by Preethi Nair
A few days before the curators arrived, Gina came to the studio with Rooney to show me how far she had got with prepping him.
‘OK Roon, just make yourself feel comfortable with the paintings and then try to talk to us about them,’ Gina said. ‘Make like we’re the camera crew or something, don’t forget what I told you and, you know … that pose at the end.’
‘This is Marilyn Monroe,’ he pointed, ‘with my mum’s head. She’ll be dead proud, she’s always wanted her face somewhere. This is my face all mixed up, suppose it’s because no one knows who I am or who I’m supposed to be. Here you’ve got some tube scene … and anyone can see this old man and kid.’
I despaired. If this was the best we could do we might as well have a banner on display telling everyone that we were a bunch of fakes. ‘We’re not going to pull this one off. The viewers aren’t stupid. Anyway, Foruki can’t talk like that, what happened to the accent he was going to do?’
‘Be serious, Rooney,’ Gina said.
‘It’s not going to work,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘The whole question of identity is one I constantly searching for; is man a woman, is woman a man, what make him so? Is it society? Society tell us a lot of thing, make a lot of rule.’
I looked up at Rooney.
‘They turn people into celebrity; they give them an identity which is false. I try to find authenticity in fakeness. Look at Marilyn Monroe; it media who dictate who is she really; inside she might be old lady.’
I smiled in disbelief as he continued. ‘My work is about trying to detract from artist and what to expect, the artist merely conduit. He is not painting. That is what I try to show here. Artist dissolves before picture,’ he said, pointing to the mixture of colour that had become separated from his face. It not important who paint what but feeling and statement picture leave you with. This is human emotion,’ Rooney continued, indicating towards the picture of the old man and the baby. ‘Pure, simple emotion. It when human kind show their true self, no need to impress anybody.’
I began to cry. ‘How … how did you do that?’
‘Gina and me, we don’t waste time. She’s been teaching me how to speak. We want this to work for you, Nina.’
‘I haven’t taught him how to paint yet,’ Gina said. ‘That’s what we’ve got to focus on now, how he throws paint on a canvas and captures emotion. He doesn’t have to learn the rest of it, just the initial paint-throwing bit.’
Before the curators came Rooney had mastered how to appear to work in a style that Foruki would have been proud of.
We got Rooney ready to meet the curators. Foruki discussed at length in Japanese with the curators the work he wanted to display at the Tate while Gina translated. The curators agreed and together we decided how and when the pictures would be hung. We had a month left to practise as the paintings needed to be exhibited at the Tate by the end of October. Two weeks later the crew arrived from the production company to film Foruki at his studio.
‘You’re not allowed to take close-up shots of his face,’ I said to the cameraman.
‘But you’re hardly going to see anything with that big cap and those sunglasses.’
‘That is the idea, the press office told me that you have been briefed on the nature of what can be shown.’
The director came over and said some close-up shots were required. Rooney threw a tantrum and said, ‘I don’t know if I express myself properly but not me close up or I don’t do this.’
‘Artists, very temperamental,’ I added.
‘Quite,’ he replied. ‘Ian, no close-ups of the artist’s face.’
The presenter introduced Foruki’s work first. ‘The paintings have such bold use of colour that they scream so loudly you can’t ignore them; unlike the artist who wants to remain very much in the background.’
There was a shot of Rooney pretending to be working away in the background. Gina and I had taught him how to look contemplative while putting the paint onto the canvas.
We’d also taught him another move, which was to pick up various paints erratically and dip his hands into the mixture while working in a frenzy. The cameraman got a shot of this and a close-up of his hands working away.
‘Could you give us a commentary?’ the presenter asked.
‘He’s unable to speak when he works,’ I added, ‘he enters a world of his own.’
‘We’ll do a separate take with him talking later,’ the director shouted.
They took various shots of his hands and his feet moving, and of the studio.
‘We need some sound bites now,’ the director instructed.
The presenter began asking Foruki questions.
‘Foruki, why is it so important to you that the pictures appear in the foreground and the artist very much in the background, behind the work?’
We had rehearsed this question over and over.
‘It’s artist work that is important, not artist. People make judgements about my work when see me. I want them to look at work for itself, not for who painted it. I want them feel raw emotion.’
‘Cut, we didn’t quite get what emotion that was.’
Rooney had overdone the accent slightly so it sounded like ‘waw'. ‘Raw,’ I repeated.
‘Foruki, if you could just say that last sentence again, that is, “I want them to feel raw emotion.”’
Gina had to leave the room as she began laughing.
Rooney did it again.
‘Just talk to us about this particular collection,’ the presenter asked.
‘This one is search for identity. People put value and judgement on thing so Marilyn Monroe, you expect her to be certain way, but maybe she not like that at all. Media age we live in is able to create celebrity but person they create does not exist.’
He talked about each of the pictures. ‘This one here is when we show our vulnerability,’ he said pointing to the painting of the old man and the baby. ‘This is the only time we are truly ourselves, when we are vulnerable,’ Rooney stated.
‘I think we have all that we need. Thank you very much, Mr Foruki,’ the director said. ‘Very interesting.’
