A Change of Texture

by Paul Maxwell Taylor

  CHAPTER 23

  ‘Good morning, Leonard, it’s Carter Burke. We need to examine the signature more closely and, as I suggested, I’ll come over, with stronger lights and magnification. I stress, Carter, that this is all subject to your agreement. I will email you some articles on art authentication for your information. And if there is anyone else you feel you need to get involved, like a solicitor, I have no problem with that. Any questions?’

  ‘I think my only query at the moment is in relation to your costs.’

  ‘There are no costs to you at this stage. I was happy to assist Hannah and it’s a simple exercise for me to come again to examine the canvas. However, I’m assuming that you will not be seeking any other opinions?’

  ‘Other opinions? Do you mean other art experts?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘No, I’m delighted that you’ve taken such an interest.’

  ‘Thank you for that and I don’t mean to restrict you, Carter. But if you trust me and the painting turns out to be genuine, that will, how do I say it, be a feather in my cap. In other words, I would assume that you would be pleased to acknowledge my efforts in all correspondence related to the painting, and should you decide to sell it, and I understand you may not, I would like to be your agent.’

  Selling the painting, whether it was genuine or not was not a plan but I felt it wise to give him a positive answer and did so.

  With that, we exchanged email addresses, and were bidding each other farewell when the Alley Cat said, ‘Carter, are you still there? I nearly forgot, if you’re keen to see what an authenticated Elaine Tyson looks like, the Maxwell Gallery in East Melbourne is having an exhibition titled “Great Ladies of Australian Art”. It starts next Friday, I think, and there are six Elaine Tysons on show, as well as myriad other great works. I strongly recommend a visit.’

  Within twenty minutes, an email arrived from the Alley Cat. It included various articles on art authentication. There was also an attachment promoting the upcoming art exhibition he had recommended: ‘The women who have shaped Australian art in all its forms…’ I saw myself at the show with Shelagh. This surprised me; my first reaction was that it was wrong, inappropriate. Then I was equally annoyed that part of me felt that there was anything wrong with the idea. Like drops of rain that turned into a storm, my annoyance expanded into anger, and I wasn’t even sure why. Then I thought of how, with the few art exhibitions I had attended, I had been with someone. I started to feel like the jury at my own trial and concerned that I might not like the verdict.

  I called Shelagh and she answered. I liked hearing her voice. A date was made.

  CHAPTER 24

  On Saturday morning, I received a text message from the Alley Cat. ‘Saw Great Ladies of Australian Art, think you’ll like it.’ I texted back that I planned to go. Shelagh and I had agreed to meet at the show, at six o’clock on Tuesday, and that we would grab a bite to eat.

  I left home at five-thirty, after spending too much time trying to work out what one wears to an art gallery. As I drove, among a massive herd of metal migrating animal, I heard ‘Up on Cripple Creek’. I smiled as I reached for my mobile.

  ‘Carter, sorry, I’m stuck at work, there’s a court case on tomorrow, and we have to finalise this submission, I’m going to be maybe forty-five minutes late. Can I meet you in there?’

  ‘Not a problem. Text me when you arrive and I’ll meet you out the front. By the time you get there, I’ll have sussed out the good stuff.’

  The Maxwell Art Gallery was large and impressive. A Victorian building, it was three bluestone levels, and larger, but similar to, the houses that surrounded it, giving the impression that it was once the grandest of them. The houses made me envious, reminded me of the advantages of wealth, of old money, though whenever I had my hands on any, I had never been too concerned what age it was.

  There was a small queue of ticket buyers. After a couple of attempts to explain that my friend would be late and that I’d left a ticket for her, I entered without confidence that Shelagh would enter unhindered. I was given a program and joined a slow-moving line of people. Directly in front of me was an attractive girl with purple hair, and studs in her ears and nose. The young man with her was more conservative, in a patterned shirt, styled hair, with no apparent metallic additions. I decided it was their first date and that she was not the sort of girl he would usually be with. He did his best to be cool as she announced in a cloudy, deep voice that she ‘hated the fucking crowds at these sort of gigs, they were so up themselves, so sort of, like, clichéd.’ He mumbled something about that being the price you pay for popularity.

