The Ephemera

by Neil Williamson

  ~

  Alison Grace was by no means the embodiment of her name. She shuffled into the gallery like so much grey flotsam dragged along in Maria's purposeful wake. Her clothes were smart, but muted in colour, and hung on her tiny bony frame as if it consisted entirely of wire hangers. Her hair, clean and perfunctorily cut, framed a pale angular face in which the heavily lidded eyes were cast at the floor. Hugo rose to meet the women, smiling. He felt that measure of superiority, familiar to him when meeting artists, as he straightened the cuffs of his mauve suit, which he wore today over a commanding green roll-neck. Maria made introductions and he extended his hand exposing a glint of Rolex gold. The artist's hand was warm and dry, and gripped more firmly than he expected. Those heavy lids fluttered up to reveal intense green eyes which immediately captured his own gaze and held it. Her voice was a soft sound punctuated by tuts and clicks, and it put Hugo in mind of feathers and brittle bones.

  "Glad to meet you Mister de Villiers." She said it with an upward inflection, like a question. "I'm honoured that you have taken an interest in my work." The woman's unsettling presence, belied by her appearance, caused the glaze of Hugo's composure to crack just a fraction. He looked to Maria for help, but was met only by an amused half-smile. He forced his attention back to the artist. Ridiculous. Why should he feel threatened by this? Almost immediately he felt his accustomed feeling of superiority return. He smiled his standard radiant smile.

  "Gallerie de Villiers is always eager to promote original works." He waved his arm in an expansive arc. The woman's face remained impassive, showing no sign of being impressed.

  "Sarah." Hugo, a little annoyed, looked over to his assistant. "Miss Grace's pieces arrived this morning, yes?"

  "Yes, Mister de Villiers. They've been unpacked and are waiting in the rear office."

  "Fine." He took the artist lightly by the arm. "Come, let us discuss how best to display your work." The pair followed closely by Maria headed towards the back of the building. Over his shoulder he said, "Oh, and Sarah? Coffee."

  ~

  By mid-afternoon the gallery was closed. The walls of the prime exhibition area had been cleared and were now home to the twelve pictures. The discussions over the mounting sequence between Hugo, Alison and Maria were earnest, bordering on argument, and were joined in equal voice by Sarah and even the receptionist, Eloise.

  Hugo paced back and forth, becoming irascible as his authoritatively voiced contributions were heeded less and less. Alison Grace stood back quietly in contemplation as Maria, Sarah and Eloise raised their voices to stress their own versions of the right, the only, way to display this collection.

  These pictures certainly engendered opinion. Hugo had to admit that they had power. Only a fraction of it had come over in the photographs Maria had showed him, but standing here he could not deny that there was some poignancy of subject and composition, some subtlety of technique in each that was at once enthralling and beautiful and disturbing, such that in a few cases he could not look at them for more than a few seconds. And even now looking at the entire collection he could not see how these pictures were created, although certainly they were all products of the same method. Each, simply framed and bordered in white, had the textural appearance of parchment with the clarity of a photographic image. The central images appeared in each case to have been arranged in front of a video picture. This backing image was distorted in some way so that the original subject all but lost its identity: either by enlargement so that only a small segment was visible, or by blurring due to motion, or in some cases by overlaying different aspects of the same image on each other. The backgrounds were tantalisingly incomplete and carried an implicit link to the central images, a hint at meaning. But these central images themselves were even more enigmatic. They were photographic in quality but of impossible constructions. No, they were not photographs, not even of sculptures; and neither were they photo-montages or computer composites. The artist denied using any of these techniques although she did admit to the use of video to provide the backgrounds.

  Each picture, although uniform in style, evoked a unique emotional response in Hugo; and an entirely different set of responses, it seemed, in the others. This one: an alabaster hand cups a pile of coins. Some glitter brightly, gold and silver; others dulled, tarnished and chipped; still others in rusting pieces, turning to a fine metallic powder which slips through the clutching fingers and cascades onto a polished silver tray beneath. The tray reflects the images of a group of people but the growing pile of powder is quickly covering them over. The background is black and white, apparently in the process of losing definition. A large pyramid shape is dissolving into monochrome static. In its centre the form of a stylised ellipse can just be made out holding a vertically off-centre circle within it. Lines or rays appear to be radiating from the shape.

