*
Probably to prove to myself that I was still capable of feelings for other human beings and particularly to try and tighten the connections that belong only to me with people who belong only to me, I went back to the typewriter. I felt inspired to use a style that would translate a soft, pastel-coloured languor without losing sight of a good grasp of realism. Impressionism, to be precise.
Dear you two
I’ve hardly ever written to you and fate has dictated that, now that I’m taking the trouble to, I can only do it with one hand. I’m travelling through difficult uncharted waters, and you, despite the distance between us, are my only landmarks. I’ll have to let more time go by before I can see more clearly. I miss the sun and the sea that you have never tried to leave behind.
*
A man’s voice.
“Europe Gallery, good morning.”
“I would like to speak to Monsieur Delarge.”
“Can I ask you what it’s concerning?”
“An interview.”
“. . . Are you a journalist? Is this to do with the Pompidou Centre?”
“No, not at all, I’m trying to get information about the Young Painters’ Exhibition in 1964, and I think he was there. Could I speak to him please?”
A subtle feeling of hesitation. If he hadn’t been there they would have told me straightaway. I even wonder whether . . .
“. . . Um . . . he only speaks to people by prior appointment, but he’s very busy at the moment. What exactly would you like to know . . .?”
I sensed the defensive reflex. No doubt about it, he can talk about him in the third person all he likes . . .
“It’s not easy to get things across on the telephone. Could I make an appointment and come to the gallery?”
“You won’t find him here. What do you want to know about the Young Painters’ Exhibition?”
“It would be easier if I just came over.”
“Not at the moment! What’s your name?”
“I’ll call back later.”
I hung up before he had time to turn me down a third time. I thought it would be a good manoeuvre calling first but I cocked up. I can’t always see my tactical errors coming. All I can do now is dash over there straightaway to pluck him while he’s still warm, before he has time to run for it. His gallery is in the Marais area, on the Rue Barbette, not far from my apartment. I know it’s crazy but artistic tendencies are gaining ground in my part of Paris. The Pompidou Centre has spawned some offspring.
I’m there in less than five minutes, and he hasn’t been able to get away in the meantime. There is only one nameplate at number 59: “Europe Gallery”. You have to go through the porch to get to the exhibition rooms. In the courtyard surrounded by old buildings you are hit full in the face by the pale, pale blue of the two floors next to entrance C. The gallery doorway is magnificently designed with a pair of doors in glass and metal, weighing over a thousand pounds each, but you barely have to touch them to open them. Inside, hardly anything. That’s the fashion. Empty space is hugely important, the original stone-work is kept, stripped but impeccably restored, the floor is elephant grey, like the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, a skating rink. And in the distance there are actually a few elegantly hung paintings. The reception desk is recessed into a wall so as not to interrupt the sightlines. I feel utterly alone on an island of modernity. A badly dressed, Baroque castaway in an ocean of Minimalism. I leaf through the visitors’ book and recognize a few signatures, the same ones as at the Coste Gallery, the indigenous fauna of private views. Beside it is the list of the Delarge stable, his catalogue of artists, and – as I run through the list of his protégés, his foals – I get a clearer idea of why he doesn’t need to make a song and dance. His collection brings together at least four or five of the most sought-after artists of the day. It’s clear that this man has better things to do than waste time on people like me ferreting around. And when you have people like Lasewitz, Béranger and Linnel in your stable (to name only the ones that mean something to me), you call the shots on price. I’ve already hung a Lasewitz, a series of overlapping empty frames to suggest a labyrinth. Ten minutes to hang them, three hours to work out which order to put them in . . . Béranger makes luminous boxes, he photographs his feet, his nose or his chubby belly, he has them blown up to giant size and then lights them up in boxes stuffed with fluorescent bulbs. The photo goes from just five ounces to 260 pounds, and it takes six men with straps to put it in position. Linnel’s name also means something to me, but I’m not really sure what he does. On spec I would say he’s one of the rare few who still uses paints and a brush.
“Can I help you?”
She emerged from behind three pillars of breezeblocks that act as a passage through to a side office. A very pretty young woman with strawberry blond hair and blue eyes. She’s not the ideal build for turning away the unwashed.
“I would like to meet Monsieur Delarge.”
She tidies a few files on the desk, just to have something to do with her hands.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I could make one right away.”
“That won’t be possible at the moment, he’s setting up an exhibition, he’s right in the middle of hanging it.”
Try another one. . . I look behind the breezeblocks, never doubting for a moment that Delarge is hiding there. With this system of slightly bevelled pillars they can keep an eye on comings and goings in the gallery without having to spend their time in it if there’s no one there.
Delarge saw me come in. I can feel him there, not far away, skulking. What’s he got to be afraid of? Was I too direct? Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned 1964. Am I scared? This need for tactics is becoming a pain, it’s impossible to get any information without triggering a whole process of suspicion. And I’m starting to get caught up in the paranoid fear of too much said and not enough said.
“Come back in a fortnight, and ring first. He might have a moment.”
Ring? No thanks. I’m not giving warnings any more.
“What sort of exhibition is it at the Pompidou Centre?”
