Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  “Of course. It’s our little secret. Be careful and give my best wishes to your parents.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Stone Angels

  The Tenth Painting

  1972

  The gallery was just as I remembered it; bright, light, and airy. From the loft space, I gazed down on two young women who were busy hanging my paintings. Behind me, Basil chatted with the owner, John Kasmin.

  We had arrived early in the morning. I followed Basil up the stairs to Kasmin’s office. As I glanced over the rails, the two picture hangers were shifting the gallery’s display panels into place ready for the next exhibition. The uniform they both wore was dove grey trouser suits and purple blouses. As I observed them, I recognised their individual personalities through their body language. Most people do not realise just how much a creative mind can learn about others from their gestures, posture, and mannerisms.

  The fiery redhead was shorter and slightly heavier built than her colleague. Her bubbly personality floated up to me in her giggly voice as she chatted with her colleague. The one that intrigued me the most carried her height and slenderness with ease. She seemed calculating and far quieter than the redhead.

  I had lost interest in what Basil and John were saying as all my attention was on her. She squatted before one of the paintings like a worshipper in the presence of a deity, as it stood propped up against the wall. With ease, she rose up and stepped back, her head tilting from one side to the other, before hastily scribbling something down.

  Curiosity demanded that I rush down and snatch the clipboard from her to read what she had written, but I held back. I knew I was being oversensitive, and that girl was just doing her job.

  Back in the 60s, Candela had explained what being a picture hanger entailed. Most galleries liked to have a theme when putting an exhibition together, though sometimes the title might seem unconnected to the paintings themselves.

  “There’s an exact science to showing off art,’ Candela said. “It’s so much more than simply placing a picture on a hook. It’s all about the importance of getting the lighting right for each piece, to allow the viewer to see each one at its best, and to give it the chance to secure a sale.”

  The picture hanger I was watching was precise in her movements, as though she never wasted her energy on anything. I understood what she wanted, maybe needed. She was trying to get up close and personal with me the artist, to interpret and clarify the significance of each of the paintings. Then she disappeared from view, leaving the paintings abandoned.

  On seeing my angels neglected in such a careless manner, I gripped the rail as the tingling raced up my legs. I leant over the rail to see where she had gone. After a couple of minutes, I heard voices and she reappeared with her colleague carrying another painting. After setting it down, her colleague left again. The dark-haired girl went to a bag that was hanging on the back of a chair, and pulled out a sheet of paper. She unfolded it and held it up to my paintings one at a time. After a few minutes she returned it to her bag.

  “James.”

  Startled, I turned to find Basil standing behind me.

  “John and I need to sign some paperwork. I won’t be long and then we can go for something to eat.”

  “Oh okay. Is there anything I need to sign?”

  “No, no all’s fine. Why don’t you go down and join Tina and Jude?”

  “Tina and Jude?”

  “Yes, down there.” He pointed. “You’ve been eyeing them while I’ve been sorting out your next venue.”

  “My next venue? But— you don’t know whether this one will be a success.”

  “Have more faith in your work. John is very impressed and wants to exhibit your work in his New York gallery, too.”

  “Wow. Thank you, Basil.”

  “Look, I won’t be long. Go and chat to the girls. I’m sure they’ll be excited to meet you. Check what they’ve done, too. Don’t forget they’ll value your input if you’re not satisfied. After all, it’s your exhibition.” He gave me a reassuring pat on my shoulder. “If you want to change anything, just say so.”

  “I would be interested in their feedback. After all, they’ve seen many exhibitions.” I headed towards the stairs.

  On the gallery floor, a series of movable panels created a sort of maze as the picture hangers had divided the gallery space into a series of smaller enclosed spaces. Each one of these displayed a single painting. Stark white walls and ceiling along with a pine floor helped to reflect light onto the pictures. The maze-like route ensured that the viewer saw each individual painting as a single entity. The lights, fixed onto metal runners, crisscrossed the ceiling at various spots, allowing the picture hangers to move them into the best position to highlight the paintings.