  Hugo found that he had a certain fascination with this picture although at the same time he found it ultimately frustrating. Maria and Eloise seemed to feel the same way about it although Sarah spent only a few moments at it before moving on.

  This one: A sylph-like female figure kneels on an old mattress, naked, her skin has a pearly sheen. Her head is raised and turned in order to look behind her in the direction of the background which is a wall of human flesh, a composite image of all manner of sexual configurations in which the defining edges are smeared, joining to form a single heaving body. She has beautiful wings of silver feathers but they are tarnishing and falling away. One hand is handcuffed to the mattress; beside the other is a silver key. She could free herself but she is rapt in the images behind her.

  Maria was very taken with this piece, and to a lesser extent, so was Eloise. Hugo hated this picture, and said as much, but found excuses to return to it. In truth he could not deny that it was beautiful, capturing a note of transcendent eroticism which was hypnotic.

  This one: A man sits in a room, a book is open on his lap. He is cowering in the chair, apparently screaming. The reason for this appears to be the eyes. Staring, unblinking eyes watch the man from all around the room. From the walls, from the swirls in the pattern on the Persian rug on the floor, from the end of the door knob, from the centre of each bloom in a vase of daisies, from each numeral on the mantle clock, from the studs in the arms of his leather wingback chair, from the open pages of the discarded book in his lap, and outstretched before him in horror, from the palms and fingertips of his own hands. The blurred, sepia-toned image behind this depicts what could be a figure running, a dark arc where its head would be, as if looking round frantically.

  For some reason this one unsettled Hugo most, striking a chord of familiarity deep within him, the others seemed only marginally affected by it.

  Hugo asked Alison about the motivation that led her to create these, and she told him that they were portraits, after a fashion. She would not elaborate further.

  The arguments went on. Eventually it became clear that they were not going to arrive at any decision. Maria sighed with exasperation,

  "There is no balance here. We need a central piece around which to base the exhibition, but none of us seem to be able to choose the same one."

  Hugo started to say that this was what he had been saying all along, when Alison spoke. "Then I shall have to start work on a new piece."

  Hugo made to protest that the gallery could not be held indefinitely, but she cut him short. "I will have it here by Monday morning." She turned to Sarah, "Will you arrange a cab for me." Sarah made the call and then escorted the lady to the door. When the girl returned she was clutching a piece of paper bearing the artist's address.

  "She wants me to sit for the picture," she said.

  ~

  The artist delivered the picture as promised. Sarah helped her bring it in and unwrapped it herself with eager hands before carrying it over and placing it against the wall. Stepping back to view it properly she shared a thrilled look with Alison Grace. The others stood rapt, silent for long moments. The picture was truly striking.


  Foreground was a woman, tall and naked standing ankle deep in a pool of water. Her arms extended vertically above her head entwining round each other, fingers splayed, stretching into slender branches, dividing and spreading to form a leafy canopy which hung down to the water level. The trailing ends of the branches floated on the surface of the pool. The canopy was not so dense as to completely obscure the woman, rather the branches cast alluring patterns of light and shade on her limbs and torso; only her face was completely masked. Nestling within the leaves were heavy fruit, apparently ruddy with ripeness. Under closer inspection though their skins were seen to be transparent, each enclosing a huddled embryo in a clear, viscous fluid. The video background was a grainy picture of a human zygote in an advanced stage of division.

  Sarah hugged herself. "I never knew," she said quietly. Her face was aglow with wonder and when she exchanged another thrilled glance with the artist her eyes were bright, brimming with secrets.

  Hugo was almost overwhelmed by the strength of the picture. It was bold and to the point; despite its graceful beauty, it shone with an almost palpable quality of life and well-being. He was the first to break the awed silence.