“Linnel, one of our artists. From April eighth to the thirtieth.”
“Three weeks? What a triumph. . . Not everyone gets to the Pompidou Centre . . .”
As I speak I can clearly picture the sign I saw at the Pompidou Centre yesterday saying “New exhibition coming soon”, and the picture-hangers in a quandary.
With a satisfied little twist to her lip, she utters an: “oh no . . .!”
It’s true. For a living artist, it’s the Holy Grail. After the Pompidou Centre all there is left to hope for is the Louvre, a few centuries later.
“Leave your name and contact details in the visitors’ book, I’ll let him know you came by . . .”
She hands me the pen, and I can’t help thinking she knows she’s being devious.
“I never sign visitors’ books.”
She throws the pen down on the table with obvious contempt.
“It’s your loss . . .”
“On the other hand, I’d very much like an invitation to the private view at the Pompidou Centre. It is by invitation only, isn’t it?”
“No, I’m so sorry, I’ve given them all out . . .”
“Are these works by Linnel?”
She bursts out laughing. I don’t understand why, and I find it irritating.
“They are part of Monsieur Delarge’s private collection. He likes to display them to the public from time to time instead of locking them away in a safe. They’re made to be seen, wouldn’t you say?”
If I’d read the signatures instead of asking inane questions. . . There was plenty there to laugh about: a small Kandinsky, a Braque collage and I don’t know the third, but that’s probably hardly surprising for someone who can’t identify the first two.
*
I don’t really have any choice. This private view at the Pompidou Centre is the day after tomorrow in the evening, and I can’t r
eally hope to corner Delarge before then. Or even afterwards, he’ll find some masterly way to avoid me if that’s what he wants. Something’s worrying him and – to find out what – I have to ask him face to face, that’s all there is to it. He’s succeeded in getting one of his foals into the Pompidou Centre and that’s more than just a victory for a dealer, it’s a crowning moment. Not to mention the manna, the stacks of money it will bring in for him. He’ll be there right from the beginning, at this private view, given that he’s the one who’s doing the inviting. There will be plenty of chat about prices, there will be dozens of potential buyers, those who already have and those who don’t yet have “Linnels” in their collections. All the right people will be there with their chitchat and their glasses of champagne . . . and me in the middle of it all. Delarge won’t be able to get rid of me in front of so many people.
“Hello, Liliane?”
“. . . . Antoine . . . hey . . . how are you?”
“Is Coste at the gallery?”
“No.”
“I need an invite to the Linnel exhibition the day after tomorrow.”
“We got it a couple of days ago, but it’s for . . .”
“For the boss, I know. And I want it. I want it. I really want it. You’ll just have to say it was delayed in the post. Has she seen it yet?”
“No, but . . . you’re a pain, Antoine.”
“She’ll get in anyway, the mighty Coste isn’t the sort who gets held up at the door to the Pompidou Centre.”
“You disappear, we don’t hear a word about you, then you call when you need something.”
“I need it.”
“Will you come and pick it up?”
“Will you send it to me?”
“You really are a prick.”
“Big kiss . . . and it’s a long time since I’ve kissed anyone . . .”
*
Two days of waiting. No, not even that. Of backing off. Living in fear that I might get a call from Delmas to tell me something major has happened, that there’s been serious progress in his enquiries. Nothing could be worse for me. I haven’t been out much. For about an hour I thought I might be able to go back to the academy, convinced that I owed them all an explanation: Angelo, René, Benoît and the others. But I haven’t dared to.
It’s five o’clock on Tuesday, and I’ve just come back from my neighbour who has tied my tie. I thought my usual clothes would be a bit out of place at the private view. At that sort of reception people don’t chat so readily to a tramp, even I would be wary of some bloke in a jacket gaping halfway down his thighs to reveal shapeless green cords. This time I’ve made a bit of an effort and taken out the panoply of outfits I had for private views at the Coste. I’ve shaved with a real blade, I felt like it, and I didn’t cut myself once.
The entrance is on the Rue du Renard to avoid all the bustle on the pedestrianized square. I show my invitation to two men in blue who wish me a pleasant evening. I think back to all those private views I escaped from at the Coste, not even getting a taste of that satisfaction which comes from a job well done. Jacques would be hurt if he could see me now, with a tie on. A sort of hostess hands me a press pack and points out the stairs that lead up to the exhibition. Upstairs there are thirty or so people, some of whom are already in full flow with their commentaries, as if they have already done the rounds of the walls. That makes sense; the people who come to private views aren’t there to see paintings, because it’s almost impossible to see an exhibition in all that commotion with figures obstructing the line of vision and empty champagne glasses on the edges of the ashtrays.
While waiting for the festivities to kick off, I go for a bit of a wander round the show, not to see what Linnel does, no I don’t really care about that. But just to admire – or even criticize – the picture-hanger’s work.