  I followed the maze. On seeing the first picture I was stunned. It hung in a pool of bright white light. Candela’s wide blood-shot eyes glared down at me from behind streaked black make-up. Others viewing the grisaille-style painting would only see a stone-faced angel, not the bloodless, blue-lipped girl I saw.

  She stood high above the rush of humanity, silhouetted against the dark roofscape. The streetlight illuminated her pallid features, adding an unearthly beauty to her stony face.

  To my surprise, I found that the picture hangers seemed to have hung the paintings in the correct order, even though I hadn’t dated them. As I rounded the next panel, I found the fiery redhead balancing precariously on a low stepladder, while clutching one end of my seventh painting. As she began to topple backwards, I rushed forward, snatching the end of the painting from her grasp leaving her to fall backwards onto the floor with a thud.

  The other hanger held on grimly to her end. I lifted the picture into place. That’s when I noticed the brilliance of her stunning green eyes.

  Once I was certain my painting was secure, I left them to get on with their work. I saw my mistake in selecting Stella as my number nine. With all pictures in situ, her size was unimportant, but something was not quite right about her. It is easy for the uncreative to say that a model’s size and shape has no bearing on an artist’s work because they create a fantasy, but what they don’t understand is the artist’s need for inspiration.

  Stella was an important element in my creation, a muse incarnate. Her individuality gave life to the essence of the figure on the canvas. I tried to recall what had attracted me to her in the first place, but couldn’t. My earlier paintings still pleased me. I couldn’t afford to allow my final masterpiece to let me down.

  “James, is everything all right?” Basil appeared at my side.

  “Yes.” I needed to stay focused on savouring the rewards of my labour.

  ***

  On the evening of my launch, my stress levels must have been on a par with mother’s as I rocked gently back and forth on the balls of my feet, watching the guests beginning to arrive.

  “You’re okay, aren’t you?” Basil enquired, snatching a couple of glasses of wine from the tray of a passing young waitress. She smiled at us, but Basil didn’t notice her.

  “I’m fine.” I took the glass he offered. Once he seemed satisfied that I was okay, he turned and scanned the room. I wondered if he was as nervous as I felt.

  I noticed the meet and greeters looked exceedingly uncomfortable dressed in short black tutu skirts, frilly white low-cut blouses, and long white socks. Their make-up gave them a clown-like look with pink cheeks, black kohl-lined eyes and red lips and nails. What the link was between my paintings and what the girls were wearing, I had no idea. It took me a moment to realise that they were the two picture hangers from this morning.

  No longer dressed in their smart uniform, they struggled to keep a pleasant smile on their faces. Whenever a new guest arrived, the photographers insisted they had a photo taken with the girls. The word hookers floated across my mind. I wanted to ask Basil whose crazy idea it had been to force the two girls to dress in such a way.

  “A little uptight, I’m guessing.” Basil broke into my
thoughts.

  “I am.” I sipped my drink, the girls forgotten.

  “Relax and enjoy the evening, James. It’s your time to shine,” Basil said, downing his wine in one, before facing me. “You really need to chill out. At least look as though you’re enjoying yourself. Start mingling. These punters are here to buy your fabulous work, so smile and just get selling.” He took a sharp intake of breath before carrying on. “Even if it means you have to sell your soul, but get the punters to buy, buy, buy!”

  “You make it sound so callous.”

  “You have a problem with that, James?” He grabbed another drink as the waitress passed with a fresh tray. “Good God, James. You sound like your mother.”

  “You never knew my mother.”

  “You’re right there. But I understood her well enough to know what destroyed her in the end.”

  “And that was what?”

  “High ideals.” He gave a raucous laugh. “Art isn’t about decorative things hanging on the wall. It’s about what the collectors are willing to pay for unique pieces.” He pointed a long finger at me. “Are you so naïve? It’s all about making money. Just like you, I want to make a name for myself to become a major player in the international art world.”