‘When does this run?’ I asked.
‘It goes out on the night of the prize-giving between the live Channel 4 broadcast.’
That wasn’t too bad, I thought. If anyone recognised Rooney it wouldn’t matter as it would be all over by then.
After having spent the entire day with us, the crew left. ‘Intriguing personality,’ the presenter commented. ‘Has something Michael Jackson-ish about him,’ he said sarcastically.
‘Do you think we did it?’ Rooney asked when they had gone.
Gina and I burst out laughing.
‘You’re an absolute star.’
Two weeks later we were at the Tate gallery and the curators were assisting us and advising us as to where best to hang the collection. The other artists had already put their collections in the designated rooms.
As we were leaving I looked up at the high ceilings and the grandeur of the Tate. Rooney and Gina stopped. Each of us was struck by the enormity of what we were doing.
‘What if we win?’ Gina asked.
‘You said it was highly unlikely,’ I replied.
‘That was then.’
Gina was the one who always reassured me. I pretended to hold my nerve and reassured her. ‘We see how it goes, we say nothing. Maybe Foruki has enough of all the publicity and emigrates, maybe he dies – I don’t know. One step at a time.’
‘No, he won’t win,’ Rooney said. ‘I just know he won’t, that bloke with the garden fences is going to bag it.’
The likelihood of Foruki winning was one in four. He couldn’t win; he was just used to pacify some of the severer critics; the Turner Prize wasn’t intended for artists such as Foruki, it was meant to court controversy. As Rooney said, ‘garden-fence man would bag it’.
I couldn’t put Tastudi Mangetti off any longer. He kept calling to see when he could see Foruki again. He
came to Foruki’s studio the day before the exhibition at the Tate opened to members of the public. Mangetti told Rooney how impressed he was at the new collection. Rooney spoke some English, some Japanese.
‘But Foruki, you speak very good English.’
Rooney nodded.
‘But I know how it is when you are trying to express something that is in your heart … the depths of you,’ he gestured. ‘I feel the same way and want to speak in Italian. The work is just exquisite.’
‘Thank you, Mr Mangetti,’ Rooney bowed.
‘And how is my commission coming along?’ Among all the preparation I had forgotten that I was supposed to be painting Mangetti.
Rooney stared blankly.
‘As you’ll appreciate, Tastudi,’ I interjected, ‘Foruki has been extremely busy so it’s not quite finished.’
‘Seeing as I’m here, let me take a quick look.’
‘No,’ Rooney shouted.
‘What Foruki means is he never lets anyone see work in progress, it disperses the energy around the picture,’ I added quickly.
Rooney nodded. ‘Not good to see half man,’ he replied, ‘but you take this …’ He pointed to a canvas that I had experimented on. ‘It not finished but when it finished it for you.’ Hadn’t he just contradicted me as I’d said he never allowed people to see work in progress. I stared at Rooney, confused.
‘How much is it?’ Mangetti asked, staring at the red lines.
‘No, it gift from me to you.’
Mangetti was assuaged.
‘Most generous of you, Foruki, and I accept it with the generosity with which it is given.’
‘Welcome, welcome.’ Rooney shuffled about a bit as if he had somewhere else he had to be.
‘I know you are busy and thank you for sharing your space with me. It must have taken a lot and I appreciate it. Foruki, it has been a pleasure as always.’
I showed Mangetti out. ‘A very affable character. Nina, do you know his paintings have doubled in value?’
I just wanted to get Mangetti out of there. ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ I said. ‘When this is all over.’
Mangetti climbed into his Bentley. ‘I will be in touch.’
I went back into the studio. ‘“Welcome”? “Welcome”? You’re getting too good at this, Rooney.’
He laughed.
It was a hectic day; journalists were calling up asking if they could have an interview with Foruki and have pictures of him by his work. I said that he didn’t do any interviews and the press office had pictures of him standing by his latest collection.
‘But he has his back to the camera.’
‘I know. Can’t you think up a title: “Artist turns his back on fame”, or something like that? It has been done this way intentionally,’ I said.
The journalist at the Guardian would not let it go.
‘So where exactly did you say Foruki had studied art?’
‘I didn’t and he didn’t. He learned from his mother who was a painter.’
‘And she is dead, is this correct?’
‘Yes. It was through his paintings that he could come to terms with her death.’
‘Has he found the father he came looking for?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said in our last conversation that he came to find his father.’
I hadn’t realised I had said that.
‘Sadly, his father died a year ago.’
‘And what was his name?’
‘Kenneth David.’
‘You’ve been most helpful, Ms Savani. Intriguing details you have given me, we’ll be speaking again soon.’
When he hung up I felt very nervous. Something didn’t feel right. I didn’t speak to Gina about it as she was getting as nervous about the whole thing as I was. I did what I knew best; put it to the back of my mind and pretended that everything would be fine.