Canvasses six and a half feet by five, oils. White gloves compulsory. Nice work, except for one piece, which should have been about eight inches higher because of the plinth which is a bit too obtrusive. And there’s another one, a smaller one, which could have done with being at eye level. In one of the rooms I get the feeling the lighting was done in a bit of a hurry, a spotlight casting a nasty shadow over a sizeable area of canvas. Other sorry but inevitable details: the hopeless efforts to camouflage fire extinguishers. No colour in the world can rival the bright red of those delicate instruments; it’s every gallery-owner’s downfall. The cards with the titles and dates are nailed too close to the paintings; Jacques always managed to forget them. Apart from that, nothing to say, nice exhibition. It would have taken my colleague and myself three days, tops. We preferred the tricky things, where there was some twist to every piece, glass balls balancing on a point, mobiles suspended without any visible means of support, bicycle chains in perpetual motion, frescoes with strange optical effects, anything fragile, breakable, cryptic, wacky, funny and – in a word – unhangable.
The bar is open, I can tell from the subtle ebb of people instigated by it. I insinuate my way into the wave. In the room where the buffet is laid out it’s all noise. A concert of chatter punctuated by interjections and discreet laughter. A few familiar faces, critics, some less prudish painters, an official from the Ministry. I revolve very slowly on the spot as I activate my sonar. And a few feet from the dense cluster of people around the glasses, I pick up a definite beep-beep. Looking through the press pack I come across a photo taken at the Biennale in Sao Paulo, a row of artists posing as if for a class photo with Delarge standing to the right in pride of place, like the teacher. He is here, in the flesh, a few feet away, with two other men a little younger than himself. Linnel is on his right. He’s playing his part as the artist at his own private view: shaking the hands proffered to him, thanking sundry enthusiasms without worrying about their sincerity quotient. An artist in the place of honour can choose not to smile and not to say anything, it’s one of his few privileges. He does, however, have to agree to meet journalists, but would rather avoid buyers – there are other people for that. Alain Linnel seems to be playing the game, limply, a bit serious, a bit affected, a bit absent. A waiter brings them some glasses, I move closer and position myself a couple of feet or so from them, with my back turned to them and my ears wide open, pretending to squeeze through to the buffet.
I’m in luck. I very quickly understand the situation, I haven’t cocked up, the oldest one is Delarge and he’s introducing his prodigy to an art critic, one Alex Ramey. Definitely one of the most feared in all Paris, the only one who can ruin an exhibition with a couple of adjectives. I remember one of his reviews about an exhibition at the Coste; the piece was so incendiary that a good smattering of visitors came just to confirm the extent of the disaster.
But the critic likes what he sees this evening, and he obviously wants to tell the artist himself and, before long, his readers.
“Would tomorrow suit you for an interview?”
A slight hesitation, nothing is forthcoming. Delarge, overflowing with goodwill and still radiant, urges him gently.
“Come on, Alain! You must have a few minutes tomorrow . . .”
Still nothing. Not even a stammer. I turn round to cast an eye over this situation that seems, to say the least, a little tense. And it is then that I realize I too have got something slightly wrong.
“No. I won’t find a few minutes for this man.”
Bang. Hadn’t foreseen that one. I crane my head trying to imagine the sort of expression a dealer like Delarge might be wearing as he grapples with a capricious artist taking the luxury of refusing to give an interview the very day after a private view.
“You’re joking, Alain . . .”
“Not at all. I won’t answer questions from someone who referred to me as a ‘decorator’ four or five years ago. Do you remember, Monsieur Ramey? It was a little exhibition at the old gallery on the Ile Saint-Louis. And you remember it too, dear Edgar, don’t pretend you’ve forgotten everything now that I’m at the Pompidou Centre. At the time you said he was a bastar
d, don’t try to deny it . . .”
I must be dreaming!
I can feel the weight of all this going on behind my back. I make the most of a little gap in the herd of drinkers to grab a brimming glass. Which I down in three gulps. Ramey is still there.
“Listen, don’t put criticism on trial for me, we all know the routine. . . Your painting has evolved and so has the way people look at it.”
“It’s true, Alain . . . we shouldn’t get all touchy about this,” Delarge goes on.
“What do you mean ‘we’? You’ve always said ‘we’ when you mean ‘you’. This man could drag me through the shit tomorrow morning, he could drag ‘us’ through the shit. I think I’d rather like it. On that note, I’m going to get myself another drink.”
Consternation. Delarge takes Ramey off by the arm and launches into an explosion of apologies. I grab another glass and drink it down in one. Never heard anything like it. . . I don’t know whether I’m feeling a cynical jubilation or a vague uneasiness, because – after a blow like that – Delarge won’t tolerate the tiniest question from a pain in the arse like me. The hubbub is intensifying, the champagne still flowing, and the crowd becoming noticeably more of a crush. Linnel is shaking other hands and laughing quite genuinely; he doesn’t only have enemies. I don’t let him out of my sight. A slightly paunchy man taps him on the shoulder and he turns round, shakes his hand and goes back to his conversation without really worrying about the new arrival who he’s left standing there like a lemon. And I know that face, as everyone does, apparently. A painter? A critic? An inspector? I want to know and, with no feeling of embarrassment, I ask the woman next to me whether she knows him. Very relaxed and already slightly drunk, she answers as if I’ve just landed from another galaxy:
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