Painting in the Shadows

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘Might be a good idea if you – and possibly Fiona – finish repairing the Landseer too.’

  ‘The exhibition doesn’t open until next week and it’s coming along nicely, so I might take my time now; give us a chance to talk to people and do a bit more investigating.’

  ‘Snooping, you mean. Don’t you think we should turn this over to the charming Detective Hunter?’

  ‘Not yet.’ John shakes his head. ‘We still don’t have anything definitive. It’s only a torn-up photo of a Brett Whiteley painting; I doubt you could convince the detective there’s anything sinister in that.’

  I pick up the photo and study it again, moving it close to my eyes and then stretching my arm away. ‘It looks like it’s hanging on a storage rack, rather than a wall, but I’m not one hundred percent certain.’ I pass the picture across to John. ‘See on the left, you can sort of see the wire? And maybe what could be the edge of a frame – another painting?’

  John narrows his eyes, staring at the photo. ‘I see the bit you mean.’

  ‘So what if the painting is somewhere at MIMA?’

  ‘It would certainly explain how Meredith came across it.’

  ‘If we found the painting it might tell us a lot more.’

  ‘Well that doesn’t sound too difficult now, does it?’

  ‘Right. How hard could it possibly be to find a single painting? How many artworks does MIMA have? Seventy-eight thousand? Something like that?’ I roll my eyes at John.

  ‘Yeah, but some of those are sculptures and drawings. And there are only so many places you can stash a large painting. Tell you what, I’ll shout you a second coffee. That will make things seem more achievable. Then we’d better get cracking.’

  ***

  Back at MIMA, John checks on the repair. ‘Looks like I’m going to have to wait till tomorrow for Fiona to turn up, but then we’ll patch it. I assume Royal Holloway haven’t given the go-ahead for full lining.’

  ‘So how much longer is the job going to take?’

  ‘Patch tomorrow, another night for that to dry and then we can start the in-painting. That will be a couple more days depending on whether we need a gesso layer. But like I said, I’m not planning on rushing.’

  ‘So, assuming you’re not planning to work over the weekend … You are, aren’t you?’

  John shrugs. ‘You know I like to keep the momentum of a job going. Not to mention, it will seem as though I’m incredibly dedicated and toiling around the clock to have the painting ready for the exhibition. And of course, there’s the really big advantage.’ He stares at me expectantly.

  ‘Double time? An exorbitant bill for Giles?’

  ‘Well, duh, but not that. The Museum may be open upstairs, but we’ll have the guts of the place to ourselves. No admin, curatorial or conservation staff. If we’re going to look for a hidden painting, the only thing better would be to get ourselves locked in at night, but in case you haven’t noticed after all these years, I’m no Cary Grant. I’d set off every alarm in the place.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cary Grant? To Catch A Thief? Slick cat burglar?’

  ‘It was a rather obscure reference, but you’re right. You are definitely not Cary Grant.’

  John sticks out his tongue. ‘The point is, an excuse to be here and plenty of time to snoop.’

  ‘I’m going out on a limb here, but don’t you think they might lock a few doors before clearing out for the weekend?’

  ‘Giles is going to have to give me some sort of keys or key card or whatever it is they use. It might not get us everywhere, but hopefully it will get us to all the sorts of places a conservator or a curator might need to be in the course of a work day. Which presumably means the sorts of places where you might stash a painting.’

  ‘I didn’t sign on for this.’

  ‘No, but it’s so much more entertaining than your daily life, isn’t it?’

  ‘And how are you planning on explaining my continued presence to Giles? Are you going to say you need me to hold your hand?’

  ‘Under the circumstances, yes. I bet you he won’t bat an eyelid. The curse, Alex! Who could blame me for being jumpy?’ John grabs the front of his shirt in both hands and bunches it together. Eyes wide, he whips his head from left to right. ‘I could just not mention your presence to Giles, but then I’d have to smuggle you past security.’

  ‘Or you could just ask nicely.’

  ‘Hmm. On reflection that is perhaps a more sensible approach.’

  I sigh. ‘Fine. But there is no way you’re sitting in here dabbing away at the canvas while I do all the dirty work. If there’s sneaking around to be done, we’re doing it together.’

