The Artist's Touch

Preface

For the love of art.

That was their motto – their passion – their purpose.

The Gentlemen’s Guild, as they are collectively known, is a group of three world- renowned, yet anonymous, artists. All billionaires in their own right, the Guild was formed out of their exceptional talent and love for art.

It all began nine years ago as friends, Tristan Black, Sloane Peterson, and Pierce Lane, left school and took the business world by storm, and the rest of the world took notice. However, it was the other half of their partnership that had developed since then that kept the world enthralled. Being owners of some of the largest corporations in the world was a boring accomplishment compared to being members of the Gentlemen’s Guild and here’s why:

Being young, successful, and confident in their skills, they boldly shook the art world with their unannounced and brazen arrival. They’d planned and prepared their entrance for almost a year, working through every option, every scenario, to make sure that it would make a statement and would make them known in the most dramatic way – because when you aren’t doing it for the money, why would you try to play by the rules? Why would you want to?

The Gentlemen’s Guild paid, exorbitantly, to host a private exhibit at the Met with only three pieces listed to be displayed – Michelangelo’s “The Birth of Adam,” Bernini’s “David,” and Da Vinci’s “Last Supper.” The invitation challenged the world’s top art critics, analysts, curators, and professors to find a flaw in any one of them, with a reward of one million dollars to the person who could prove that the pieces weren’t the originals, but were in fact forgeries. It was a dare to the entire art community, and the potential participants were more than intrigued; weren’t all these pieces already in museums? Was this ‘Guild’ planning on stealing them? Were they a guild of thieves or were these artists just that good?

Banking on the presumptive over-confidence of the critic community, so assured in themselves that a forged artwork would never pass as authentic under their inspection, and with just the right amount of publicity, the art world was on edge as to what was actually going to be shown at this exhibit. Museums went on high alert as all of the experts flocked to New York City to prove their worth, that no forger was too good for them, especially when it came to some of the most iconic artworks of all time.

Clothed in skepticism, the experts came, astonished by what they saw – the pieces were there and without any tools or tests, they looked to be the originals! A few minutes of hectic chaos ensued, mostly on the part of the handful of curators frantically trying to reach their museums where these pieces were supposed to be currently residing. To their surprise, all of their associates assured them that the original works were still safe and secure, that these must be forgeries.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” came an authoritative voice over the speaker system, “my name is, well, you can call me Michelangelo and I apologize for your confusion. The pieces that you see in front of you, I assure you, are not in fact the original works, but copies that myself and other artists in the Gentlemen’s Guild have created. I invite you to examine the works, touch them, test them, and see for yourself if, with all of your knowledge and skills, you are able to discern that, aside from my assurances, these are fakes.”

With that announcement, the back of the exhibition hall lit revealing desks, microscopes, lights, radiographic machines, and the standard chemical tests used to authenticate any and all great works of art. Enthusiastically, the invitees descended on the paintings and sculpture, determined to find flaws in these seemingly perfect reproductions.

After an hour, with no one able to find a single piece of evidence to suggest that these were not the originals, and unable to personally confirm the presence of the masterpieces in their own museums, anxieties began to raise at the thought of the two possible explanations – either the pieces were real, meaning that there were fakes hanging in the museums, stolen out from underneath them, or they had been unable to identify a forgery and failed at their job.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your cooperation and expertise. I can see that none of you have been able to indicate any errors in the works to prove that they are fake. I now invite you to turn the paintings over. There is a man coming around with a vial of solution that I want you to paint on back of the canvas and then place the work underneath the UV-light.”

Again, the experts did as ‘Michelangelo’ requested. A gasp of astonishment spread throughout the crowd. With the solution on the canvas, the black-light clearly showed the words, ‘The Gentlemen’s Guild’ woven into the thread of the canvas; something that was a clear impossibility of being found on the original. In shock, they stood, acknowledging their failure to detect such an accurate forgery.

Bernard Park, the curator of the Met stepped forward, demanding into the quiet of the room what the point was of this demonstration? Asking what they are trying to prove with this exercise and lastly, questioning the sculpture as there had been no instructions on how to examine that.