The exhibition at the Tate was going well and my fears were allayed once more when nothing sinister about Foruki appeared in the press. Journalists just focused on interviews with the fence man who sculptured nudes, and also on how sedate and noncontroversial the Turner Prize nominees were this year. Articles did appear on Foruki, but mostly about his artwork being more important than the personality. Gina kept all the cuttings and would only let me read the good things that were said about him.
‘Just one more month to go and it will all be over,’ I said.
‘Nina, Rooney’s moving in with me.’
‘That’s fantastic.’
‘He’s telling Lydia now. He’s getting someone to watch over the stall part-time so he can concentrate on his music. So you don’t mind?’
‘Why should I mind? It’s brilliant news. Mrs Onoro will be fine about it, you’ll see.’
‘She’s only got a bloke,’ Rooney said coming in.
‘Did it go OK, what did she say?’
‘She almost strangled me cos she was so happy and then she told me she’s seeing a healer. “For your legs, Ma?” I asked, and she said, “No, for love.” Anyway, she wants us to go around for dinner on Saturday night and meet him. Come as well, Nina, she’s been asking about you.’
‘I’ve got something to do,’ I replied, ‘but tell her I’ll see her soon.’
I knew I would have been more than welcome but I wanted to go and attempt to see my parents.
Mum and Dad hung up whenever I phoned so I got Gina to call up on Friday night to say that Dad had been selected in a special draw and the prize was two tickets to go and see Cilla Black.
I could imagine him asking her what draw it was, as he didn’t believe you could get anything for free.
‘Our representative will come and see you tomorrow evening at six o’clock and will explain everything clearly to you.’
‘What did he say?’ I asked Gina as she got off the phone.
‘He double-checked that she wouldn’t try to sell him anything otherwise he’d tell her “to get off”. When I said you wouldn’t, he said he’d be waiting.’
I didn’t know what made me feel more nervous, meeting Mangetti or my dad.
I rang the bell and could hear him shout out to my mother that it was for him.
My heart was racing.
He opened the door. I put one foot against it.
‘Dad, let me just explain.’
‘Get off, I’m waiting for lady.’
‘The lady with the tickets is me. Please let me in so I can speak to you and Mum.’
‘The door-to-door selling now, this is what you doing?’
‘No, Dad. That was just to –’
‘Dickheads suffering and now you selling door-to-door. Get off, I don’t want nothing.’ He was jamming the door against my foot so I had to pull it back.
‘Dad, please,’ I shouted through the letterbox. ‘Channel Four, I want you to watch Channel Four on the twenty-eighth of November …’ and just for that moment I wanted Foruki to win because then he might be proud of me. Then it dawned on me that he wouldn’t even know that it had been me behind Foruki, and what did the Turner Prize mean to him anyway? He thought my mum could win it by assembling a pile of her samosas in the shape of the Star of India; it was for a bunch of lazy people who had too much time and money.
I walked around to Ki’s house. I just wanted to put my arms around her mum and sit with her. Despite shouting through the letterbox, no one answered the door.
The 28th of November descended with the heaviness with which it was anticipated. It was raining heavily and there was the odd thunderstorm. Rooney and Gina came to collect me from the flat. Rooney had got one of his friends to drive us to Tate Britain.
‘It’s going to be fine, Nina, and think, after today it’s all over,’ Gina said. ‘Are you ready for this?’
‘Can’t be much more prepared,’ I replied nervously.
We had rehearsed what Rooney would do in the unlikely event that Foruki should win. He would say a simple thank you and depending on the level of media interest we would see what needed to
be done. If we didn’t win it would be fine as Foruki could just slip away into the background and nobody need know any different. I would sell some more of his paintings and he would return to Japan and probably die at some point.
I could see crowds as we approached the Tate. There were some anti Turner Prize protestors dressed up as clowns. One banner read: ‘We are the bullshit detectors.’ Another read: ‘Turner Prize for a bunch of fakes.’ My heart beat faster. They booed as we got out of the car and made our way into the gallery.
Several introductions were made in the foyer and Foruki was introduced to the fence maker who sculpted nudes and who was the bookies’ favourite as well as the other artists’. They congratulated each other. Simon my old boss was there and congratulated me on Foruki’s success. He said that if I ever needed a job again it was waiting for me complete with promotion. I thanked him politely. I didn’t even know if Richard Morris was there but it didn’t matter now anyway as this was the final hurdle and once we got through this it would all be well and truly over. Mangetti came over and introduced us to the other judges, lots of other people hovered around us and then it was time to take our seats at the table.
Gina and I sat on either side of Rooney. I looked up at the large ceilings and wondered how on earth we had got there. Drinks were served and then starters. My stomach was churning. A television camera pointed at us and we knew that we were going out live. Mrs Onoro would be at home watching nervously. I wondered whether my dad would flick the channel over from Zee and see me – maybe he would. There was a lot of hustle and bustle, people moving from their seats, nervous coughs, laughter, the sound of clinking glasses and talking which echoed loudly through the hall.
The Channel 4 presenter was trying to talk and move among the bustle and on several occasions nearly fell over. The director was introducing the fashion designer who was about to make the presentation and just as he was doing that a man with ginger hair walked over to me.
‘Richard Morris, the Guardian.’