  ‘I think our friendship just reached a whole new level.’ John throws his arms wide for a hug.

  ‘Shut up.’ I shake my head.

  John grabs me anyway and squeezes for a moment, then pounds my back enthusiastically. When he lets go I make a show of straightening my top and dusting off my shoulders.

  ‘We need to see what we can find out about Brett Whiteley and the colour red,’ I say. ‘He’s not really an artist I’ve dealt in much, so there’d be nothing amongst my references. What about at your studio?’

  ‘Same. A couple of catalogues, but I can’t recall that there’s anything in those about red paintings.’

  ‘In that case, why don’t we go up to MIMA’s reference library and see what they’ve got? If you’re done here for the moment?’

  The Shelton Research Library is a treasure-trove buried deep in MIMA’s heart. I assume curatorial staff can pop in any time, but for mere mortals existing outside these hallowed, bluestone-clad walls, it’s strictly appointment only. The door is shut tight, only an amber glow through the frosted-glass panel hinting that anyone may be inside, but the button next to the door is helpfully marked Please Press. Very Alice in Wonderland, except this is about a painting by Whiteley, not Charles Blackman.

  John jabs at the bell and a moment later we’re rewarded with a buzz and click as the door is unlocked from within. I lean into it before the moment has passed and shoulder my way through, John at my heels. Immediately inside and to the left is a desk, and behind it sits a woman who must be the librarian. Unless perhaps Vogue is doing a photo shoot. Somewhere in her late twenties, at first glance she seems impossibly beautiful. An artful tumble of thick, black curls frames a heart-shaped face with creamy skin and dramatic cheekbones. Her green eyes are subtly highlighted by perfect, smoky shadow and her lips are that almost-nude shade of pink that makes me look ill but on her conveys an aura of understated elegance. The look is completed by what I can see of her clothes, which can only be described as library-chic. It’s just a shirt with a flounce at the neck beneath a sharply cut, navy jacket, and she probably got it at Laura Ashley or Country Road, but on this woman it looks like Chanel. Behind me, I hear John sigh.

  ‘Yes?’ She sets a pair of gold-framed glasses on her nose and peers up at us, and with that gesture and the tone of her voice, I find the librarian I was looking for, and at the same moment see all the little things hiding behind the façade of perfection. Eyes that are actually a bit too close together and have a harsh glint, lumpy skin beneath the thick foundation and a hint of brown roots at the crown of her head. Part of me feels like a bitch for even noticing, but it’s much smaller than the part that feels suddenly much happier about my own appearance.

  ‘We just need to do a bit of research,’ John says, using his jauntiest tone and placing both palms on the edge of the desk. Mr Smooth.

  ‘And you are?’ She picks up a clipboard and leans back, ever so slightly. ‘Names and positions?’

  John straightens up and waves a dismissive hand. ‘Oh we’re sort of on secondment. You won’t find us on the staff list. And before you ask, we don’t have an appointment.’

  ‘But here.’ I step forward, holding out
my visitor pass. ‘We’re completely legit. You can check with Giles Westerman if necessary.’

  She arches an eyebrow at me, then flicks her gaze back to my pass, pressing her barely-pink lips together. There is a moment’s silence.

  ‘That will be fine. Please sign in.’ She abandons the clipboard and pushes a small ledger forward. A biro on a piece of string sits on the open page.

  ‘Great, thanks,’ John says, grabbing the pen. Her eyebrow twitches again.

  ‘All books are here. If you need artist or exhibition ephemera, or any other material, you can cross-check the archive number in the catalogue.’ She gestures to a computer sitting incongruously next to an oak card-file cabinet. ‘Fill in a slip and I’ll retrieve what you need.’

  I step up to the desk. ‘Thanks. I think we’ll only need to consult books and possibly a catalogue or two.’ I sign my name in the ledger.

  ‘You can’t take any books out of the library.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ I’m all sweetness and light despite her frosty attitude, because I really want to dig into the library. I’ve been in here once or twice before, chasing down catalogues from obscure, early twentieth-century exhibitions, and it’s a lovely collection. As an art historian with a thing for research, I admit I’m geeking out just a little bit right now. The smell of books is rich in the air and I am itching to start.