“I’m glad you asked. The answers to all of your questions lie in David’s left hand,” the voice of Michelangelo answered.

They examined the sculpted hand again, finding nothing in it or on it, just as the man who had brought the vial of solution entered again; this time, he returned with a mallet in hand. Bernard stared in horror as the man handed him the mallet, realizing what the voice now meant by ‘in his hand.’ There was a moment’s hesitation, the thought that he could be destroying the original sculpture by Bernini probably making him nauseous. Encouraged by the other spectators that the other works had turned out to be fakes so this one must be too, Bernard picked up the mallet and smashed the hand of the sculpture. When the pieces and dust had settled, there was a rolled-up paper that had been placed in David’s arm, again something clearly only possible to do just as the artist began the sculpture.

Removing the paper, he unrolled it to read a letter of introduction from the Gentlemen’s Guild.

“Thank you for participating in our exercise. Rest assured, we have no intention of publicizing that you were unable to identify these works as forgeries. Our intent wasn’t malicious; we love art and the beauty and importance it brings to the world, and our mission is only to preserve and expand that.

We invite you to request our services in the future for restorations and replications as you need. Our fees are substantial but, as you can see, are well worth it.

If you choose to partner with us, there are two stipulations; you will allow us to hold an exhibit for charity in your museum each year to auction off original pieces of ours, with all proceeds going to your institution and two, our true identities will continue to remain anonymous.

We anticipate your hesitancy at our offer so, in good faith, each of the institutions that are represented here today will be given a donation of one million dollars; they will also receive an original piece of artwork from each of the members of the Guild and instructions on how to contact us in the future.

We look forward to working with you. - The Gentlemen’s Guild

They were hesitant at first, and just a little resentful for being so well fooled, but one thing had led to another and soon the Guild was the first choice for restoring or completely replicating famous masterpieces; Da Vinci, Monet, Rembrandt, you name it, the chances were that it had been touched by one of them. Their first ‘exhibit’ had garnered the attention of news outlets around the world and so when their art began to selectively surface in museums, the crowds descended, curious to see who had intrigued and surpassed the expectations of all of the experts in the field.

One auction, one exhibit, one museum.

That was what they committed to each year. Business owners by day and artists by night, they kept up their public personalities as business owners that liked to invest in art – not uncommon among their circles. They would pick a museum and a day for the auction and prepare their pieces accordingly. The museum was chosen at random, the timing of the event varied from year to year so that nothing became too predictable; predictability led to discoverability and yet, the people still came in droves. Sometimes they themed the exhibits, sometimes they didn’t; it didn’t matter, whatever they did was a sensation.

After their second year of success, they’d hired a manager, Morgan Wells, to handle the business end and all of the scheduling for the Guild – whether it was for restoration requests, or whether it was to set up the exhibit for that year. He handled the timing and coordination, he was the spokesperson for the Guild, and he handled the money that came in and then went right back out in donations. He was their connection to the world, their last barrier of anonymity. They let him assume the face of the Guild, and he stepped into the position with alacrity.

F

rom the start, they agreed to never work on commissioned pieces for specific donors – never. It was their art; they would choose the subject, they would choose how to portray them. It had been tempting at first, especially when the requests were offering hundreds of millions of dollars for a portrait of someone’s wife or family or child, but they didn’t need the money which meant refusing on principle was easier.

It also became quite clear just what type of art that the Guild preferred to produce – specifically, classical-type interpretations of the female face and form, though the expressions and poses of some of them were not something you would too-commonly find in most classical art; no, the highly seductive and suggestive nature of their original pieces really caused a stir.

Visitors wondered if the models were their wives; that thought was ruled out after the second year when there had been too many different women for the subjects to be spouses. Then, the search began for the women themselves – the “Guilded Girls”, as they were referred to – the women who got to know the artists, who really got to know the artists, or so the rumors suggested. Regardless, they would certainly know who the artists were after sitting for someone, most times in the nude, for up to three months.

