How You See Me
Page 9
There are the paintings, of course. They are still gathering dust up in the studio. I don’t even know if Sarah has seen them yet. Still, something about them makes me want her never to see them. After all, this time, I only have to put things right. Not make things worse.
Daniel
30th January
The Studio
Dear Mab –
I wonder, sometimes, how much of my life is scripted by you, Mab.
Since your letter, I’ve been considering Dad’s portraits more seriously. I have followed instructions, you needn’t worry: I contacted Dad’s agency in London and told them about the new work. They were predictably thrilled, even though I made clear the state of the canvases. Portraits are big business, it seems. Even bigger business than naked girls. I suppose there is a certain type of rich person who prefers to have a stranger’s face on their wall, rather than a stranger’s arse. And that type of rich person likes to buy. I may have shared this choice wisdom with the agency; all I got in response was some drivel about the lurking sexual drives in all the Laird work. They haven’t even sniffed the oil paint and already they’re harking on about hidden depths!
It was quite fun talking to the agency. I’d forgotten – as you never do – just how much we can trade on the Laird name to behave however we want. As if the eccentricity of artists is hereditary. I insisted on talking to a man in the end – all the well-meaning, earnest girls with degrees were getting on my nerves – and I have to say he was charming. Peter assured me of their full co-operation and discretion and insisted on detailing the long history of services they had provided to Dad and his eminent peers. I could tell he was excited.
Then I found this piece in the paper this morning.
Laird Portraits Discovered
Rumours abound concerning a cache of new portraits found at the home of artist Michael Laird (1937–).
Laird, most famous for his Submerged Nude series (completed 1996), notoriously removed the heads of his subjects when committing them to canvas, claiming ‘it is in the sinew and flesh of the body, not of the face, where the true vulnerability of the human condition is expressed’.
The notoriously private artist has received criticism from feminist groups for his ‘floating corpses’. However, this present discovery coincides with a resurgence in the popularity of Laird’s work. Submerged Nude #6 sold for an undisclosed sum to a private buyer last month. A family source insists this is not an attempt to ‘cash in’ on an apparently buoyant market, but rather a chance to reflect upon Laird’s change of artistic direction in the years following his mysterious departure from public life.
No examples have yet been released for examination, but the art world is buzzing with speculation about the possibility of a new collection. Clement Jones, curator of the National Gallery, stated:
‘Michael Laird is one of our greatest living artists. Any new work should, therefore, be eagerly anticipated by both the public and the nation.’
So, national treasure or passing fad? Either way, the expectation is high for a private showing later this year.
I’ve been fielding calls all day. One idiot, who has managed to purchase one of the Submerged Nude series, requested a portrait of the model in question. ‘To match’. He burbled on about ‘completing the picture at last’. Money was no object, apparently. It took me an hour to get rid of him.
I’ve spoken to everyone from serious collectors to tabloid journalists about the ‘exciting new discovery at Laird’s country home’. They make it sound as if the butler has to call me from the west wing to the telephone, rather than Maggie giving a shout out of the kitchen window to the woodshed. I’ve been bundled up in Dad’s big winter coat all morning, trying to gather kindling. I must call charming Peter and complain about the professed discretion of the agency. I’ll be sure to lay the blame firmly at the feet of the graduate girls. It’s best to keep at least one of them on side.
This sudden publicity is rather unsettling. I have been careful to avoid any real mention of the subject of the portraits. Well, I’ve been careful not to mention my own name. Peter was practically drooling at the mention of self-portraits, and that was before I told him Sarah was in evidence. Maybe it’s not the publicity, maybe it’s the portraits themselves that are getting to me. Peter had me up there straight away, taking as many photographs as possible from different angles and in different lights. I’ve been spending too much time staring into the faces of my past.