  “So I’m just a stepping stone to you?” He might as well have slapped me across the face.

  “Oh, do come on, James. It’s mutual. And you aren’t using me? We benefit each other. Easter didn’t have a problem with selling his soul. Though I should’ve guessed, you’d have morals. Not using your mother’s name where others would’ve gladly taken the straight route to stardom.”

  “And that makes me a bad person?”

  “No, just stupid. Jane Elspeth Maedere was obsessive. That’s what destroyed her in the end.”

  “That’s what you think. An insatiable need to create things of beauty makes you stupid?” I scanned the clients, glass in hand trying to understand what my paintings were telling them, completely oblivious to the waitresses moving around them handing out drinks and nibbles.

  “Not at all! You have to keep everything in perspective. Having some crazy notion that the masses have the right to be able to purchase your work is ludicrous. Your mother thought by keeping her prices down that Joe Public would rush to buy them, but it backfired.”

  “Really? Is that what happened?”

  “Joe Public is just as greedy as everyone else.” He chortled and took a gulp of his drink. “They bought them all right, but sold them on. As they say, money talks, so much for Mr & Mrs Public appreciating art for its own sake. Just like everyone else, they understand the value of money far better. The loss of control over was what your mother couldn’t cope with. That’s why you need us agents to market your work and get you the best deal. Without us, you’re nothing. Go and introduce yourself to anyone who’s showing a serious interest in your work, and sell both it and you.”

  Basil gestured to a tall, elegant woman who had just entered the gallery. Once he had caught her attention, she waved back to him. Without another word, he left me. I watched him as he made his way over to her. She introduced Basil to another man.

  I wasn’t on my own for long as Mrs Judy Norris moved towards me with a tall, wiry woman in tow.

  “Hello James. Let me introduce you to my friend, Mabel.”

  “Hello, Mabel.” I offered her my hand.

  Mabel gave a sharp nod but remained tight-lipped, not even taking my hand.

  “What an amazing collection of paintings,” Mrs Norris said. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. They seemed almost alive but carved in stone.”

  “The style is known as Grisaille. It imitates sculpture. I’m so glad you like them, Mrs Norris.” I took a sip of wine. The wine was good, but I needed something stronger.

  The growing chatter in the gallery almost drowned out Mrs Norris as she nattered on. I nodded, not really listening. I took in the atmosphere. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mabel scrutinising me. I beamed at her and got no reaction back.

  Eager to get away from Mrs Norris and her less charming friend, I said, “Well, it’s been lovely seeing you again, Mrs Norris but I must—”

  “Please James.” She rested her hand on my arm. “Call me Judy.”

  “Right, Judy it is then. I hope you both enjoy the exhibition. It’s been nice meeting you too Mabel.”

  “You don’t have your mother’s eyes, do you? Jane had amazing green eyes, whereas Donald’s were brown—” Mabel said in a rush. “When I looked into Jane’s eyes— they were empty, cold, and almost dead. It saddened me that Donald had so much love to give, but wasted it on her, after I had spent years desperately staring into his beautiful, but sad lonely eyes—”

  I couldn’t speak. I tried to process what Mabel was saying.

  “Hush, Mabel,” Mrs Norris said loudly, startling her friend into silence. “The lad doesn’t need to know about an old woman’s fantasy.”

  “I was just saying it’s odd that his eyes should be so blue— that’s all.”

  Judy smiled up at me, “We’ll catch up with you later, James.” She tugged at her friend’s arm. As they walked away, Mrs Norris chastised Mabel. “the boy doesn’t need to know.”

  The words echoed in my head as I moved among the crowd. I tried to relax by milling with connoisseurs, smiling, and laughing while answering their questions. They raised their glasses and toasted my talent.

