The Modigliani Scandal Part 3

Julian put his hands on Peters shoulders. Let me explain something to you, old mate. I had twenty thousand pounds to start this gallery. You know how much Ive spent already? Nineteen thousand. You know how many pictures Ive bought with that? None.

Whats it all gone on?

Advance rent, furniture, decoration, staff, deposits on this, deposits on that, publicity. This is a hard business to get into, Pete. Now if I were to take you on, Id have to give you decent s.p.a.ce-not just because were friends, but also because otherwise it would get around that I was selling you short, and that would harm my reputation-you know what an incestuous little circle this is.

I know.

But your work isnt selling. Pete, I cant afford to use precious wall s.p.a.ce for work I cant sell. In the first six months of this year four London galleries went bankrupt. I could so easily go that way.

Peter nodded slowly. He felt no anger. Julian was not one of the fat parasites of the art world-he was at the bottom of the pile, along with the artists.

There was no more to be said. Peter walked slowly to the door. As he opened it Julian called out: Im sorry.

Peter nodded again, and walked out.

He sat on a stool in the cla.s.sroom at seven-thirty, while the pupils filed in. He had not known, when he took on the job of teaching art cla.s.ses in the local polytechnic, how grateful he would one day be for the 20 a week it brought in. The teaching was a bore, and there was never more than one youngster in each cla.s.s with even a glimmering of talent; but the money paid the mortgage and the grocery bill, just.

He sat silent as they settled behind their easels, wait ing for him to give the go-ahead or to begin a lecture. He had had a couple of drinks on the way: the expenditure of a few shillings seemed trivial compared with the disaster which had overtaken his career.

He was a successful teacher, he knew: the pupils liked his obvious enthusiasm and his blunt, sometimes cruel a.s.sessments of their work. And he could improve their work, even the ones with no talent; he could show them tricks and point out technical faults, and he had a way of making them remember.

Half of them wanted to go in for Fine Art qualifications, the fools. Somebody ought to tell them they were wasting their time-they should make painting their hobby, and enjoy it all their lives while working as bank clerks and computer programmers.

h.e.l.l, somebody ought to tell them.

They were all here. He stood up.

Tonight we are going to talk about the art world, he said. I expect some of you hope to become part of that world before too long. There were one or two nods around the room.

Well, for those who do, heres the best piece of advice anyone can give you. Forget it.

Let me tell you about it. A couple of months ago eight paintings were sold in London for a total of four hundred thousand pounds. Two of those painters died in poverty. You know how it works? When an artist is alive, he dedicates himself to art, pouring his lifes blood out on the canvas. Peter nodded wryly. Melodramatic, isnt it? But its true. You see, all he really cares about is painting. But the fat guys, the rich guys, the society women, the dealers, and the collectors looking for investments and tax losses-they dont like his work. They want something safe and familiar, and besides, they know nothing-sweet FA-about art. So they dont buy, and the painter dies young. Then, in a few years time, one or two perceptive people begin to see what he was getting at, and they buy his pictures-from friends he gave them to, from junk shops, from fly-blown art galleries in Bournemouth and Watford. The price rises, and dealers start buying the pictures. Suddenly the artist becomes (a) fashionable and (b) a good investment. His paintings fetch astronomical prices-fifty thousand, two hundred thousand, you name it. Who makes the money? The dealers, the shrewd investors, the people who had enough taste to buy the pictures before they became trendy. And the auctioneers, and their staff, and the salesroom, and their secretaries. Everybody but the artist-because hes dead. Meanwhile, todays young artists are struggling to keep body and soul together. In the future, their pictures will sell for astronomical sums-but thats no good to them now.

You might think the Government would take a cut on these big art deals, and use it to build low-rent studios. But no. The artist is the loser, always.

Let me tell you about me. I was somewhat exceptional-my work started to sell well during my lifetime. I took out a mortgage and fathered a child on the strength of it. I was Englands up-and-coming painter. But things went wrong. I was overpriced, they say. I went out of fashion. My manners dont quite fit in with polite society. Suddenly, Im desperately poor. Im on the sc.r.a.p heap. Oh, Ive still got enormous talent, they say. In ten years time Ill be at the top. But meanwhile, I can starve, or dig ditches, or rob banks. They dont care-you see- He paused, and realized for the first time how long he had been speaking, and how engrossed he had been in his own words. The cla.s.sroom was completely silent in the presence of such fury, such pa.s.sion, and such a naked confession.

You see, he said finally, the last thing they care about is the man who actually uses his G.o.d-given gift to produce the miracle of a painting-the artist.

He sat down on the stool then, and looked at the desk in front of him. It was an old school desk with initials carved in the woodwork, and ancient ink stains soaked into its wood. He looked at the grain, noticing how it flowed like an op-art painting.

The pupils seemed to realize that the cla.s.s was over. One by one they got up, put their things together, and left. In five minutes the room was empty but for Peter, who laid his head on the desk and closed his eyes.

