cone on top. An uneven weaving in the canvas decided him. With a pencil, instead of the usual charcoal, and with T-square and right-angle, he made a replica of the exact drawing in his mind. Boy—simple! This was it. Geometric unity. Modern. And American!
The red barn was more difficult to place, so he left it until the background was in. He scraped the fusion of colors from yesterday's palette and, in clinical order, mixed and placed buttery mounds of preconceived hues around its edge. Carefully, with a flat sable brush, he laid in the sky. This, clear cerulean, with zinc white and a touch of cobalt—lighten and green it more toward the horizon.
Then, the fields. Green in spring and early summer, but somehow one always thought of them in harvest colors. Ochre, cadmium yellow medium, zinc white and a faint tinge of veridian. Might not be warm enough—could tell later. Now the church. Cadmium red, cadmium yellow, veridian, zinc white. Neutral grey and keep it thin.
The fundamental plan was good, but crude. In the next coat, the prairie should have a tinge of cadmium red instead of veridian. Also soften the horizon.
He rinsed the brush in turpentine, dried it, and drew it across the horizon in a gentle wave to blend earth and sky. Was it possible Breughel painted as simply as this? He scraped off the front of the church and repainted it, adding white and cadmium yellow because that was where the sun hit it.
What next?
The water had boiled off and his hand shook as he filled the dish again. He lit a cigarette and waited until the water boiled, pacing up and down studying the canvas. He poured the water through the rich Rembrandt-brown powder. The heady aroma and then the taste evoked a kaleidoscope of the world's treasures. Passionately he brushed in a Tintoretto storm cloud with the church grey. Again the edges must be softened, deepened. A small cadmium-red oblong near the horizon indicated where the barn would be. The composition lacked something. Lines. Exact clapboard lines in the structure of the church, perhaps even fence lines? And the patina of varnish. Defining details to come later when the paint had set.
He heard a slow familiar step and quickly put away the canvas lest Semy see it before it was finished.
"What are you doing here so early?"
"Just handed in my review of the sheriff's funeral—he was made up to kill."
