Lomita For Ever

by Trevor Eve

  Passion – yes, and fury – yes: but never at him.

  Never truly, horribly because of him, because of situations, yes, but he always felt not as a result of what he had done. He had always been a part of the wholeness of them both; but when he was in the hospital being pumped with medication he felt it probably was the end of his life, his marriage, of everything. He understood it was his mental state that must have caused an enormous disappointment for Clarissa; a tragedy in her mind that she was married to someone, who – she had enough knowledge of the brain to know – would never be the same person again, never be who he was for her when they met: never again. The medication had taken away his desire for her, he supposed she felt unloved – though she wasn’t, and unwanted – which she wasn’t.

  But for a woman, well anyone really, who was losing faith in the world, not to be desired is an event of profound proportion. He somehow did not blame her for what she had done. But he knew that she blamed herself and this is what had caused the breakdown in her ability to behave with any love and compassion; everywhere she turned she was reminded of the betrayal of her life, of her guilt, that had resulted in the creation of another life.

  A boy.

  Jacob.

  And on that Wednesday evening, she could hold that in her system no longer.

  Guilt, the two of them destroying their lives through guilt.

  *

  Ever stood wishing he had another cigarette.

  He counted twenty-seven cypress trees, twenty-seven, Jesus, yes, for sure, immaculately identical in shape and height, lining the driveway. Twenty-seven on each side. Fifty-four in total, adds up to nine, divisible by three. Holy Trinity. This informed his return to the present: everything has a point.

  *

  After the blessing the two chandeliers over the dining table dimmed.

  To allow the candlelight to gain its authority. Lomita was unsure how to address the company, basically insecure because she didn’t know anyone. This was confirmed by Mr Lorken’s icebreaker statement.

  ‘Lomita and I have only recently met, at my Basquiat exhibition, whereas I have known Arnott and Abby for a long, long time and Mr Mori not so long.’

  There was little ripple of ironic laughter that he was the new boy on the scene; certainly a pause had been left for some response, which Daizō wasted no time in filling.

  ‘Please let’s not be so formal…’

  Mr Mori wasn’t allowed to continue. Mr Lorken interrupted.

  ‘But I am sure Lomita will very soon become a dear friend.’

  ‘And please call me Daizō.’

  Daizō Mori was not going to be defeated.

  ‘Of course.’

  Acknowledged Mr Lorken, closing the subject, with an extravagant unfolding of his napkin.

  There was murmuring from the two wives that was inaudible to Lomita; the table, although only seating six, was capable of at least twelve, and Lomita was sure, judging by the size of the room, that forty could be accommodated without any effort; just a few more black-suited waiters. So conversation had to be directed with the precision of a stage performer.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Lomita found herself centre stage, and needed a few lines.

  ‘It’s a real pleasure to be here on your Shabbat dinner, I so appreciate being invited to share it with you.’

  And then her focus went to the Japanese gentleman, with a stare, mainly because he was straight in front of her, and his smile invited conversation.

  ‘So, I am fascinated as to why Mr Maezawa’s Basquiat never made an appearance, Daizō.’

  His pause at letting the words reach him across the linen tablecloth was brief. But somehow felt.

  ‘I hope that’s not a criticism.’

  Lomita now squirmed in her chair; she really wanted to pee, perhaps because her opening had been a little strong, nerves were setting in.

  ‘Not at all. Sorry, I just would have, and I’m sure everyone else would have, just loved to have seen it.’

  To excuse her directness, and having a vague recollection about Japan and politeness, she added as a diplomatic calmer,

  ‘ Sorry, I hope, I mean, I, in no way, meant to cause offence.’

  ‘And of course, none taken.’

  Daizō said and she felt sad that she might have muted his ebullience. Move on. He had an earnest quality, but she found him endearing. But potentially sticky? No, it was her.

  ‘It was, I am afraid, already committed, it had been announced at the museum in Chiba, just outside Tokyo, so the efforts to extricate it from that arrangement were just too complicated. But come to Japan and see it, I would be delighted to escort you. Chiba is where my parents live.’

  The possibility of that happening, she wanted to say, would be less likely than – she couldn’t think long enough as Dinah, maybe the sensitive one, but probably just the hostess, sensed the delay in reply, and came in with the obvious.

  ‘I so love your dress, may I say the colour matches your eyes. You look gorgeous. Who is it by?’

  This was her reply in the Palace of Versailles. It would hold up.

  ‘Valentino. He picked the colour to match my eyes.’

  At this point the salmon salad on a bed of lettuce was served by the immaculately-clad and remarkably similar-looking waiters. Lomita thought up until now she was performing satisfactorily. The wine was offered, red or white. A Puligny-Montrachet. Don’t pronounce the g in the middle, she wanted to say, too late, and a Château Lynch-Bages, Pauillac region, Grand Cru Classé. No contest, thought Lomita, pour it, but only when I want it poured. Lomita wanted to voice her opinion to the waiter on pouring, but thought it too early to be dictating. Give it time. Everyone chose the red.

  Then in came Arnott. Tall and tanned and bald and hunky, the man from Montecito starts talking.

