Painting in the Shadows

by Katherine Kovacic

  After the first two we figure out the fastest way to tackle the job is if we do one rack at a time but stand on opposite sides so we can see everything in one go. Rack after rack slides in and out with nothing to show. They all move very smoothly, but we’re doing it as quietly as possible, which means slow and careful, and with each negative I can feel myself getting more and more anxious.

  ‘How long do you think we’ve got?’

  ‘After Kev heard you holding forth I figure he’ll keep clear for at least ten more minutes, but we should aim to be back near one of the Whiteleys before then.’

  ‘So we can do about three more racks.’

  ‘If we hustle.’ John rolls out the next rack.

  ‘Why do they store things according to accession number instead of by the artist’s name?’ I scan my side of the mesh.

  ‘I don’t even think it’s by accession number. I think it’s like Tetris; they’ve got a certain amount of space and all these squares and rectangles, well mostly, of various sizes, and it just comes down to how they can best fit the most stuff in. Done?’

  ‘Yep, nothing,’ I say. We both roll the rack back and move on, sliding out the next.

  ‘Oh wow!’

  ‘What? Have you found it?’ This rack is so heavily hung that I can’t see John through the mesh.

  ‘No but there’s this amazing painting by Septimus Power that you just have to see!’

  ‘We don’t have time.’

  ‘Seriously.’ He rolls the rack back a little so I can come forward onto his side. ‘Check it out.’

  It’s a near life-size painting of a group of Australian Light Horsemen charging straight out of the canvas toward the viewer. You can see the flare of the horses’ nostrils and just about hear the thunder of their hooves. The foreshortened perspective is difficult to pull off, but this is a bravura performance by the artist.

  ‘Why is this not on permanent display?’ John says.

  ‘Because no matter how good an artist Sep was, he stopped being fashionable decades ago. Maybe if I take the curator position I could organise an exhibition.’

  ‘What curator position?’ John turns the LED on my face.

  ‘Would you point that thing somewhere else?’ I bat at John’s hand and he drops the light, which goes skittering away under the racks. Luckily it stays on, and I can see the beam pointing at a crazy angle, about three or four rows ahead of where we are. ‘Great.’

  ‘What curator position?’

  Somewhere up ahead a door opens and closes.

  ‘Dr Clayton? Mr Porter?’ Kev is coming for us.

  ‘Quick!’ John slides the rack back into place.

  ‘What do we do about the light?’ We hurry forward to the row nearest the fallen light.

  ‘We’re not far from where Painting is hanging. We’ll just tell Kev that’s where we were when I dropped it.’

  There is a soft rumbling sound as Kev returns the rack holding Park under sunlight to its resting place. We use the covering noise to reposition ourselves back near the remaining exposed rack.

  ‘Down here, Kev.’ John raises his voice a little.

  ‘Don’t mean to hassle you, but you’ve been a while and it’s getting on for knock-off time. We lock up here a bit earlier.’

  ‘Sorry. We don’t want to keep you,’ I say. ‘In fact, we’re done for now.’

  ‘We were just about to head out, but then I dropped the light.’ John holds out his hand, fingers splayed and palm down. ‘Steady as a rock when I’m working but complete klutz otherwise.’

  ‘No harm done. Those things are tough as. Look, I can see it from here.’ He pushes the rack back into place and heads for the steady beam of the lamp.

  I give John a discreet thumbs up.

  ‘It’s not too far in there.’ Kev crouches down and extends an arm toward the lamp. ‘But I can’t reach. Maybe if we pull this rack all the way out it will give me a bit more reach.’

  Kev pulls the random rack out as he’s speaking, then lies on the floor and extends his arm into the gap. ‘Nearly, nearly …’

  But I’m not paying attention to Kev anymore. John grabs my arm, but I don’t look at him either. Hanging right in front of me on the rack Kev has just pulled out is the red Whiteley.

  ‘Got it!’ Kev starts to shimmy backwards on the floor.

  I look at John and point to Kev, mouthing the words, ‘Do we say anything?’