Rumors also began to spread as to who these anonymous artists were. Many assumed that Morgan was one of them, in spite of his insistence that his artistic ability was deplorable. His denial was always half-hearted though; the fan base of women eager to meet and ‘get to know’ a potential member of the Guild was a temptation that he just couldn’t completely pass up. As long as their true identities remained a secret, they didn’t care if Morgan didn’t refute the assumption by certain females that caught his interest.

The consensus though was that they were obviously very rich men, to be able to donate all proceeds from their exhibits as well as the income from their restoration work to museums and schools around the world. Maybe they were princes, royalty from Europe or the Middle East; maybe they were children of wealthy parents who had all the money and time in the world to perfect their talent and put it on display; or maybe, they were wealthy men in their own right just looking to support the world of art without wanting to take any credit. The last wasn’t the most common assumption – the truth rarely is.

So, the fans decided that they were rich, handsome, and single; even though no one had any confirmation for these suppositions; they were rich because they kept none of the money, and they were handsome because, well, Morgan was incredibly good- looking and therefore must either be one of them or by translation, they must be of the same caliber of man. They enjoyed hearing the rumors, reading the tabloids, seeing who had found the latest clue on their identity – full well knowing that such a thing was impossible. However, not all the rumors were false; they did thoroughly enjoy getting to know the women who modeled for them, there was no denying that.

The hype to find out their identity, to become the next model, the next lover of a wealthy, gorgeous, sought-after, and anonymous artist was too alluring not to pursue and it had quickly reached the point where their next exhibit couldn’t even be publicized until just a few weeks beforehand otherwise, women would flock to the cities months before the show, just trying to figure out where the model auditions were taking place. They’d learned that the hard way, almost having to cancel their exhibit because they were being ‘hunted down,’ as Sloane liked to recall it, by women who wanted to sit for, and sleep with, them. After that fiasco, their auditions were held under false pretenses, the models sworn and signed to secrecy, and eventually, the masses came to accept that the mystery was part of the attraction.

Eventually, they confirmed that there were three members of the Guild and gave their fans pseudonyms in order to be able to sign their works and differentiate between who produced what; Tristan became Titian, Pierce became Picasso, and Sloane, well, Sloane got stuck with Michelangelo and was forced to sign his works with the initial of his middle name, Michael, rather than an ‘S’ – a task he’d balked and bemoaned about for months. Unfortunately, Tristan had given the name Michelangelo originally, and Sloane was the only one of them that had an ‘M’ in a part of his full name. This also managed to fuel the belief that Morgan was one of the three, lucking out with a name that also began with an ‘M’.

In a few short years, they had taken the world by storm. Their reputation had only grown, inflated by the secrecy and anonymity surrounding the member artists, to this point where they were a world-wide sensation. Now, entering into their seventh year, into the peak of their popularity, they were on top of the world. They’d mastered their love of art and now, unbeknownst to them, it was their turn to be mastered by the art of love.

Chapter 1

This was not a good idea.

Tristan’s mouth thinned into a hard line as he immediately regretted his decision. He knew better than to entertain a wager with Pierce and yet here he was, standing at the Met, absorbing the energy of their annual charity exhibition. He would have rescinded his answer if Pierce hadn’t disappeared so quickly into the crowd that was growing around them.

It had been seven years since they’d first displayed their art here, and they hadn’t been back since. A chill crept up his spine; he’d like to think it was nostalgia, but it felt more like the memory was marking the beginning of the end. Walking through the crowd, Tristan observed in silent anonymity the excitement and speculation going on around him. A small smile broke on his face as he heard two women discussing his piece from last year’s auction, speculating as to the cause of the young woman’s expression of extreme pleasure.

Oh, he’d given her good cause.

It had been won by an older gentleman in Florence, the second piece of Tristan’s – or Titian’s, that the gentleman had purchased. He paused when the two women abruptly stopped their conversation catching sight of him. It never even crossed his mind that they realized he was eavesdropping on them; he knew how he looked and how far his striking good looks had gotten him in the past, his wavy, golden hair tamed back away from his face, emphasizing his strong jawline and warm hazel eyes. Plus, he cleaned up well in a jet-black tux. Tristan gave them a dazzling smile, waiting exactly one and a half seconds for their jaws to hit the floor before moved forward further into the crowd. His brow began to furrow thinking about what he was going to do about Pierce.