It continues to be ferociously cold. The fire has become the focus of all of our days. Even Dad has been moved back towards it and away from the TV without complaint. I can’t seem to keep him warm. I suppose it’s that he’s so inactive sitting in his chair all day, with only the short stagger to bed in the evening getting him moving at all. But I don’t dare take him out. The ice is thin, but deadly slippery. Our neighbour kindly shovelled some building sand along our section of pavement. Maggie took him out a mug of tea and a slice of her special fruit cake, left over from Christmas. I steered clear of it. I think there may be romance in the air, and, besides, I didn’t fancy being forced to lend a hand.
I’m to parcel up the paintings as best I can and get them to the agents. More instructions to follow! Meanwhile, write, or phone – if you can get through – and tell me what I should be saying. I know it could make us some serious money, selling these pictures. I know we could set Dad up in style in a nursing home and I could escape back to my Alice. Just tell me it’s a good idea.
Daniel
30th January
The Studio
Dear Freya –
Happy New Year! And thank you so much for your letters. I’ve been a little distracted since Christmas – I’m sure you’ve heard all your mother’s complaints! But I’m back now, and catching up on my correspondence with you was one of the few pleasures waiting for me on my return. The painting you sent is fantastic (and I call it a painting, because there is no way you should discredit it with the term ‘doodle’). You’ve managed to catch Tatty perfectly – I especially liked the wings! I showed it to your grandad and he held on to it for a long time. I think that’s his way of showing real appreciation.
Paintings have been much the theme around here. It seems your grandad is to have another exhibition. It also seems that I’m going to be the one to organise it. I must have seriously upset your mother! I’ve hung your offering up in the kitchen. I think it looks perfect there. Maybe I’m more qualified for this job than I realised?
Tell your mother to bring you across for the exhibition when it happens. It would be wonderful to meet you again and I know a little rag-tag dog who would smother you in kisses.
Do write again soon,
Uncle Dan
30th January
The Studio
Dear Alice –
A week away from you is a week too long. Remind me what you feel like and how you smell.
How I wish I had more photographs of you, although our session in front of the camera has been a great comfort to me. I took the film to a place on the market to be developed – well, I could hardly have taken those shots to Boots! Anyway, I didn’t know the man on the stall. You needn’t worry about my embarrassing you. He didn’t even wink as he handed over the prints. I was rather disappointed.
My favourite is the one we took where you are falling away from me, your body stretched out in abandoned pleasure and your hands above your head. Oh, to run a hand up that body, graze my fingers over your neat mound of hair and up to the beautiful swell of your breasts. To take your nipple between my lips and feel it harden against my tongue, the way the models’ did in the cold workroom. To hear your cry as you arch against me. I want to push my hands into this photograph and lift you out, my slippery fish, and lay you down beside me. My catch of the day. Then I could truly examine that look on your face, the pleasure and the pain of it, and taste those tears that roll down your face.
Your ever-loving,
Daniel xx
2nd February
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The Studio
Dear Alice –
It seems there is to be a party. Well, I’m paraphrasing, but the party appears to be the most important aspect of the upcoming show, according to the calls I’ve been taking today.
Despite my protests, with help from Dad’s agent in London it seems that Dad is to have another exhibition. I had hopes of a quiet sale of some paintings I found. But, though I think Dad’s agency had presumed he was long dead, they are certainly keen not to miss out on a show. It seems Dad has got quite famous in his absence. A guy called Peter (whom I’m a little in love with) kept talking about ‘encouraging sales statistics’ and the way Dad’s ‘artistic direction tapped right into the vein of modern ennui’. Remarkable, especially when you consider most of his work was completed nine years ago and at the present moment Dad couldn’t tell his ennui from his elbow.
Peter was disappointed not to be able to talk to Dad directly about the paintings in question. I’ve played down the extent of his illness, managing to make multiple strokes sound like an eccentric life choice. I don’t want anything to mess up these sales. If we can make enough then we could get Dad into some kind of full-time care and then he’d be safe and looked after and I could come back to you. It’s not long to wait, is it?
