Richard Reiss

Two lone pines stand gracefully on a hilltop. Between them, a small stucco home with a black slate roof rests below a landscape of colored clouds, grey, blue and white, filling the sky. A short dirt path leads to the front door, and a wooden fence can be seen on one side of the grass-covered hill leading away from the house, where if one looks very hard, one might find a flower or two.

Maybe it was special. I really didn’t know, but it was always — in the back of my mind — the idea that I might have uncovered a hidden treasure. It’s illogical, of course. But as a young man my understanding of art was nonexistent. Yet this painting, which hung in my parents’ house from the day I was born until the day I sold their home nearly 60 years later, had always drawn me to it. Was it possible that something as lovely as this, with such an unusual power over me, might also be an object of great value?

The painting spoke to me. I liked its solitude. I liked that it was rustic. I liked to stare at it when my parents weren’t around and think that one day I might own this masterpiece, or perhaps even live in a house just like it. Decades later, years after my parents passed and the house was empty, it was one of the few things I kept.

Growing up, I never asked any questions about the painting. Had I done so, I might have asked my parents what drew them to this small work of art. Why was it the only painting in our home? Was there something about the artist’s style or brushstrokes that they found particularly unique or interesting? Was it a gift from a dear departed relative? Did it remind them of childhood trips to the country? How much was it worth?

The frame, like the painting, was weathered and stained from 60 years of exposure to my mother’s cigarette smoke. On its back was a stamp that said in English “Made in Italy” and in Italian “Reproduzione Violota,” meaning “do not copy.” I thought, “That’s a good sign. It must be valuable.”

The artist’s name was Redi, first name unknown. In my quest for information and possibly a big pile of money, I asked Siri about Redi. Siri said that Tommaso Redi was an artist born in Italy in 1665. He was respected in his field as a portrait artist working out of the famous Pitti Palace in Florence. Goldmine! His paintings hung in famous museums around the world and cost more than my first house.

Siri, however, was wrong. I soon surmised that hilltop cottages and soft clouds were not among this Redi’s body of work. While Siri let me down, Google did not. Google found my Redi, first name still unknown, for sale on eBay: “Antique Redi Signed Mountainside Scene W/ Houses Oil on Board Painting 12” X 16”.” My Redi was sort of on a mountain. My Redi was definitely on a board. My Redi was also 12 by 16 inches. However, what proved my Redi to be the same as the eBay Redi was the artist’s distinct signature. In bold black letter, all caps, as if Redi had taken a Sharpie to the painting when he realized he forgot to sign it, he boldly inscribed his imprimatur on the bottom right of the painting: REDI. The signatures were identical. My Redi had found its long-lost relative.

The eBay Redi would not draw six-figures and neither would mine should I ever want to part with it. The seller on eBay was asking $36 or best offer. For a moment, I thought about purchasing my Redi’s second cousin. It was, after all, the only other existing non-late-Baroque period Redi in the world. However, lacking the stain of nicotine over the years gave eBay Redi a different, almost foreign feel that seemed incompatible with my family treasure. Where my Redi was contemplative, eBay Redi was brash and arrogant. Where my Redi sought comfort, eBay Redi sought adventure.

I passed on eBay Redi and proudly hang half of the world’s contemporary Redi collection in my home. It’s a little dirty, but I don’t mind. I also don’t mind that I’m the only one in my family that seems to like it. The house on the hilltop, the one that I’ve looked at and thought about for most of my life, is right where it belongs: in my real house in the woods, where tall pines blow in the wind and memories carry me forward.