  "Yes. Oh, yes," he whispered. "This is the one."

  Amongst the others, Sarah's picture was a natural focus, and the sequence of the rest seemed to resolve itself naturally.

  ~

  That night, Hugo dreamt. As the dream began he recognised it as a recurring one, but as always he could not remember how it ended.

  In his dream he was standing before an enormous mirror. He stood for a long time admiring himself. His clothes, his hair, his face: everything looked good. There was no mistaking him; he was a figure of distinction.

  Then his face began to melt away.

  ~

  Three flights up. In this heat. Hugo paused to wipe the film of sweat from his face and neck with a paisley patterned handkerchief, damp from frequent use, and then resumed his upward labour in the direction of the girl's studio. He paused again outside her door, long enough to smooth his slightly ruffled appearance before ringing the bell.

  The exhibition had fared better than Hugo could ever have expected. Word of mouth had spread quickly leading to daily attendances which bordered on the amazing. Five weeks later and the numbers showed no sign of dropping off. Sarah's picture had proved very popular and had sold immediately. Nearly half of the others were spoken for as well. Maria wanted Hugo to extend the exhibition and he was in no position to argue, so they tried to persuade Alison Grace to produce more of her unique art. She had seemed reluctant, protesting that it was difficult to find suitable subjects. After the results of Sarah's sitting they had all offered themselves, but she had turned down Maria and Eloise flat. She had looked long at Hugo however, as if weighing him up, before eventually assenting.

  Waiting for the door to be answered, Hugo preened himself. He knew he was looking good, from the careful arrangement of his hair, to the even bronze shade of his skin, to carefully selected couture. He felt a tremor of anticipation. Maria had hardly spoken to him since Alison had chosen him. Eloise vented her own frustration on Sarah, although Sarah was doing a good job of ignoring her.

  Hugo was discovering a quiet affection for Sarah since the advent of their association with Alison Grace. She was by far the more capable and conscientious of the two gallery assistants, and had a pleasant demeanour with the clients. He was beginning to find that he enjoyed having her around.

  Now that he was aware of what they represented, Hugo privately considered the existing pictures obvious and vulgar, although he had the diplomacy not to say so publicly while the crowds were still queuing outside his door. In the cases of most of the pictures the artist showed herself to be an astute judge of character, and he guessed that she must have picked up on some kind of biological indication of Sarah's pregnancy to create her portrait. Even if Sarah had not been aware herself, Alison Grace was obviously attuned to reading the signs and had successfully conveyed them symbolically on her strange canvas. Again Hugo felt anticipation ripple through him. If an emotional portrait of someone like Sarah could evoke such regard, then what would a likeness of Hugo?

  The apartment was not what he had anticipated of Alison Grace. He had been expecting dim rooms crowded with old things, an undisturbed sense of dowdiness and antique clutter. Instead he found the rooms spacious and decorated in an ultra-modern fashion. There was a sparseness which accentuated the expense at which the place had been furnished; each piece of furniture precisely chosen to complement the whole.

  Alison Grace ushered him quickly through the apartment to the studio at the back. This too took Hugo by surprise. Rather than an empty bare-boarded attic room bathed in natural light, he discovered that this studio was more akin to a living room. A comfortable looking armchair upholstered in black material sat in the centre of the room, a low-wattage lamp on the floor providing illumination. She motioned for him to sit, which he did. The wall facing the chair was dominated by a large blank television screen. The screen was linked to a digital video camera mounted on a tripod, which Alison was now adjusting. As Hugo twisted round to see what she was doing the low glass table directly in front of the chair appeared on the screen. Beside the camera stood another tripod, this one holding a curious metal frame.

  Hugo was becoming nervous. The artist had said nothing since he had arrived. As if sensing this, she looked up from her preparations with a sudden smile which threw him with its warmth.

  "Nearly ready," she said, again with an inflection so that he was not sure if she was trying to put him at ease or asking if he was ready. The words spoken in her strangely hollow little voice did little to relax him.

