gown ripped and stained. Cardboard covered the bottom half of the painting. What was behind it? I curbed my impulse to look. Being nosey was expected of those in my trade, but not of a client coming for an ordinary painting consultation. Flutters in my stomach, a crick in my neck, there would be nothing ordinary about this meeting for me.
I admired Julia's confident posture and the way she glided in her floaty skirt as she led me into another room. Like a graceless foil, I marched behind her, lean and stiff in faded jeans and old boots, the heels clacking on the hardwood floor of this former Victorian brothel in San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter.
As I unwrapped my painting, my dead husband’s voice came to life in my mind--Kate, listen to me for once. Don’t go down this slippery slope, it’s way too risky.
My own voice loud in my head— Don’t preach safety to me! You who crash-landed off the sheer face of El Capitan.
For the last eight months, battles with David in my mind kept me from drowning in grief and gave me the starch to act functional and interact with people. I squared my shoulders and took the first risky step. “I found this painting in my grandparents’ treasure chest. I like the picture and it seemed a good idea to get it evaluated and cleaned.”
Julia nodded, set the canvas on the worktable, and we looked down on the small, eighteen by twenty-four-inch painting of a Southern California landscape: eucalyptus trees bordering a sunlit field of yellow flowers under a blue sky.
“Lovely,” Julia said with a posh British accent. “Do you know who painted this?”
“No, but I’d guess Monet was an influence.”
“Indeed,” she said. “The subject and style remind me of Maurice Braun.”
My mouth went dry. “Maurice who?”