The last few years, their auctions had become predictable and gone off without a hitch. Tristan was grateful for the continuity and control of routine, but Pierce, well, he was always looking to liven up their time together, always looking for a little bit of adventure. At last year’s auction, he’d snuck in the model for his painting; he’d had her stand next to it to see if anyone realized that it was her. Thankfully, Tristan had realized who she was the moment he walked into the gallery and spotted her, quickly telling Pierce, in no uncertain terms, that she needed to leave immediately or he was out of the Guild. If she was there, there was a chance she could lead someone back to one of them. Or worse, if she was there, attendees might realize that the artists themselves were there as well.

They hadn’t spoken for weeks after that. Tristan had been irate; they created the Guild for a specific purpose, and to maintain their life and their sanity, their identities needed to stay concealed and Pierce had jeopardized that. If he wanted to go public, Tristan told him, that was his choice, but he would be doing it alone. Begrudgingly, Pierce had apologized, admitting that he was getting bored with their auction routine, that he wanted something to change. That was months ago.

This evening, Pierce had approached him before he even made it in the gallery, deviousness glinting in his eyes.

“What did you do?” Tristan exclaimed on seeing his partner striding purposefully towards him, immediately fearing the worst.

If Tristan was a golden God, Pierce was a dark Devil. Always dressed in all black, the fitted tux accentuated his jet-black hair and his even darker eyes. The high collar on his silk black shirt hid a scar that ran down the side of his neck onto his collarbone; he always wore high collars to any event. Even though, if you asked him about it, he would say that he ‘doesn’t give a fuck’ who sees it; when you’ve been to enough social gatherings with him, it was clear that the high collars were chosen for a specific purpose.

He liked to test the limits and push Tristan’s buttons. He was always plotting something, craving endless sources of entertainment to distract him from his fucked-up past. Most times, those somethings turned out to be harmless jokes or pranks, but sometimes there was an edge to him, a darkness that he kept inside, kept hidden from the rest of them and that is what usually got him into trouble.

“Nothing!” Pierce insisted, throwing his hands up in mock innocence.

“I know that look...what do you want?” Tristan questioned his friend again, the skepticism in his voice ringing loud and clear demanding to be answered.

“Well, I just happened to come across something on the way in that I thought would be fun for the three of us to do,” Pierce began, a sly smile creeping onto his face. “Sloane already agreed to it...”

“Of course, he did. Sloane will do anything that you tell him to,” Tristan responded a little too harshly.

The third member of their group was the quietest and most easily swayed out of all of them. Sloane was brilliant when it came to real estate and he was a master sculptor, but socially, he wasn’t as outgoing or controlling as either of them; which is why it was usually Tristan and Pierce who butted heads, and Sloane just tried to stay out of their way.

“Don’t be a Negative Nancy before I even finished telling you,” Pierce scolded. “The Met is hosting a competition.” Tristan cut him a sharp glance as they began to walk slowly into the gallery, not wanting to miss the start of the auction. “In six weeks, they are hosting the travelling exhibit called the Art of Love. Fifteen artists, fifteen pieces. Exhibit opens for a Saturday for visitor voting and winner gets $5 million.”

“No,” Tristan replied flatly, “we don’t do competitions.”

“Says who?” he countered. “Just because we haven’t before doesn’t mean that we can’t. C’mon Tris, we need to branch out.People are going to start becoming bored if we keep doing the same thing every year.”

Well that was true.

His jaw clenched, he hated it when Pierce had a point. He’d begun to wonder if they needed to do something out of the ordinary; if their yearly exhibits, while still doing well because of the hype and secrecy surrounding them, had begun to feel stagnant. Maybe it was all in his head, then again, Pierce was quite skilled at getting inside his head.

“We don’t produce art for money,” Tris countered, “and no matter how much you whine, that is part of our mission statement.”

