Marcus Green had never had much success as a painter. The problem was that he had never been much of an original thinker. He was a master at copying the styles of many famous painters but had never developed one of his own. He had painted an imitation of Monet's Bassin des Nymphéas (Waterlily Pond), entitled Cattails by the Pond. It had netted him enough to buy a pizza, a pack of cigs, a cheap bottle of brandy, and a few new brushes. He had read Wallace Stevens's The Man with the Blue Guitar, and had gone to see Picasso's famous painting which had inspired it, The Old Guitarist. He had painted his The Girl with the Red Violin shortly thereafter. It was still sitting in the corner of the loft where he worked. He had an unsold self-portrait done in the style of Van Gogh with heavy, swirling brushstrokes, and an unsold Post-Impressionist, Cézanne-inspired, The Gross Bathers, in imitation of Cézanne's The Great Bathers. The main difference was, Marcus's painting had extremely fat, naked people in it. It caused a certain degree of revulsion in most of its viewers.

    But now, Marcus was working on something different; something original. He stared at the blank canvas in front of him for several minutes, visualizing the idea which had come into his head. An idea which seemed to have come from nowhere, and yet, which seemed to have come from somewhere else, as well. Almost like someone else had whispered it in his ear. He dipped his brush in the paint and placed a tiny dot on the left-hand side of the canvas, near the edge. He studied it a moment and then he placed a larger dot to the right of it, smearing it a little. The larger dot looked vaguely like a recliner or something. Curious, he painted a slightly larger dot to the right and slightly below the second one. This dot looked like a man sitting in a chair, hunched over something. Excited now, Marcus continued the progression, following the advancing line of perspective from left to right, and from back to front. The painting took on shape and form. It was a Rockwellian self-portrait of sorts, but entirely different. He sat back for a moment and studied the canvas. The dot had turned into a chair, the chair to a painter and the painter to Marcus Green, each painting the other who painted the one in front of them, on and on into the infinity of the tiny dot on the left-hand side of the canvas. He studied the image to the far right. It showed him painting. The shirt was an exact duplicate of what he was wearing. The hair was thin and patchy in exactly the right places, and gray or black in exactly the right places. The belt, the pants, the socks, the shoes, the grain of the wood chair, the flaws and imperfections, the lighting, the background, the atmosphere, all were perfect. He was proud. He was more than proud, he was ecstatic. But mingled with his pride was fear, for he felt that this painting, somehow, was not his creation.

    Nervous now, he dipped the brush in the paint and moved it toward the right-hand side of the canvas. He felt like his hand was probably shaking too badly to paint, but the strokes were swift and steady. A hand began to take shape and in it was a brush. The fingers were clearly defined. The veins stood out. The tension was captured perfectly. Flexor tendons rose along the back of the hand. The nails were perfect, down to the half-moon shapes at their base. Wrinkles at the knuckle joints, old scars, hairs, the ring. . .Marcus concentrated on the hand he was painting like he had never concentrated before. His whole mind, his whole spirit became the thing he was painting. He could see nothing else. He could smell, taste and feel nothing else. In the distance, behind him, he could hear a muffled conversation taking place, but he couldn't make out the words. It didn't matter. He had the hand. The painting had to be finished.

    "And this interesting piece," the gallery director said, "has a fascinating story behind it."

    "And what is that, William?"

    "Well, Mrs. Stevenson, the painter is unknown, and I mean, really unknown. This piece was found in an abandoned loft near the waterfront. Evidently, the painter had been using it as a studio. In one of the loft's corners, the owner found several lesser paintings, dreadful things, really, but this magnificent piece was sitting on the easel. The paint was still wet, and the artist was nowhere to be found. The owner waited around for him but he never showed up."

    Mrs. Stevenson read the signature from the painting. "Marcus Green. I wonder who he is. . . .or was. My God! Look at that hand! It almost looks like it's moving! The detail is amazing!  I'll take it. How much?"

    "Two thousand."

    "Done.  It would be a bargain at twice that."

    Marcus Green had the strangest feeling that he was being watched. He could feel the skin on the back of his hand tingling, and the short, bristly hairs standing on end. He tried to turn around and look behind him, but he couldn't move. As William wrapped the painting and handed it to Mrs. Stevenson, Marcus Green felt the darkness close in and a dizzying sense of vertigo. . .