  John shrugs but it doesn’t matter because Kev has already begun to push the rack back and he must see something on our faces because he stops what he’s doing and takes one step toward us, turning to see what has caught our attention.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ He looks from the painting back to us.

  ‘No.’ It comes out weakly so I try again. ‘No. We were just surprised by this painting. It’s –’ John kicks my ankle.

  ‘It’s remarkably similar to Whiteley’s style, but of course it’s not a Whiteley.’ John extends his hand for the lamp. ‘May I?’

  He steps forward and starts to play the light over the surface of the painting. I see Kev look at his watch.

  ‘Perhaps we’d best leave this for another time? Or could we let ourselves out in ten minutes, Kev?’

  ‘I can probably wait.’ Kev’s dead tone completely belies the words.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Come on John, we don’t want to wear out our welcome.’ I grab the bottom of John’s jacket and give it a gentle tug. ‘I’m sure Kev will let us spend a bit of time with this work another day.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’ John is backing slowly away from the paint­ing, and continues to shine the lamp on it as Kev gradually rolls the rack into place.

  ‘Right then.’ Kev extends both arms and herds us toward the exit. ‘Just let me know when you want to pop back.’

  ‘Thanks, you’ve been incredibly helpful.’

  We say goodbye and get in the elevator, leaving Kev to lock up. The doors close and we start to descend.

  ‘Well holy shit,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t believe it. We’re going nuts trying to find a proverbial needle in a haystack and then … poof!’ John makes an exploding gesture with his hands.

  ‘When you said to Kev that it wasn’t a Whiteley, was that just to throw him off? I mean, he told us how many Whiteleys are supposed to be in storage here. So was it just that, or …’

  ‘I said it for Kev’s benefit but, and I qualify this because I hardly had a chance to look at it, I think it’s a fake.’

  ‘How could you possibly know? You saw it for all of five seconds.’

  ‘You know how it is,’ he says. ‘I’m not a Whiteley expert, but it just didn’t feel right. After all the things we’ve been looking at, well, this painting just didn’t have it. No spontaneity, none of that cheeky wit that we’ve seen in Whiteley’s paintings.’ John shrugs. ‘It just looked a bit forced. And then when I got up close to a few bits, the application of paint was different. Of course, I’d have to look at a hell of a lot more genuine Whiteleys to follow-up on that, but …’

  ‘I guess we’ve got no way of comparing pigments or anything like that. Given that anything genuine was painted fairly recently anyway.’

  ‘Exactly, so it’s all down to technique. I’m sure someone who knew his work better would have a more definite opinion though.’

  ‘And we add to your misgivings the fact that there is not supposed to be more than two paintings by Whiteley currently in that storage area.’

  ‘Not to mention Meredith and the torn photo.’

  The elevator does a little dip before settling on the ground floor and we step out into an empty hall. I turn to face John.

  ‘Did you notice what else was on that particular rack?’

  ‘I saw nothing except the mother of all red Whiteleys. I mean, I clocked that there were some other things there, but I j
ust didn’t pay any attention to them.’

  ‘I get that, but I wish you had. Because I have a feeling that the other things on that rack go a long way to supporting your opinion of the red Whiteley.’

  ‘Why, what was there? A large paint-by-numbers only half finished?’

  ‘Almost as good. There was a second Whiteley – a Lavender Bay image – plus two drawings, which from where I was standing looked like a Matisse and a Chagall.’

  ‘Basically “Art Forgery for Dummies” then.’

  ‘Nothing more likely to be faked than a drawing by Matisse or Chagall.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m even saying this but the upshot is, someone in MIMA is dealing in fakes, possibly producing them, and Meredith either found out about it or was in on it. Is that what we think?’

  Somewhere behind me, a door opens on a sudden burst of conversation and I whip my head around sharply. John and I have gotten far too wrapped up in our own discussion and forgotten where we are.

  ‘Let’s go.’ I grab his arm and steer him toward a door leading out into the public spaces. ‘We can’t do this here.’

  This time when I suggest John comes back to my place, he doesn’t argue.

