The Colour of Love

by Preethi Nair

  It was an inappropriate time for introductions so I just smiled and waited for the fashion designer to open the envelope.

  ‘Nervous tonight then, Ms Savani?’

  ‘Nervous for Foruki,’ I said swiftly.

  ‘One and the same,’ he replied.

  He had my attention.

  ‘Kenneth David does not exist. Lydia Onoro lives at Frith Road, her son is a Ronald Onoro, a grocer. Do you have anything to say?’

  I could feel the blood drain from my face. I wanted to be sick. He couldn’t do this to me, not then; he could have chosen any other day, any other moment.

  ‘No comment,’ I stuttered.

  I could see him go over to the judges. Please don’t do this to me, not today. Tastudi Mangetti turned white, his eyes bulged, and then all I could hear was the crowd clapping and cheering and Gina saying, ‘Bloody hell, Nina, we’ve won, we’ve bloody won.’ Rooney got up. Mangetti stared at me. We couldn’t publicly humiliate him. What was I going to do? I got up and went after Rooney.

  ‘Think, Nina, think.’ We hadn’t prepared for the eventuality that this would happen on the night of the prize-giving. I followed Rooney onto the stage and I was aware that cameras were pointing at us.

  ‘Thank you,’ Rooney said, accepting the cheque. ‘Thank you very much.’

  The crowd clapped.

  I had to say something, otherwise Richard Morris would make an announcement and Mangetti’s reputation would be ruined. My legs were shaking as I leaned towards the microphone.

  ‘There is one thing that I’d like to add.’ The crowd were silent. ‘There’s a final piece to the collection at the Tate and he’s here today – Foruki,’ I announced. The crowd were unsure as to whether they had to clap. ‘Take off your hat and glasses, Rooney,’ I whispered while a few of them were clapping.

  ‘What, here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Rooney took off his hat and his glasses.

  ‘I’d like to introduce you to Ronald Onoro. He didn’t paint the pictures, I did, and I’d like to thank Tastudi Mangetti for his support in helping me with the project. We wanted to make a statement about bringing art back to its subject matter and not the artist, so I thank you Mr Mangetti for allowing me to show my work behind the Japanese character we invented.’

  People were unsure of what to do and then they began clapping.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling despite the fact I felt like collapsing and have someone take me away from there.

  As we climbed down from the stage, camera crews, journalists and photographers surrounded us. ‘Nina, how did you come up with the idea?’

  ‘Did you do it because you are Asian?’

  ‘Nina, how do you feel about winning the Turner?’

  ‘Look over here.’

  ‘Why did you feel the need to do this?’ Rooney was accosted in the same way. ‘What do you do, Ronald?’ ‘Are you an artist?’ The Communications Director from the Tate rushed over to us and told them that all questions would be answered at a press conference at nine o’clock in the morning. He then turned to me: ‘Tastudi Mangetti is waiting outside for you both; it’s best if you leave now.’

  Gina was across the room trying to get to us but there was no way of reaching her. We left. Mangetti’s Bentley was parked outside, waiting for us. The clowns were shouting at us, ‘Bunch of fakes.’ We were, but not in the way that they meant.

  The car door was opened.

  ‘Get in.’

  Mangetti’s assistant was sitting beside him.

  ‘Were you thinking of ruining me?’ Mangetti said very calmly.

  ‘No. I’m so sorry, Tastudi. I didn’t think we were going to win it.’

  ‘Is it true about Mr Foruki’s occupation?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rooney replied.

  ‘But you came into my office and spoke passionately about your concepts; your art.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘They weren’t his concepts?’ His eyes were bulging, his nose seemed even more prominent.

  ‘No, Tastudi.’

  ‘I’ve been to your studio and seen your work.’ He was seething but trying to contain himself; his cheeks were florid.