  For some unknown reason I glanced up. Basil stood in the loft space from where I had been watching the picture hangers put together my exhibition. Basil was not alone. He stood next to a slender and older man who was dressed in a dark suit. Something in the man’s demeanour reminded me of a Native American. His long jet-black hair showed signs of grey around the temples. As Basil raised his glass in my direction, it occurred to me that the man might be Basil’s American partner, and Easter’s agent, Chuck Sparks.

  “Excuse me,” a timid voice at my side said.

  I turned to find Jude, the picture hanger, holding out a pen and a catalogue. “Please could you sign this for me, Mr Ravencroft?”

  “I’d be delighted to. But wouldn’t you rather buy a painting?” I asked with a wink.

  “Gosh, I’d love to. But my wages wouldn’t even buy the frame. Your paintings are amazing, so dark.”

  “You think so?”

  “Oh yes, quite romantic in a dreamy sort of way. I love them,” she said coyly.

  “Right. It’s Jude, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes, I’m Jude.”

  I signed the catalogue and handed it back to her, just as her friend appeared in a doorway to one side of the display panels. “Jude! Please! I need your help,” she said, brusquely.

  I smiled at her, hoping to get a positive reaction, but something in her eyes told me to back off.

  “Sorry,” Jude said. “I must go. Thank you for signing this.” She waved the catalogue at me.

  “Your friend Tina seems upset?”

  “Not so much upset, more stressed about this evening mainly.”

  “From the comments I’ve heard so far, the evening has been a success.”

  “Oh, thank you. I shall tell her.” She flashed her eyelashes at me as she hobbled away, her high heels echoed off the wooden floor.

  My impatience grew. The evening seemed to go on forever. I avoided drinking too much, knowing I needed a clear head. I made sure I did not stay talking long in the one place fearing I would miss seeing Tina leave. I engaged in mind-numbing chatter while discreetly following her around the gallery. Basil had tried to persuade me to leave my car at his gallery and travel into the city centre with him, but knowing I needed to find my number ten I had declined, giving myself one less hurdle to cross.

  “James…”

  “Oh, hi Jen. Sorry, I was miles away.”

  “Sorry.” She raised her voice over the babble and leant in close, so close I could feel her breath on my cheek. “I’ve just been chatting with Basil. He’s very pleased with how things are going, and s
o should you be, too. The evening is a roaring success. You won’t believe the numbers of bids that are coming in. It’s amazing!”

  “What bids?” I was puzzled.

  “Oh, didn’t Basil explain? He decided to set a starting price, rather than just sell at a fixed price. It is down to the clientele to name what they are willing to pay over the top in a sealed bid. That way no one knows who’s bid what.”

  “I see. The highest price gets it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Basil takes his commission from that.”

  “Of course,” Jenny said, as though I should’ve been aware that sort of thing happened.

  I nodded in Tina’s direction. “That couple look as though they are willing to buy three.”

  “You should be pleased. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

  Was it what I had always wanted? Suddenly it all became a little less important. Was I my mother’ son the artist or my father’ son chasing butterflies as my object of desire switched to Tina. What was the importance in the creation of art?

  Elements of my final painting evolved in my mind. The slightest movement of Tina’s head, the way she raised her slim, delicate hand towards the large canvas and gestured, flooded me with excitement. I wanted to be alone with her, in a room that smelt of paint, to feel the darkness envelop me as I lifted a paint-filled brush to mark the canvas for the first time.

  Jenny’s voice broke the spell. Something she was saying made my skin crawl. “Sorry, you were saying something I didn’t quite hear.”

  “Yes, I have a friend who worked here in the 60s. Amazing stories she has told me about this place…” Jenny paused momentarily, her chain of thought interrupted as she looked curiously at the ninth painting. Something flickered across her face. She shook her head and gave a faint smile.

  “Anyway, Mr. Hallward tells me that Mr Kasmin wants to move the exhibition to his other gallery before the clientele take ownership of their paintings.”

  “Yeah, he told me the same…”