  ‘Do you want to stop in Chapel Street and grab some Chinese?’ I ask. We’re driving through the Domain Road inter­section and happily it’s only four-thirty so we’re ahead of the worst traffic.

  ‘Not unless you do. I’m not that hungry, really.’

  ‘I’m good. However, given that supplies at chez moi are perilously low, how about I pop into Paterson’s and get some Melba cakes? I’m sure they’ll still have some of the strawberry ones left.’ Paterson’s is an institution and John has a particular thing for Melbas: a wicked little combination of puff and choux pastry, icing on top and cream filling.

  ‘Why didn’t you start with the Melbas? I mean, there’s hungry and then there’s Melbas. They’re not mutually exclu­sive, but at the same time, they really have no relationship with each other.’

  ‘Do I take that as a yes?’

  John doesn’t bother answering, he just flips on the indicator and turns into High Street.

  ‘So this curator’s position.’ John shoots me a quick sideways look before turning back to the stop-start traffic. ‘When were you going to mention it?’

  ‘It only happened today, and then when I came to see you, you’d forgotten your lunch with Sue … and then we went to look for the Whiteley. There was a lot going on and no time to talk.’

  ‘Now is good.’ John slams on the brakes as the car in front of us suddenly stops, then indicates right. ‘Now is very good.’

  I drag both hands back through my hair. ‘There’s not much to tell, really. I met with Barbara, we saw the exhibi­tion – which is going to be fab by the way – she made a few comments about how much I love that stuff, and then she took me to lunch and offered me a job at MIMA, working with her in International Art, or, more specifically, British and European Art.’

  John is silent, but his right hand is drumming rapidly on the steering wheel.

  ‘She said she’d already spoken to the director about me.’

  The car in front finally turns and John accelerates a bit harder than necessary. ‘What about –’

  ‘He doesn’t work there anymore.’ I cut John off before he can say that name.

  ‘I know that, Alex. I was going to say, what about how they treated you? Do you really want to work in a place like that?’

  I turn my head to look out the side window. ‘I thought I didn’t, but now that I have the chance,’ I turn back to John, ‘I don’t know. This time Barbara would have my back.’ It comes out sounding a bit plaintive.

  ‘Would she? Really?’ He swings the van into Chapel Street.

  ‘She said so, and she apologised for not doing more ten years ago. Not that it was her fault anyway.’

  ‘I’m sorry Alex, I don’t mean to be an arsehole about it, but they made your life hell.’

  ‘Think of it like this: if I take the job, it will be like a giant fuck you to all of those people.’

  ‘I see the appeal of that.’

  ‘Look, I only said I’d think about it. So we’ll just add it to our list of things we need to talk about. I could even make a list of pros and cons.’

  John snorts. ‘It would probably be more realistic if I make the list for you, and you can make me a list of marriage pros and cons. Far more honest that way.’ He suddenly spins the wheel to the left and manages to wedge the van into a spot that is half legitimate carpark, half loading zone.

  ‘So no lists then.’ I unbuckle my seat belt. ‘Do you want anything else? Sausage roll? Vanilla slice?’

  ‘Just double-down on the Melbas. A sugar-induced coma is looking like a fairly attractive proposition at the moment.’

  I lean back into the van, one hand on the door. ‘If that fails, I have alcohol.’

  ‘Win-win.’ John reaches across and pulls open the glove box, extracting a twenty and waving it at me. I hesitate for a moment, then take it from his outstretched hand.

  Inside Paterson’s, stocks are somewhat depleted, but I round out the half-dozen cakes with an assortment of savoury slices, cheese puffs and mini pies. Who says I don’t have a balanced diet? I dodge back through the thickening traffic and clamber into the van, arranging my purchases on the bench seat between us.

  ‘So enough about me and the rest of my life, let’s talk about the rest of your life,’ I say as John cranks the van back to life.

  ‘Can we wait until the alcohol is flowing before we get to that?

  ‘Only on the condition that I get to take your mobile away first. I’m not having you drunk-dial Sue and beg.’