You should come. To the party and the exhibition. You do look so beautiful in art galleries. You could wear that blue dress of yours, the one you try to play down with biker boots and heavy jackets. I’ll buy you a pair of heels and you can be my personal flapper. I know you have to work, but surely you could take a couple of days and come down? Just this once. Then I can show you off to everyone. I’m sure Mab thinks you’re a figment of my imagination. I’ll get the agency to send you a proper invitation when they’re printed. I’m busy co-ordinating this end of the whole thing from Dad’s old writing desk. Impressive, aren’t I? Promise you’ll think about it, when you’re not thinking of me.
Daniel xx
4th February
The Studio
Dear Aubrey –
I’m running an office. This is no exaggeration. I am the full-time carer and now, apparently, the full-time personal assistant of the great Michael Laird. Someone actually asked for me by that title. It’s worse than working for you; at least then I got paid for my trouble. Still, hopefully there will be plenty of money to come! It’s strange, but preparations for the exhibition appear to be continuing without my interference or agreement. I don’t know why they keep phoning; they all seem to know far more about what’s going on than me.
With at least some concession to the state of Dad, they are going to have the first show up here, in the old workhouse on the outskirts of town. I think the agency likes the idea of wheeling Dad out and showing him off alongside the paintings, and, as I refused to attempt the trip to London with him, we needed a local venue. So London is coming to us. Most people are phoning to bitch about having to travel – you’d think the world ended at Liverpool Street station.
I used to play at the workhouse when I was a kid. There were always stories about it being haunted. Me and a couple of my friends got dragged up there by Mab one summer. The summer she got her first camera. She took photos of the derelict rooms and abandoned furniture and terrified us with whispers of ‘Did you hear that?’ All I heard was mice (the suspicion of rats was enough to frighten me) and our own footsteps on the old boards, but Mab claimed to hear the singing of children, the rocking of an old chair and a mysterious weeping on the stairs. She was always good for a story. She got one of my friends, Neil Coleman, so wound up that his mother came round to the studio to complain about Mab’s influence.
I think the workhouse was already being used by the small pottery that leases it today, so we were probably trespassing when we went on our ghost-hunt. Anyhow, they want me to go and talk to the woman at Smashing Plates and view the space they’re making available for us. Dad’s agency have organised a curator and I’m to meet her there on Tuesday.
At least it will be a chance to get out of the house. Dad’s been pretty difficult recently. I suppose I’ve got used to the problems we’ve had – the incontinence, the lack of speech, the lack of mobility, the drinking and the occasional fall – but lately it’s been hard to even keep him in his chair. And he keeps howling, like a dog in pain. It scares the life out of Tatty. If it carries on, I’ll have to get the doctor in. It’ll be no good bringing him to the exhibition if all he tries to do is bite the buyers.
And, before you ask, you’re not invited to the show.
Daniel
6th February
The Studio
Dear Mab –
Dad’s bad. They say the urine infection he had when I left has come back. It’s bloody awful. It’s as though he’s gone mad.
At first I thought the part of his mind I’d hoped was gone forever in one of those little explosions in his brain – the part that hates me – had connected back up: that those dangling synapses had finally joined hands and made a fist. He charged at me in the morning when I came downstairs to wake him. He hadn’t got his teeth in, but his cheeks were taut, his hands clawing at my shirt and arms. He was bellowing and crying something which sounded a lot like ‘Sarah’. It took a while for me to realise he was staring right through me, towards the door. Thank God I’d locked up. Who knows how long he’d been wandering. Tatty was under the table, hiding, silent and terrified.
The doctor has dosed him up on antibiotics, but has warned they could take a while to kick in. He said a little mild confusion was normal and I shouldn’t let it worry me. I’m beginning to hate that doctor.
It means it may be difficult to get away and meet the curator at the workhouse. I may have to get her to reschedule? Or she could just come here and look at the paintings? I can direct her up the road. There’s no real need for me to go, anyway; I know what the workhouse looks like.