  ‘So, you were at the preview night?’

  The only reply that made sense, as it had already been clarified, produced a polite but firm confirmation.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, are you a collector?’

  The only reply that made sense was, what has it got to do with you, don’t suss me out. Lomita was feeling defensive, a little on trial, but instead, as the polite guest that she was not used to being, not impolite, just not a guest these days, responded with a non-committal shrug. Lomita had a history to protect.

  ‘Well I have one or two pieces. My first husband had a valuable collection.’

  She knew he was not going to give up, leave me alone, talk to the other people. Lomita was so used in company, to being evasive. She did not like to be questioned or indeed to question.

  ‘May I ask the content?’

  Saved by Abby, this time, female support, that is what she felt she needed in the male zone. She wished she could move seats.

  ‘Oh come on now, not business tonight.’

  But Mr Lorken was not to be dictated to in his own house.

  ‘No, let me explain the connections and if you like, the questions. Lomita first expressed an interest in an artist I didn’t even know I had.’

  Lomita experienced a gripe in her stomach. It was a sadness for Ever.

  ‘Who is that?’

  The on-the-button Daizō. But an age moment, she sensed, a senior moment, had hit Mr Lorken.

  ‘My goodness I can’t remember his name now.’

  No such senility for Lomita.

  ‘John Everett Millen.’

  ‘Millen or Millais?’

  Interjected Arnott, rather casually, considering the content of his question.

  ‘God not Millais, wouldn’t have forgotten that name. Unfortunately, Millen.’

  The first put-down of the night. The lack of respect for Ever’s father was going to build, she was sure. She was glad Ever wasn’t present. Lomita steeled herself.

  ‘I remember having a portrait of his, about twenty years ago, and wondered what had happened to him, so I employed my dealer, well researcher really, to check around. He traced a collection
that Mr Lorken—’

  ‘Please, Ingmar.’

  ‘Of course, Ingmar, had purchased some time ago.’

  Never to be told; Mr Lorken had to be in control it seemed; take the higher ground; always accustomed to flying higher in the sky.

  ‘Well not me exactly. That was at a time, before I had built my gallery, to house my collection of established post-fifties art…’

  Lomita was amazed he felt the need to explain. A very important man still feeling small, could be the only reason. Is a plateau of content never reached? They have never been humiliated, thought Lomita. These people didn’t know that one.

  ‘…that I thought I should be adventurous.’

  Mr Lorken continued.

  ‘ I bought three small galleries, two in Venice, here, and one in Santa Barbara, on a limited budget of twenty million dollars.’

  A pause for that amount to hit the table.

  ‘I employed, along with the gallerists, two dealers to get out there and see if they could come up with any original, outstanding talent.’

  ‘And did they?’

  Of course not, Lomita was way ahead here, otherwise what’s the point of the story? Speed up Daizō: although he could just have been bored.

  ‘Not one. So, you can understand my interest in Lomita, when she asks to view this man’s remaining works. Which, of course, I am happy to facilitate.’

  The chicken, cooked in lemon and herbs with onion roasted potatoes and spring beans, was being served. More food filled Lomita with dread; the bread turned out to be just an amusing mouth experience; the first course plates were now being removed by the waiters, she couldn’t tell who was who. That’s money, she supposed, when you can hire twins.

  ‘I think tastes might be different, I might appreciate some of his work.’

  ‘I doubt that very much.’

  I won’t have that, Lomita rose, not up, but to the occasion. In silence.

  ‘Well let’s see, shall we?’

  ‘It depends whether you want to waste your money on something that will never appreciate, or just buy something, which I have never understood, that you like.’

  The last word was extended and dismissed in condemnation. And followed by a loud, short mocking laugh.

  Abby and Dinah were talking away together: Lomita wished she wasn’t penned in by the men, so she could talk about something maybe a little delicate, abstruse even.

  ‘I have always collected major, already established artists. Koons, de Kooning, Pollock, Clyfford Still, Warhol, never really got Rothko, and I did buy my first Warhol when I was quite young. I went for what I considered to be the easiest market. Ideally the dead white male. Pre-Basquiat, of course.’

  A statement of power.

  A silence.

  ‘I love Diego Rivera.’

  Lomita loved Mexico basically. This remark was ignored by Mr Lorken, now growing, Lomita thought, with self-importance between the mouthfuls of chicken and potatoes. Nevertheless, he continued, food in mouth, with that annoying habit that was supposed to make it acceptable, of covering the mouth with the hand while talking.

  ‘Then in the nineties, I decided to retire from my businesses in manufacturing, and really concentrate on what was essentially my hobby, expanding my collection of established artists.’

  A grab for the napkin.

  ‘It was around this time that I made my miscalculation of trying to find the new, bright thing. I mean people have done it, Saatchi, for one, but it is not for me: he’s smarter than me anyway.’

  A wave of laughter, relief, perhaps, at his first hint of self-deprecation.