“So then just give the money away! Or back to the museum! Who gives a shit?” he argued. “We just need to do something different, fuck. Remember how we got started? Shock-and-awe is what got us noticed; we need to bring some of that back.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Pierce,” Tristan replied firmly. “Why? Afraid I’ll win again?” Pierce taunted.

That got Tristan to stop in his tracks and give Pierce a cold stare. That was another thing that happened between Pierce and him – a healthy rivalry on good days...a fight to the death on bad ones. Since Sloane was a sculptor, he worked in a different medium than them and it was probably for the better. Pierce and Tristan, on the other hand, both worked on sketches, drawings, and paintings – all the same mediums; it was hard to not compare them and their talents.

Over the years, they’d fought over restorations that museums had requested the Guild to perform, each claiming that they could do the job better, and over reproductions as well. They’d battled to the point where they had begun to each send their own version of the masterpiece to see which one the museum liked better. When that got to be too time-consuming and petty because naturally, whosever’s version got picked held it over the other’s head for months, Morgan finally stepped in and began making the decision as to who would handle each request. It had cut down on most of the arguments and the time spent not talking to each other. Their competitiveness is what had made them so successful in their respective industries, and was so deeply engrained in their personalities that it was impossible to extricate it from their artistic work.

“What happens to the pieces?”

A slow smile spread over Pierce’s face, knowing that he’d won the argument. “Nothing, it’s still yours to keep or to donate or whatever you want.”

“I’m only agreeing to this because I know I will win,” Tristan clarified calmly, trying not to seem like he was just easily caving to Pierce’s persistence.

Pierce let out a bark of laughter, “Well, I’ve already signed us up so there’s no backing out. I should point out though that that’s what you said the last time, and we all know how that turned out,” he then responded with a wink.

Fucker.

The last time they had both submitted paintings to a museum, which was probably at least five years ago, the museum had picked Pierce’s work. Although, Tristan knew there was a reason it had ended up that way.

“Yes, and we all know why she chose yours,” Tristan replied, sarcastically. “It’s a little sad that you were so sure that you were going to lose that you needed to sleep with the curator in order to secure your win. I mean, she was pretty, but still – definitely not your usual type. Don’t worry, there’s no doubt that I’ll win this one. Unless you decide to sleep with Bernie, that is...” He returned his friend’s mocking wink.

Tristan watched with pleasure as the black depths of Pierce’s eyes flared in rage at his insinuation that he would sleep with Bernard Park, the curator of the Met, to win this competition too. Pierce could be so easily provoked sometimes; it was almost too easy to be fun.

“I think I’ll just submit the portrait I brought of my mom; if that doesn’t show true love, I don’t know what does,” he mused out loud, blindly enjoying the irritation growing over his friend’s face. “Plus, you wouldn’t know love if it came up and punched you in the face,” Tristan concluded with a sarcastic laugh. After a moment, he stopped, wondering if he had gone a little too far. Pierce still hadn’t replied and it looked like Tristan was the one who was about to be punched in the face.

“We’ll see,” Pierce finally said, his voice clipped and harsh, as he turned and stalked away. Tristan just stood there for a moment, watching him go.

This was not a good idea.

He wasn’t as bad as Pierce when it came to letting his emotions get the best of him, but he was still far too easily susceptible to them. Pierce didn’t care about winning, Tristan knew that. All he cared about was the thrill, the competition, the strategy of outsmarting the other person. Tristan, on the other hand, cared about winning, about being the best, and Pierce knew just what to say to get Tristan to play right into his hand.

At this point, he wasn’t concerned about the competition; he was more concerned about the white-hot rage that had flared in Pierce’s eyes when Tristan called him out for rigging the competition in his favor, and then proceeded to tell him that he had no knowledge of what love was. It was a low blow, he knew that; he’d been annoyed at himself for giving in to Pierce’s game and had wanted to just poke him in the eye a little bit for playing the competition card. But he might have poked just a little too hard.