  She brought over a square bundle wrapped in waxed paper and set it on the table in front of him. Hugo could see that she had donned a pocketed apron and was wearing thin gloves like a surgeon's. She deftly unwrapped the package to reveal what looked like a solid block of green tinted glass. Then she produced a long bladed scalpel from one of the apron's pockets and proceeded to slice the block into three unequal pieces as easily as if it were cheese. She carried the smallest portion, barely a slice, over to the camera where she wrapped it like paper over the lens. The picture on the screen dissolved into a swimming blue static. The second portion, she took to the framework. Here she teased and worked the stuff into a thin sheet which she stretched over the metal like a translucent canvas.

  All this she did silently and with the tiniest of motions, which served to increase Hugo's discomfort further. At last, from the floor she picked up two items; a wooden paint brush and a jar of water, and said, "I am ready to begin, Mister de Villiers. If you'd just like to relax and take it in your hands."

  Hugo was unsure what she meant. This whole arrangement was so far removed from his expectations that he did not know what to think any more. Alison indicated the remaining block of glass with her brush. Understanding, Hugo reached out and picked it up.

  The glass was cool and hard to the touch. It was weighty and the sharp edges cut into his fingers a little until he found a way to hold it comfortably. The artist dipped her brush into the water, flicking off the excess drips on the edge of the jar. Hugo looked up expectantly, his lips forming the words, What now?, but Alison cut him off,

  "You are a man who likes to surround himself with fine things, Mister de Villiers." Question or statement? Hugo managed to answer, "Yes."

  "Fine clothes, fine home, fine car, fine people and of course, the finest art in your gallery." She was staring intently at him now, her brush poised over the transparent sheet. As she continued Hugo noticed that her voice had taken on a thin whispering edge.

  "Because only the very finest things can complement your own refined person. Is that not so?"

  As he was about to reply, he noticed that the glass in his hands was getting warm, softer, malleable. Before he knew it his hands had sunk into the surface and been enveloped. A sound, 'Ah', came from the artist. He looked back in her direction i
n alarm. Her eyes were closed and she had begun to paint; clear water in delicate, purposeful strokes on clear canvas.

  Hugo tried to pull his hands free but they were held tightly. He stood up trying to shake the glass off but with no success. In fact the glass was flowing quickly up his arms, freezing them, and was beginning to encase his torso and neck.

  "It can be really quite pleasant if you relax," said the artist, "but you'll end up hurting yourself if you move around."

  He was robbed of that option by the time his hips and then knees were smoothly covered by the liquid glass. As the substance rippled up his face, the wall screen began to flicker and images started to ghost in and out of the static. It was impossible to tell what they were because they were gone and replaced by new ones within seconds. To the side he could see that the sheet Alison was painting on had gained a measure of opacity and was taking on the appearance of parchment with each additional brush stroke.

  Then his attention was dragged away and captured by the figure which materialised before him. He recognised it immediately. It was him. An exact replica of himself, dressed exactly the same way and looking into a hand held mirror. It was looking very pleased with itself, beaming his famous smug smile. The reason for this soon became apparent as he became aware of the presence of a crowd of people. From his frozen situation he could not see any of them as they all seemed to be keeping just beyond the limits of his vision, but this simulacrum Hugo was well aware of them, well aware of their attention of which it was obviously the centre. Inside the glass, Hugo could almost hear the whispered comments of admiration and watched as the replica's smile broadened still further. Suddenly the figures came into view and formed a kneeling semicircle around his double. They were elegant people, expensively dressed, an air of importance about them; and their faces were featureless curved silver. His image let the hand holding the mirror hang by his side, choosing to gaze instead into the faces of his admirers and seeing himself from a dozen angles. The video wall held a picture of a vase of cheap plastic flowers reflected as if between two mirrors so that the image multiplied and receded infinitely. A constant flurry of movement in the corner of his vision was the artist painting away feverishly. The sheet was now nearly fully opaque but Hugo could just make out dark outlines through it.