Everybody’s A Critic [FICTOID]

The chief obstetrician at Manhattan Maternity Hospital called the department head. “The damnedest thing just happened,” the obstetrician said.  “We delivered a baby with a copy of Bruegel’s The Fall Of Icarus painted on its chest.”

“You mean a birthmark that reminds you of Bruegel’s work?” the department head asked.

“No, I mean an actual oil painting -- well, I suppose we need to wait until the lab runs an analysis to make sure, but it certainly looked like oil paint.”

A long, long pause before the department head spoke again.  “I’m ordering an inventory on the narcotics cabinet.”

“No, I mean it!  An actual bona fide reproduction of The Fall Of Icarus painted on the child’s chest.”

“Do you expect me to believe a child with The Fall Of Icarus on its chest?  Why, that painting is at least two-and-a-half by three-and-a-half feet wide.  The infant would need to be a giant!”

 “Of course not, that would be ridiculous.  It was a miniature painting.“

“If you’re trying to perpetrate some hoax -- “

“I have proof!”

“Proof?”

“The father.  We gave him permission to record the birth on his iPhone.  His video documents the entire thing.”

“You mean other people saw this?”

“Yes.  Him, me, two nurses.”

“What about the mother?”

“She seemed preoccupied at the time.”

Another pause, this not quite as long.  “So why call me?” the department head asked.

“Well, you are the senior member of the department.  I thought you might have some insight.”

“You think being the head of the department makes me an expert on 17th century Flemish painters?”

“No, of course not…but I had hoped you might have some idea how the painting got there.”

“Oil painting, you say?  Not acrylic or watercolor?”

“No.”
“Do you still have this remarkable baby?”

“Well, of course!  We weren’t expecting to send the family home for another forty-eight hours.”

“I want to see this painting for myself – “

“Er…that might be difficult.”

“’Difficult’?”

“Wrong choice of words.  Impossible.  As is standard procedure, we wiped the afterbirth off the child soon after it emerged.  The oil painting hadn’t dried so it came right off.  I told the nurse to send the wipe to the lab for analysis, but…”

“The painting is gone.”

“Except for the video evidence, yes.”

“Bad news.  Bad news, indeed.  Do you realize how much mileage we could get out of something like this with the press?  Better than cojoined twins.  Could have worked wonders for our next fund-raising drive.”

“We have the video.”

“Yes, better than nothing, I suppose.  But let’s get down to facts:  How did the painting get on the child?”

“I couldn’t say.  The amniotic sac remained intact.  Besides, how could one get a paintbrush up there even under the best of conditions?”

“Hmmm, good point.

“And it couldn’t have been on the child’s chest long, either -- the infant’s in utero movement would have smeared it.”

Another long pause, this time broken by the doctor.  “Do you have any ideas?”

“I’ve got nothing.”

The doctor sighed. 

“Why The Fall Of Icarus?” the department head mused.  “Is the artist trying to tell us something?  A caution against hubris?  A sign the most extraordinary events are ignored by the hoi polloi?”

“You sound philosophical.  Are you an art critic?”

“Only in my spare time.  Perhaps it’s a cry against modernism?”

“That’s one hell of a choice of canvas for that, if you ask me.”

“What about the father?  What does he know of this?  Is he some sort of kook?  Radical?”

“He seems like a nice, charming, thoughtful young man.”

“He’s the only wild card in the scenario, the only person one doesn’t typically find in a maternity room.”

“You think he might have something to do with it?”

“Why not?  You yourself said he took video.  That indicates some sort of artistic bent.”

“I hardly think that is the case; he seems to be more of an impressionist, if you ask me.”

© Buzz Dixon