  As Miss Jones – what I’m calling her in my mind – reclaims her sign-in ledger, I make my way to the catalogue. Just for the vintage library thrill of it, I go for the card files first and pull out the drawer marked W-X-Y-Z. Under Whiteley, B., I find listings for a book, two catalogues and a cuttings file. John is pecking away at the computer and I step across to read over his shoulder. Ignoring the stuff on Whiteley’s sculpture, graphics and drawings, there are an additional five items listed here that could be useful. Clearly the card file is on the way out.

  ‘I’ll get the monographs and you get the catalogues.’

  ‘No need.’ I point to the numbers on the screen. ‘The catalogues are for single-artist exhibitions, so they’re all on the same shelf.’

  Given that all the books in this library are on art, the Dewey decimal system is useless, so books are arranged in a variety of different ways, such as by art movement. Australian artists are alphabetised in their own section and we load ourselves up with the Whiteley titles and then move to one of the long tables. John sits opposite me and we both grab a book.

  The next hour passes quietly, only the whisper of turning pages marking time. I’m hoping to just find an image or two of red paintings rather than having to wade through text, and I assume from the rapid sound of John’s page-turning that he’s doing the same. My specialist period of Australian art has more of a late nineteenth and early twentieth-century focus, so Whiteley is a bit outside my area. I have a reasonable working knowledge of his style and oeuvre, but now as I scan past page after page of riotously rich paintings, I’m finding myself drawn to the colourful abstraction of Whiteley’s art. There’s a gloriously hippy-dippy and carefree vibe about his work. It’s not exactly romantic so much as a sensual delight in the things he was committing to canvas. Regardless of whether it was a woman in the shower, a lyrebird, or a busy day on Sydney Harbour, there’s something about the line and colour. Of course, like most artists, there are paintings that I think of as the B-list. The sort of things dashed off for a quick buck, the failed experiments, and the works created through a haze of drugs, alcohol or both. Sometimes an artist will end up destroying those pieces, but for the most part they kick around in the back pages of auction catalogues, showing up again and again like embarrassing relatives. Whiteley had a rough patch in the ’70s; it’s a well-known part of his biography and the evidence is there in a number of the paintings flipping past my eyes.

  ‘Hey now!’ John’s voice cuts through the quiet and I look up.

  ‘Something?’

  ‘Use of red, but not enough; it’s only one aspect of the painting.’ He swivels his book around to face me and slides it across the table.

  It’s a 1975 work titled Self Portrait in the Studio. The self-portrait part is Whiteley’s face reflected in a small hand mirror on the right of the frame. Part of a nude model dominates the left and the background is his trademark deep blue, but a large part of the centre of the painting features a rug or hanging – the skewed perspective makes it hard to decide – in a lovely deep crimson.

  ‘The right sort of red though.’ I lean in close to the book. There is a section of the red overpainted with a white table, but just the merest, spidery hint of a table. Perhaps it’s made of glass. At least it tells me the red thing is a rug. On the table sit assorted trinkets, a vase, and Whiteley’s tools of the trade: a palette, a couple of brushes and a reefer with a delicate plume of smoke curling up from one end.

  ‘Okay, so now we have precedent for that colour in his works,’ I say.

  ‘But our photograph shows something far more abstract than this studio scene.’

  ‘I know. And in ours, red is the dominant background colour with just a tracery of line and object over the top. It’s a pity the photo is so small. I’d like to know what the painting is actually about.’

  ‘Ah-hem.’ It comes from near my left elbow and both John and I jump. I seem to be doing that a lot lately. Miss Jones is standing at the end of our table swinging her gold-framed glasses. Her pencil skirt is crease-free and falls tastefully just above the knee.

  ‘This is a library. You’re creating a disturbance. I have to ask you to keep talk to a minimum and modulate your volume to a whisper.’ She lifts her chin just a fraction so she can stare down her nose at me.