  ‘Trust me, I’m beyond that.’

  ‘John. Mate. Have you seen yourself drunk? How many times did I scrape you off the floor when we were at uni? It is not pretty and the one thing you do without fail is get soppy, maudlin and teeth-grindingly pathetic. The phone.’

  ‘What sort of booze are we talking about?’

  ‘All your classic spirits, a few bottles of red and white, and there’s probably some questionable Malibu and Midori in the back of the cupboard if you get desperate.’

  ‘Sounds like the bases are covered. Okay, I’ll relinquish the phone. But we will be revisiting your career with the benefit of alcohol.’

  ‘Given that my career can only benefit from alcohol, I do not see a problem with that.’

  I flip on the radio and we spend the rest of the trip down Dandenong Road and through the back streets of Glen Huntly singing along to golden oldies and classic hits, pretending that everything is going to be just fine. It’s only when John pulls the van into my driveway and kills the engine that the world crowds in on me again. From the deep breath John takes, I figure he’s feeling the same.

  ‘Wanna go for a walk and hang with Hogarth for a bit?’ It’s the best therapy I know.

  John nods, so we gather our things and head for the front door, on the other side of which Hogarth is already squeaking a very undignified wolfhound welcome.

  Ten minutes is all it takes to dump our stuff and for me to get changed, then I clip the lead on Hogarth’s collar and we head out. As a rule he’s a fairly cruisy wolfhound, but today he’s spent longer than usual home alone and he’s stepping out enough that every few strides the lead becomes taut. That causes Hogarth to shoot me a dirty look for going so slow, but he does modify the pace, only for the whole cycle to begin again. After the first street we all settle into a comfortable rhythm, Hogarth deciding that too much haste means lost sniffing opportunities, and John and me realising we’re quite happy for Hogarth to run the show. In this fashion we eventually arrive at the dog park, and after scanning the horizon for trouble-making canines, I let Hogarth off and he bounces out across the grass to spend some quality time with his dog homies.

>   John and I avoid the cluster of humans and start on a slow circuit of the oval, Hogarth zooming over every now and then like a hound version of an anxious parent, making sure we’re okay. By mutual consent, we don’t talk about anything relevant. When we speak at all, it’s only about Hogarth, the other dogs and when the hot weather is going to end.

  ***

  I stare into the bottom of my glass and swirl the last of the red around. It was a particularly fine Clonakilla.

  ‘In addition to its other awards, we can name this 2001’s top wine for use as an emotional crutch.’ I tip back my head and swallow the final mouthful. ‘Your average wine writer never considers that though.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I mean, if we’d started with a bottle of cheap plonk instead of the best wine in my pantry, I’d probably be mad at the world, and you’d be blubbing.’

  John tilts the bottle over his glass but nothing happens. ‘Oh I see. Because we started with the good stuff, we’re only mildly pissed and, what? Ready for an informed and erudite discussion?’

  ‘Exactly. And now I couldn’t possibly stoop to a generic red.’

  ‘That’s okay, it’s customary to move on to brandy or whiskey after dinner.’ He waves an expansive hand across the crumb and paper bag-strewn kitchen table.

  ‘About the job.’ I stare across the table at John. ‘Wait. Should I be getting you more smashed before I start on this?’

  ‘Only if you want me to agree with whatever you say.’

  ‘Maybe not. Maybe. I don’t know.’ I dab a finger onto a stray flake of cheese straw and convey it to my mouth. ‘How about tea and chocolate instead? After all, we’ve done sugar, alcohol and buttery pastry. That only leaves caffeine and chocolate and the basic food groups are covered.’

  ‘Irish Coffee instead of tea?’

  ‘Purely in Hogarth’s honour, I’m assuming?’

  ‘That and the fact that chocolate goes so much better with coffee.’

  ‘And you no doubt spotted my twelve-year-old Tullamore DEW in the cupboard.’

  John shrugs expansively and I feel the corner of my mouth quirk up.

  ‘Let’s adjourn to the lounge.’