  I stopped to read an explanation of how there were ninety-four works on show, mainly on canvas, some on wood and paper and cloth, and fifteen sculptures of granite, brass, bronze and wood. There were twenty-four female Australian artists represented, with work dating back to 1832 and from as recently as 2004. I noted that there were six works by Elaine Tyson, dating from 1951 to 1992. I returned to the end of the hushed and respectful stream of attendees. It snaked, regularly disgorging itself because some insisted on taking longer than average with a particular exhibit. Overall, it was a deliberate conga line of the enthusiastic or, at the very least, the genuinely curious.

  The exhibits in the first room varied greatly. The third was a large canvas, a scene of a city street. Each pedestrian was unusual, somehow out of proportion, some dressed as circus performers, others in different national outfits, the artist revealing something about each pedestrian that was as relevant as it was absurd. Every person was somewhere between poignant and ridiculous, the most prominent of them was a businesswoman in a high-fashion suit who had the face of a clown. I tried hard to make sense of it, but the more I looked, the more obscure it became and, as a result, I was soon frustrated. Had the artist seen the work before executing the first brush stroke, or did she just pick up the brush and start? I moved on to another large and colourful piece. It was abstract, entitled ‘Woman and Power.’ It gave me nothing except colour, so I edged forward to read its attached description. ‘The artist’s intention was to use a canvas medium to create an image that was representative of the emerging role of women in the economic and political revival of the world ‘post-depression’. The elderly couple next to me whispered to each other, with expressions of understanding and nods of admiration, and I felt I was missing out. I wanted to ask what it was they felt.

  I was about to move to the next piece when I heard, ‘Carter, how are you?’

  I turned.

  ‘Warwick Gardiner. We met recently,’ he smiled, ‘when I was jogging.’

  This was the second time he had surprised me but this time it was he who had fired the starting gun.

  ‘Of course, Warwick, it’s good to see you again. And this time, I didn’t have to chase you.’

  ‘You see people in the oddest places; coincidence seems to have no limits, believe me.’ He seemed off balance, and I wondered if that was how I seemed to him the last time we spoke. ‘Are you an art aficionado, Carter?’

  ‘No, but I recently decided to take a bit more interest in it. How about you, are you keen on art?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am. I once fancied myself as an artist but decided I lacked the insight and the innate ability to see life in that special way that good artists do… in other words, I don’t have the talent but I’m going to get back to it one day.’

  ‘You may be underestimating yourself; maybe you should keep at it.’ I was trying to be nice but it felt insincere. This was hardly the place to try to repair bridges that he might not have known were broken.

  ‘Oh, you haven’t seen my work, Carter…but you’re right, of course. Who knows, I may be better than I realise, strange things happen.’

  Again, his words seemed loaded and intense. He looked past me, seemingly at nothing. Wherever he was, it was not there with me. I waited, he
ld my breath, wondered how quickly I could exit.

  Then he seemed to relax. ‘Actually, this is my second visit, there’s some great stuff here.’

  ‘Really, what should I see?’

  ‘Oh, there are some outstanding pieces that are legitimate Australian masterpieces. I love Jessica Lightfoot’s work, she’s a real pioneer of cubism, and Carlotta Carbone’s surrealistic visions of Central Australia are so bloody under appreciated. She did so much for… don’t let me go on, I don’t want to bore you.’

  I handed him my program and dragged a pen from my pocket. ‘Would you mind marking what you think is important, something the novice should have a good look at?’ It seemed the right thing to do.

  He smiled and applied himself to the task, I stood quietly while he flicked pages, and placed ticks and wrote comments. Then he stopped, brow furrowed, and seemed to be a long way off. He looked at me.

  ‘You know, the other day, when we spoke, that was a really weird day, really weird. I mean, not just because you totally surprised me when you tapped me on the shoulder.’