Some of the canvases are still in need of attention. I shipped off the best of them, but dreamboat Peter keeps calling and asking for more for the catalogue. Apparently, the unfinished work will help create a story of Dad’s decline. I think they’d be happier if he were just dead and buried; then they’d know how to play it. It will be interesting to see what they’ll do if he’s in the same state for the exhibition. If they don’t seem sure how to market a living corpse, I wonder what they’ll do with a raving one.
(Later)
Sarah came. She is still here. Maggie must have told her Dad was sick.
I know it must be hard for her to see Dad and me together in the same room, but she didn’t have to react like that when I walked through from the kitchen. She didn’t even say hello, just started and froze. Saying that, I nearly poured Dad’s dinner over myself when I saw her, so I guess we were both nervous. She hurried over to Dad’s chair and squatted down beside him on the side closest to the wall. You would have thought I was threatening to pour the dinner down her. Maggie hustled me over to my chair by the fire and she and Sarah helped Dad with his meal.
It is quite peaceful sitting here, listening to the two women talk and fuss over Dad. He’s actually quite capable of feeding himself, but they seem to enjoy cutting up his food and spooning it to his mouth. He is indifferent to them, busy watching the television and laughing along every time the canned stuff is cued. The girls have to time their feeding carefully, but he’s already covered in half-chewed mashed potato and beans.
Sarah looks lovely – what I can see of her. Her face is turned up into the warm light from the TV, chasing and flashing shadow across her features. She looks younger tonight, almost the Sarah I remember. You needn’t worry about me, Mab. This is an exercise of nostalgia; the beauty I see in her now is her resemblance to Alice. You know I’ve only really ever been able to focus on one woman at a time. And I don’t intend to get hurt like that again.
I should invite Sarah to the exhibition, though, don’t you think? Most of the portraits are of her, after all. Peter would love it: the Laird Muse in the flesh. He’ll probably dig their ow
n pond and have her floating in it among the canapés.
Oh, dear, Dad has just flipped the dinner plate and tried to put his hands up Maggie’s dress. I guess peace was too much to hope for. I’d better go and help.
Love to Freya,
Daniel
6th February
The Studio
Dear Aubrey –
Sarah just left. You would have been proud of me. I was the very definition of self-control. She looked amazing. She was dressed in some kind of blue slinky thing with shadows that hinted at the flesh moving below. It was nice that she dressed up for me, but it was also confusing. I had just begun to adjust myself to the idea that all that business with her was in the past.
It took me no time at all to fall in love with Sarah, but for her, I believe, it was a gradual process. She had to learn to trust me. I was the one who waited for her at the end of a long day working. I was the one who dried her tears when Dad grew furious with a painting and threatened to give her up. I’d learnt from the other girls that an artist often blamed the model if a piece of work went badly. I was the one who taught her how to please him, passing on the tricks the other models talked about. If I thought she was aware of my feelings for her, I presumed she’d just take me for a chubby teenager with a crush, but I underestimated the value of our evenings together. There is nothing like a shared history.
One evening, Dad was in a rage about the composition of a new piece. He’d been in a rage all week. Sarah was ill, suffering from vertigo. She’d been to the doctor’s and been given a strip of tiny white pills, but they didn’t seem to have any effect. She said that, even secure in the pool, she was terrified of falling. She said she knew it was ridiculous but her blood wouldn’t believe her. It swam around her head, tilting her off balance, and popped and danced in her limbs. She panicked and wept and couldn’t keep still. At first, Dad attempted sympathy. He let the underground pipes warm the pool for over an hour before she got in to pose; he fed her red meat and dark chocolate and swapped her morning coffee for fresh fruit juice. When she broke pose he massaged her legs and rubbed her temples with soft gliding strokes. They both gave up cigarettes on an empty stomach. Nothing helped. Finally, he lost his temper.