It was dark when he got home to the small terraced house in Clapham. It had been difficult to get a mortgage on the place, cheap as it was, because of its age. But they had managed it.

Peter had turned handyman and created a studio out of the upper floor, knocking down internal walls and making a skylight. The three of them slept in the bedroom downstairs, leaving one living room and the kitchen, bathroom and toilet in an extension at the back.

He went into the kitchen and kissed Anne. I relieved my feelings by shouting at the kids, Im afraid, he said.

Never mind, she smiled. Mad Mitch has come to cheer you up. Hes in the studio. Im just making some sandwiches for us.

Peter went up the stairs. Mad Mitch was Arthur Mitch.e.l.l, who had studied with Peter at the Slade. He had become a teacher, refusing to go into the risky, commercial business of being a full-time artist. He shared Peters utter contempt for the art world and its pretensions.

He was looking at a recently finished canvas when Peter walked in.

What do you think of it? Peter said.

Bad question, Mitch replied. It invites me to pour out a load of bulls.h.i.t about movement, brush-work, design, and emotion. Better to ask whether I would hang it on my wall.

Would you hang it on your wall?

No. It would clash with the three-piece suite.

Peter laughed. Are you going to open that bottle of scotch you brought with you?

Sure. Lets have a wake.

Anne told you?

She did. Youve discovered for yourself what I warned you of years ago. Still, theres nothing like finding out on your own account.

Ill say. Peter fetched two grubby gla.s.ses from a shelf, and Mitch poured whisky. They put on a Hendrix record, and listened to the fireworks from the guitar in silence for a while. Anne brought cheese sandwiches, and the three of them proceeded to get drunk.

The worst of it, Mitch was saying, the kernel, as it were, of the s.h.i.t, as it is- Peter and Anne laughed at the mixed metaphor. Go on, Peter said.

The fundamental piece of G.o.dawful b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, is the uniqueness of a work. Very few paintings are unique in any meaningful sense. Unless theres something very tricky about it-like the Mona Lisa smile, to take the outstanding example-then it can be repeated.

Not exactly, Peter put in.

Exactly where it matters. A few millimeters of s.p.a.ce, a difference in color which is only just noticeable-these things dont matter with your average fifty-thousand-pound painting. My G.o.d, Manet didnt paint an exact replica of an ideal picture in his head-he just put the paint roughly where he thought it ought to go. He just mixed the color until it seemed about right.

Take the Virgin of the Rocks Virgin of the Rocks. Theres one in the Louvre, one in the National Gallery. Everybody agrees that one of them is a fake-but which? The Louvres, say the London experts. The National Gallerys, say the French. Well never know-but who cares? You just have to look at them to see their greatness. Yet if somebody found out for certain that one was a fake, n.o.body would go to see it anymore. Bulls.h.i.t.

He drank from his gla.s.s, and poured more whisky. Anne said: I dont believe you. It would take almost as much genius to copy a great painting, and get it right, as it would to paint it in the first place.

Rubbish! Mitch exploded. I'll prove it. Gimme a canvas, and Ill paint you a van Gogh in twenty minutes.

Hes right, Peter said. I could do it, too.

But not as fast as me, said Mitch.

Faster.

Right, said Mitch. He got to his feet. "We'll have a Masterpiece Race.

Peter jumped up. Youre on. Now-two sheets of paper-we cant waste canvas.

Anne laughed. Youre both mad.

Mitch pinned the two bits of paper on the wall while Peter got two palettes out.

Mitch said: Name a painter, Anne.

All right-van Gogh.

Give us a name for the picture.

Umm-The Gravedigger.

Now say ready, steady, go.

Ready, steady, go.

The two began painting furiously. Peter outlined a man leaning on a shovel, dabbed in some gra.s.s at his feet, and started to give the man overalls. Mitch began with a face: the lined, weary face of an old peasant. Anne watched with amazement as the two pictures took shape.

They both took longer than twenty minutes. They became absorbed in their work, and at one point Peter walked to the bookshelf and opened a book at a color plate.

Mitchs gravedigger was exerting himself, pressing the shovel into the hard earth with his foot, his bulky, graceless body bent over. He spent several minutes looking at the paper, adding touches, and looking again.

Peter began to paint something small in black at the bottom of his sheet. Suddenly Mitch yelled: Finished!

Peter looked at Mitchs work. Swine, he said. Then he looked again. No, you havent-no signature. Ha-hah!

b.a.l.l.s! Mitch bent over the picture and started to sign it. Peter finished his signature. Anne laughed at the pair of them.

They both stepped back at once. I won! they shouted in unison, and both burst out laughing.

Anne clapped her hands. Well, she said. If we ever hit the breadline, thats one way you could make a crust.

Peter was still laughing. Thats an idea, he roared. He and Mitch looked at one another. Their smiles slowly, comically, collapsed, and they stared at the paintings on the wall.