  ‘Art is dictated by money not the artist per se. I don’t buy art to ingratiate myself with the artist, to nurture. Who are the people who are truly important in the art world? The people who establish the price and control the market. Is Schnabel a lesser painter than Basquiat? Probably not, but Yusaku Maezawa put Basquiat on the map, or rather confirmed his place on the map by his money. His money. People who have bought Schnabel don’t sell him at auction. They keep him. They like him, so he has barely become a million-dollar artist. You see, going back to the Medicis, the bankers, yes, we need the artist to create the work in the first place, but they are nothing without people like me, us. They come, are born and die and are replaced. Hence History of Art.’

  Another snap of laughter.

  *

  Ever was outside looking at the stars with his usual observations.

  They come, are born and die and are replaced. Universal law.

  *

  Lomita was displaced by this, by what she interpreted as blind arrogance.

  This discomfiture enabled him to continue speaking, she sensed she was not perhaps alone in her assessment; the arrogance of the money putting itself before the talent; the chef before the product; the baby before the sperm; the chicken before the egg.

  She was losing focus: lost in Lynch-Bages.

  ‘But they will always be around, we just have to exploit that talent.’

  Lomita had looked around during what was essentially a monologue; the waiters were unusually not pouring at her pace, even they had stopped; she caught a waiter’s eye just as she caught the word exploit. And felt comfortable and becalmed enough to repeat.

  ‘Exploit?’

  But it was taken as a feed; a support, not the start of criticism.

  ‘Yes, but, of course, I am in it for the beauty and the process of education, educating the world through art. Blah, blah, blah.’

  That is an annoying speech-affected habit. That blah, blah, blah thing. Like manual quotation marks. Lomita wanted to put voice to her thoughts but didn’t, of course, in deference to her host.

  ‘But mainly for its value.’

  His words were not being received in sequential flow now by Lomita, but as intermittent punctuations amidst the general babble.

  ‘Does that mean I am going to bid for a pool of boiling snot?’

  Is there such a thing? Lomita hesitated, about to ask, but the acceptance from Abby and Dinah precluded the doubt that there was indeed an artwork that contained boiling snot. She took a mouthful of her onion potato, it was delicious, even though the texture of the onion was questionable in the light of the topic.

  ‘No, let a Saatchi do that. I want the solid bets. I don’t want to house a crash, as fashion changes; but there are some artists, I think, who are beyond fashion.’

  Maybe they should all lighten up. But no, not the players, pondered a slightly wobbly Lomita.

  ‘Well this is a fine Shabbat dinner: we are, and you can’t deny it, Ingmar, we are talking business.’

  God bless Dinah. And do it now please, God. Lomita had had enough of the justification of their existence. But don’t we all do that? It’s just that these people have so much to go on about. She was in conversation with herself, there could be no argument there.

  Let’s just deal with Millen. But it was carrying on.

  ‘Not business, Dinah-pie, there are no deals, it’s the philosophy of business. I really don’t care about the artist, in fact if they die, it is often better.’

  You are going to have to try harder Dinah. Don’t give up. She was so glad Ever was not witness to this: if what she could sense was on its way, he wouldn’t be wielding a Glock 17. It would be a Kalashnikov.

  ‘Ingmar, really.’

  Come on Lomita. She was bringing herself round. Why am I here?

  ‘May I just go back a little?’

  She had succeeded in gaining Mr Lorken’s attention.

  ‘What about Millen?’

  ‘I couldn’t remember a thing about him. Anyway I asked my marketing director to give me an update which I can give you now, or have it written out for you when you view.’

  ‘Horse’s mouth.’

  She said. Let’s not mess about, she thought.

  ‘Well, he had about thirty pieces and my curators liked his stuff; we offered to buy his whole collection. Now that’s a gift for any artist. We gave him sixt
y per cent, up front, of what they thought he would sell for. That’s why they don’t work for me any longer.’

  A laugh from the court of Mr Lorken. But numbers: she has always thought numbers sounded impressive. She believed a number.

  ‘And what happened? Did you not like them?’

  Exactly, my Japanese friend, I am with you. A diplomat.

  ‘I didn’t have an opinion, I never even saw them, but he got greedy by all accounts, and said he had more that he could get ready, so they said – fine – and he painted, too many, too quick. They were not good, but we took them anyway, lucky guy, at a cheaper rate, I’m relieved to say. Exhibited him in Venice. Here not Italy. Sold nothing. Bang, it was a case of – luzzem gone. To the warehouse. I was beginning to feel like a shlemiel in this enterprise. Not just with him, but the whole searching process.’

  Lomita was weary, at least weary of the thoughts that surrounded Mr Lorken.

  She desperately wanted to pee.

  ‘Well he’s dead now, so maybe it’s the perfect opportunity for you to re-evaluate.’

  Lomita was astounded by the directness he had brought out in her.

  ‘Wait till you see them.’

  Another laughter snap.

  ‘Half were sold off to a friend of mine, Mr Chang, who’s in the hotel business, for some place in San Diego, apparently.’

  Oh God. Lomita’s heart sank. To the bottom of the well, drowning.

  Mr Lorken continued hammering in the nail.

  ‘You know the sort of art you walk past without noticing in the lobby, but it puts out a pleasant enough colour into the environment. It’s wallpaper.’