Tristan began to move through the crowd trying to find him and offer a semblance of an apology. He was concerned that Pierce was going to take that rage and do something stupid to level the playing field; that’s what Pierce did, he acted on emotion with no forethought and rarely any regret. Most of the time, what he did was essentially harmless but, with that edge, you just never knew.

He shouldn’t have told him about his mother’s portrait; he’d given Pierce the upper hand with that information. Tristan’s mother, Viola Black, had died ten years ago from leukemia. Not long before she passed away, just before she’d gone into the hospital for the last time, she’d asked Tristan to draw her – at home and happy, just how she had wanted him to remember her. She’d told him that when he looked at it, he would remember just how much love she had for and wanted to give him.

He hadn’t had much formal training at that point, but even to this day, he was pleased with how well his younger self had done. For several years after her death, he couldn’t bring himself to pull the portrait out; it was too painful because she’d been his biggest supporter in everything that he’d done. Finally, a few years ago, he’d managed to open the drawing and hang it in his studio. Looking at it, it hadn’t felt complete, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to alter it until recently. This year, he’d fine-tuned the drawing, adding in all the finishing touches to make his mother’s memory complete. It had been truly a work of love and that is why he had no doubt it would win a competition focused on the art of portraying that emotion – one he had only this singular experience with.

Pierce had never, to his knowledge, created anything of that caliber, anything that personal. He was a player is every sense of the word. The excitement, the competition, that’s what held his interest. They all had gone through things in their respective pasts that shaped them, but Pierce, well, he had just gone through a little more than most and it made him come off as callous. Deep down, Tristan believed that he cared, just about very few people, and it took a long time for him to let you in that deeply.

Which is why what he had said struck a nerve with Pierce, not that Pierce wouldn’t forgive him, but there was definitely going to be some sort of retribution involved first.

He scanned the crowd again, but Pierce was nowhere to be seen. Finally, he spotted Sloane standing off to the side of the room, watching the announcer make his way up to the podium to begin the auction. That was typical Sloane, always off to the side, in the background, never wanting to draw attention.

Of the three of them, Tristan and Pierce definitely had the most striking features – light and dark. Sloane, on the other hand, was neither; his hair was wavy and a nondescript light brown. He kept it longer than theirs, to the point where he needed to pull it back when he was working. Without Tristan or Pierce to be compared to, he was very good-looking; when they were around, he tended to fade into the background, although that could have been on purpose. The only thing striking about him was his eyes; they were the clearest, most brilliant blue you’d ever seen.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you so much for coming tonight. On behalf of the Gentlemen’s Guild, I’d like to welcome you...” Tristan ignored the auctioneer’s booming voice, making his way swiftly over to Sloane.

“Have you seen Pierce?” Tristan leaned in and said into Sloane’s ear so that he could hear him.

“Earlier, why? Did he talk to you about the competition?”

“Yes. I’m surprised you agreed to do it before talking to me,” Tristan responded. Sloane’s crystal blue eyes widened for a moment before he let out a laugh. “You should know better than to believe everything that Pierce says,” he responded wryly. “I told him I would do whatever you two decide.”

“That fucker,” Tristan spat, not truly angry; it was his own fault for believing him.

“The first piece that we have for auction tonight is by Mr. Titian, from the Guild...”

Tristan looked up at the mention of his pseudonym just as the auctioneer paused, looking momentarily flustered as the audience watched Morgan come up behind him and hand him a piece of paper.

Tristan and Sloane shot each other confused expressions. Looking back to the podium, Tristan glimpsed Pierce standing well-hidden, off to the side of the stage, a satisfied smile on his face; and that’s when Tristan realized that Pierce’s revenge was beginning to unfold right in front of him before he could do anything to stop it.

“Sorry, everyone, just making sure I have all of the correct information here. As I was saying. Mr. Titian’s piece for auction this evening, is something very dear to him...” Tristan began to shove his way through the crowd, even though there was no way he would make it over there in time to have Morgan stop the announcer. His heart was pounding, rage making his vision blur. “This piece is entitled ‘Mother,’ we will start the bidding at two million, going once...”

Tristan’s hands fisted.

He was going to kill Pierce for this.

Continue To Chapter 2