  I felt a twinge of embarrassment and considered apologising but he kept talking.

  ‘But, even odder, that was the same day I discovered I probably have a twin.’

  ‘A twin, really? You mean, you didn’t know…’

  ‘Yeah, I had no idea. It started after I got home, after seeing you. I had a bit of a…a… I don’t know, a bit of a turn. Really odd. I suddenly felt so depressed, my chest hurt, I thought I was having a heart attack or something ...’ He was lost in the story; his gaze shifted from me to the floor, then he gently shook his head. ‘ I was in my kitchen, preparing to cook a roast and trying to ignore how I was feeling, and I cut myself with a carving knife; I mean, badly. So, there I am, bleeding like I don’t know what, so I take myself off to casualty at St Mary’s Hospital. The doctor does some checks, you know, the usual procedure, they take my details. I’m sitting watching myself bleed, and the doctor starts stitching me up and says how it’s really weird because he just attended a lady who also had cut herself badly. She had the same blood type, and that’s unusual by itself, because I’m B negative, and then he says she has the same date of birth. He asks me if have a twin sister and I laugh, but then realise he was being serious.’

  Warwick grinned unconvincingly. His eyes were fixed on me and he was unblinking. I felt heavy, as if moving was not an option. We were standing in the middle of a small room, people moving around us like dancers performing slow pirouettes.

  ‘So, it’s all been so crazy, you know, and then he tells me she’s in the next cubicle. So, I think what the hell and I go in, and there’s this lady. She was fairly average looking, medium height and build, sort of dark short hair. There was nothing really spectacular or different about her but, for some reason, just seeing her made me feel a bit strange. I didn’t tell her. We joked about blood types, and she tells me she had this anxiety attack around the same time I did and cut herself with scissors. We were both nervous, trying to be cool, you know.

  ‘Anyway, she asks for my phone number and then, get this, the next day she calls and wants to know about my mother. When I ask why, she says she was adopted and doesn’t know her mum, and she reckons that she might be my sister, and asks if I would meet up with her. So, I start to think she might be a bit of a fruitcake. But, the fact is, I’m also adopted, and when I tell her this, she starts get emotional. But then I really upset her when I give her the news that my birth mother is dead. By now, she’s really crying and telling me she’s been looking for her mum for years, with no luck, and I’m struggling to keep my own head together. She tells me that she has twins of her own and they say twins run in families, and how she hadn’t slept a wink all night, wondering if I might be her twin brother.’ Warwick paused and took a deep breath. His eyes darted around the room, as if he was watching a fly. Then he stopped, looked at me and waited.

  I nodded, I didn’t know what else to do. He kept talking. ‘By now, I’m a bit freaked out, and I want to get rid of her, so I get her number and tell her it’s unlikely but I’ll think about it and ring her back. Then I found I couldn’t stop thinking about it. My mum – I mean, the lady who brought me up – told me when I turned fourteen that I was adopted and my birth mother had passed away when I was born. I accepted that, I never felt really compelled to try and find out about my birth mother’s background; I mean, if she’s dead, then that’s that. So, now I’m starting to think I should check this all out but I’m not sure how. My mother, the one I that brought me up, passed away four years ago and my dad ten years ago. But I can’t stop thinking about it. I mean, wouldn’t you be the same?’

  I nodded again and was going to answer but he didn’t wait. ‘So, I call her, and two days later, we meet and have coffee. That really spaced me out, it was sort of like talking to an echo machine; like I was sitting with her but, at the same time, I’m sitting at another table, listening to her and me. Her voice was so strange, I had to really concentrate. She talked about her past, and that was OK, nothing too unusual, nothing I connected with, but then,’ his right arm extended slowly, like it was mechanical, his hand landed on my arm, his eyes insisted that I listen, ‘she phones me a few hours ago and says that she’s found our mother. That she’s definitely dead, but that she hadn’t died at my birth, like I said, but that she had died the exact moment we both cut ourselves. Died from cancer, in the spine.’