Peters voice was low, cold, and serious. Jesus Christ Almighty, he said. Thats an idea.

IV.

JULIAN BLACK WAS A little nervous as he walked into the entrance of the newspaper office. He got nervous a lot these days: over the gallery, the money, Sarah, and his in-laws. Which were really one and the same problem.

The marbled hall was rather grand, with a high ceiling, polished bra.s.s here and there, and frescoed walls. Somehow he had expected a newspaper office to be scruffy and busy, but this place looked like the lobby of a period brothel.

A gold-lettered signboard beside the ironwork elevator shaft told visitors what was to be found on each floor. The building housed a morning and evening paper as well as a clutch of magazines and journals.

Can I help you, sir? Julian turned to see a uniformed commissionaire at his shoulder.

Perhaps, Julian said. Id like to see Mr. Jack Best.

Would you fill in one of our forms, please?

Puzzled, Julian followed the man to a desk on one side of the foyer. He was handed a little green slip of paper with s.p.a.ces for his name, the person he wanted to see, and his business. This kind of screening process was probably necessary, he thought charitably as he filled out the form with the gold Parker in his pocket. They must get a lot of screwb.a.l.l.s coming along to a newspaper office.

It also made you feel rather privileged to be allowed to speak to the journalists, he thought. While he waited for the message to be taken to Best, he wondered about the wisdom of coming in person. It might have been as well just to send out press releases. He smoothed his hair and straightened his jacket nervously.

There had been a time when nothing made him nervous. That was many years ago. He had been a champion schoolboy distance runner, head prefect, leader of the debating team. It seemed he could do nothing but win. Then he had taken up art. For the umpteenth time, he traced his troubles back to that crazy, irrational decision. Since then he had done nothing but lose. The only prize he had won was Sarah, and she had turned out to be a phony kind of victory. Her and her gold Parkers, he thought. He realized he was clicking the b.u.t.ton of the ballpoint compulsively, and stuffed it back into his jacket pocket with an exasperated sigh. Her gold everything, and her Mercedes, and her gowns, and her b.l.o.o.d.y father.

A pair of scuffed, worn-down Hush Puppies appeared on the marble steps and began to shuffle down. Creaseless brown cavalry twills followed, and a nicotine-stained hand slid along the bra.s.s banister. The man who came into sight was thin and looked rather impatient. He glanced at a green slip in his hand as he approached Julian.

Mr. Black? he said.

Julian stuck out his hand. How do you do, Mr. Best.

Best put a hand to his face and brushed a long lock of black hair off his face. What can I do for you? he said.

Julian looked around. Clearly he was not going to be invited up to Bests office, or even asked to sit down. He plowed on determinedly.

Im opening a new gallery on the Kings Road shortly, he said. Naturally, as art critic of the London Magazine youll be invited to the reception, but I wondered if I might have a chat with you about the aims of the gallery.

Best nodded noncommittally. Julian paused, to give the man a chance to ask him up to the office. Best remained silent.

Well, Julian went on, the idea is not to get involved with a particular school or artistic group, but to keep the walls free for all kinds of fringe movements-the kind of thing thats too way-out for the existing galleries. Young artists, with radical new ideas. Julian could see that Best was already getting bored.

Look, let me buy you a drink, would you?

Best looked at his watch. Theyre closed, he said.

Well, um, how about a cup of coffee?

He looked at his watch again. Actually, I think the best plan would be for us to have a chat when you actually open. Why dont you send me that invitation, and a press release about yourself, and then well see if we cant get together later on.

Oh. Well, all right then, Julian said. He was nonplussed.

Best shook hands. Thanks for coming in, he said.

Sure. Julian turned away and left.

He walked along the narrow street toward Fleet Street, wondering what he had done wrong. Clearly he would have to think again about his plan of calling on all the London art critics personally. He would write, perhaps, and send a little essay on the thinking behind the Black Gallery. They would all come to the reception-there was free booze at that, and they would know their pals would be there.

G.o.d, he hoped they would come to the reception. What a disaster it would be if they did not turn up.

He could not understand how Best could be so blase. It wasnt every week, or even every month, that a new art gallery opened in London. Of course, the critics had to go to a lot of shows, and most of them only had a few inches of s.p.a.ce every week. Still, you would think they would at least give the place a once-over. Maybe Best was a bad one. The worst, hopefully. He grinned, then shuddered, at his unconscious pun.

Nothing turned to gold anymore. He went back in his mind to the time when he had begun to lose his touch. Deep in thought, he joined a bus queue and stood at the curb with his arms folded.

He had been at art school, where he had found that everyone else was just as good as he at putting on that ultracool, throwaway hip style which had stood him in such good stead for the last couple of years at public school. All the art students knew about Muddy Waters and Allen Ginsberg, Kierkegaard and amphetamines, Vietnam and Chairman Mao. Worse, they could all paint-but Julian couldnt.