  John looks at me, then stretches his torso and neck up, tilting from side to side in his chair and making an elaborate show of looking beyond me at the empty room. Then he half turns in his chair to look over his shoulder at the shelves behind him, populated only by books.

  ‘I’m sorry, has someone complained?’ He opens his eyes wide.

  I stifle a snort of laughter.

  ‘There are standards.’

  John opens his mouth to speak but I kick him under the table. When he looks at me I purse my lips and give my head the barest shake. He returns his focus to the librarian and smiles sweetly.

  ‘Of course there are standards,’ he soothes. ‘We’ll keep things as quiet as possible.’

  Her nose twitches with suspicion, but then she gives a curt nod and seems to pivot in position before gliding back to her desk on her shiny high-heeled pumps. Thick ankles. I smile.

  John leans toward me. ‘Why did you stop me?’ he hisses.

  ‘We just need to get this done and get out. I know it was a golden opportunity, but if she gets her sensible knickers in a twist she might decide to kick us out. And what if we actually need her to retrieve something from storage?’

  ‘Fine,’ he whispers, and sits back with a thump. ‘Let’s see what else we can turn up.’

  We both get back to our books. I take a new one from the stack between us, a thick tome by one of the best artist biographers in Australia. John’s find has given me a burst of energy and I get back to page-turning with enthusiasm. I quickly find another couple of paintings that incorporate our shade or something near it: a twisted, blue-trunked tree against an orange background, its canopy a blaze of crimson leaves, and a slightly disturbing abstract called The Dealer, where a smattering of red could be blood or discarded flower petals. I wonder if that’s how Whiteley felt selling his art, like he’d opened a vein and landed on a bed of roses at the same time.

  ‘Oooohhh.’ John lifts up his book and holds it so we can both see. Spread across two pages is a massive work, pre­dominantly red and made up of a number of panels. I reach across and pull the book a bit closer so I can read the caption.

  ‘American Dream, 1968-69, oil, tempera, collage, photography and objects on eighteen wooden pane
ls, 244 by 2196 centimetres,’

  It’s the first work we’ve come across where red is far and away the dominant colour. It still doesn’t look quite like our photo, but the colours and the style are there.

  ‘Apparently he painted it while staying at the Chelsea Hotel in New York.’ John pulls the book back in front of him and turns back a page, scanning the text.

  ‘Chelsea Hotel as in Jimi Hendrix, Robert Mapplethorpe, Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin?’

  ‘Yup. All best buds with Whiteley.’ John nods. ‘The painting’s supposed to chart his transition from unabashed optimism to realisation that America in the 1960s was a failed utopia.’

  ‘Is it also about drugs? Because let’s face it, the Chelsea Hotel in the ’60s …’ I realise both John and I are whispering.

  ‘No, but apparently there are minute notes scrawled in the work such as …’ He runs a finger down the page. ‘“It is easier to think than feel,” and, “1/5/1969 LSD first.”’

  ‘I’d call that a big yes, then. We’re getting closer, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yep, but we’re not quite there. From what I can tell, our image is just a straight painting. None of this experimentation with collage or other stuff.’

  John tucks a scrap of paper in the page and goes back to the search. When we’re done, we may as well photocopy whatever we turn up. Ten minutes later he finds another painting. This one’s called Sofala and it’s all about the red dry of an Australian outback town, water tanks and a fence standing out like white bones against the relentless crimson of the land. He marks it and moves on.

  I’m coming to the end of my last book when I turn a page and there it is. Well, not exactly, but close. Very, very, close. It’s quite a late work, painted in 1988, only four years before Whiteley died. By this stage he was dependent on alcohol, addicted to heroin, and his divorce from Wendy – long-time muse and wife of more than twenty-five years – was just around the corner. A lot of his work from this period shows evidence of this drastic decline, but not this painting. It’s called, Autumn (Near Bathurst) – Japanese Autumn, and its triptych format is bathed in crimson. More importantly, the tracings of fine white lines and details we can see in the photo are evident here, most notably in the third section. And when I go to flip the page, intending to check for more information, I notice someone has marked their place by lightly dog-earing the top right corner. Autumn. Suddenly that single word in the discarded diary has taken on a whole new significance.