  I felt I needed to speak. ‘That’s absolutely amazing. So, your birth mother may have been alive the whole time and…’ I stopped; my words seemed inadequate.

  He nodded. Despite being in a room full of people, he seemed alone. Then it dawned on me that he was in shock. ‘Are you all right? I reckon I’d be an emotional wreck. Maybe you should talk to a doctor or counsellor, or…’

  ‘I’m fine! I mean, I don’t usually go for this sort of stuff, and there’s no proof of any real link between her and me. But it’s confusing, and I’ve become obsessed with the idea that two people who apparently don’t know each other can be, you know, feeling the same pain, sharing the same emotion that no one else could know about. Near but apart.…’

  He shook his head hard, like he was trying to dislodge something. ‘Anyway, I didn’t quite know what to do. I’m seeing her tomorrow and, in fact, the reason I’m here tonight is because I’m meeting my Aunt Emily, the sister of the woman who brought me up. I’m not that close to her, I haven’t seen her for over a year, but, I dunno, I just feel she might know something. I have to talk to someone who’s known me since I was a kid!’

  Now his expression changed to an unconvincing grin. He lifted both hands, his eyebrows raised and his shoulder hunched, like an unspoken plea. ‘So, here I am, killing thirty minutes until I meet my aunt at the hotel around the corner. All a bit fucking weird, really… I don’t quite know why I’m telling you this.’

  ‘Warwick, it’s just remarkable, I don’t know what to say.’ I realised my hand was on his shoulder. ‘Give me your phone number, let’s keep in touch; I mean, if you want to?’ I patted my pockets, then realised my pen was in his hand.

  ‘Yeah, no worries,’ he said and scribbled his number on my program.

  ‘Thanks, mate. I’ll give you a call.’ I didn’t know if I would but it seemed important to say it.

  We shook hands again. ‘Nice to see you, Carter.’ Then he was gone.

  I exhaled forcefully, didn’t realise I’d been holding my breath. An elderly bearded man was looking at me strangely, and it took a moment to realise it was a look that said he did not enjoy having to manoeuvre his ample self around me. I moved, let myself float on the tide of the gallery audience. It took me to the next room, where I tried to find a viewing position in front of a series of small, vividly coloured oil paintings of dancers, then felt a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Carter, I think I do know why I just told you so much. It was because of what I saw in the mirror.’
>
  Again, the place I was in didn’t matter, the crowd dissipated. He raised his index finger in front of my face. ‘I was having a shave before I came here and, as I was looking in the mirror, I saw this bloody weird look in my eyes, like I wasn’t me but some bloke looking for me. Then I realised I had seen that look before... it was yours, the one you had in your eyes that day when you grabbed me in the street, like you shouldn’t be there but had to be… do you know what I am saying?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, just emitted an odd, ironic cackle, and, in a voice that was an octave higher, said, ‘In fact, I think I can see it now.’

  There, among the myriad background voices, among people trying to decipher the meaning of paint on canvas, I’d began to understand his confusion, that he needed answers but was scared he might discover that things were not where they should be. I knew that confusion.

  The moments bounced, each a bit smaller than the last, until they stopped. We looked at each other, and he nodded and cleared his throat. I wanted to say something to help him but I was lost. He smiled at me, not convincingly, but it helped ease the moment.

  ‘Anyway, Carter, I’d better move on. Enjoy your show, sorry if I came on a bit heavy. You really got an earful, you poor bugger.’ He patted me on the shoulder, then turned and disappeared among the unaware.

  I stood and watched the space he had occupied. I felt guilty that I had chased him down the street and confronted him, and then felt a rush of confusion as I realised that his story was the same as the plot of my book.

  Somebody bumped me quite heavily. I spun around, expecting to see Warwick again, but it was a tall, skinny man, who must have stumbled accidentally. He began apologising profusely, and patted my arm with long, bony fingers that seemed like they should belong to something unworldly. I nearly told him to watch where he was going. He seemed to read my annoyance, and quickly moved away.