  ‘It was my studio. I’m really, truly sorry – none of this was supposed to happen, you see …’

  ‘What about me?’ he interrupted. ‘The press are going to have a field day with this. And me? What about me? Was it an attack on the establishment or just me personally?’ he shouted.

  ‘We can turn this around,’ I said trying to calm him down. ‘I know we can.’

  ‘Who the hell are you to tell me what we can and cannot do. I never trusted your sort anyway, you’re all swindlers, cheap swindlers, stick to what you know best.’

  ‘Just hang on, Mr Mangetti, Nina meant none of this personally.’

  ‘Who are you anyway? A grocer?’ He looked at Rooney as if he had just found him at the bottom of his shoe and then he turned to me, utterly disgusted. ‘Have my driver drop you wherever you want, I’ve got to get out. Be there at eight tomorrow morning or face the consequences.’

  Mangetti and the assistant got out of the car. Rooney and I got out of the car as soon as they were out of sight.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Rooney.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, in fact, I’m glad you did that to him.’

  Gina phoned to tell us not to go to any of the houses as the press might be camping outside. ‘They’ve been asking me all kinds of questions. I’ve said nothing but it’s big. Nobody left, they were all waiting for answers and more press were turning up,’ she said.

  We arranged to meet at a Travelodge near London Bridge and decided to stay there for the night. It was a nightmare; a complete nightmare. None of it was about making anyone look stupid; if Mangetti had given me a chance to explain maybe he would have seen that. And his threat – it didn’t scare me, but despite the fact that Mangetti had been obnoxious I still wanted him to look good, then everything would finally be over.

  Gina met us an hour later at the Travelodge and we spent hours with Rooney discussing all the possibilities and what we could say the following day. I went to bed at three in the morning. And though I was exhausted I was awake most of the night, unable to sleep.

  I thought about the fact that I had won the Turner and it baffled me. How the hell did that happen? One of the biggest prizes in art was mine. Did I win it because they felt the paintings were good or because they needed someone and Foruki’s unusual profile seemed to fit the bill? It didn’t matter anyway, it was all subjective. Everyone was playing a game, it was just that some people were unaware of the rules. I had found myself in the midst of it all and made the rules up as I went along. How could I explain that it was as simple as that. All I ever wanted to do was paint and be me.

  It was six o’clock when I hauled myself out of bed. As I came out of the shower I switched the television on and thought I saw a shot of my parents’ house. It was my parents’ house and there was a media pack outside.

  ‘No, they can’t do this to me.’ I held my hand to my mouth.

  My mum opened the door, taken aback by all the flashing. She started calling out for my dad. He came to the door in his red pyjamas and had a microphone thrust in his face.

  ‘Mr Savani, what do you think of your daughter’s antics?’

  Oh God, please don’t let him say anything. ‘No comment,’ I willed. ‘Say “no comment”, Dad.’

  ‘Antics?’ he shouted. ‘She doesn’t have no furniture here, now get off.’ He made some erratic gestures.

  I had my head in my hands.

  The ensuing scenes were cut as they returned back to the news reporter.

  ‘We seem to have lost the sound but I’m sure it will be a story that we will return to.’

  I called my parents but the phone was engaged. I kept trying in between drying my hair and after half an hour I finally got through.

  ‘Dad, it’s me, Nina, please don’t hang up.’

&nbs
p; ‘Oh my daughter Nina,’ he said. ‘I can’t speak to you now because we have the television peoples filming here.’

  ‘Is that Nina, Mr Savani? Could we possibly have a word with her?’ A woman came on the line. ‘Nina, your parents are giving us the first live exclusive interview. We’re about to run, stay on the phone, we’d like to talk to you too.’

  ‘I don’t have anything to say. Could you give it back to my dad please?’

  ‘Nina, it would give you an opportunity to put your side of the story across.’

  ‘It will be put across later this morning, could you hand the phone back to my dad please? … Dad, don’t speak to them.’

  ‘Nina, I must go, the lady is calling me.’ He hung up.

  I tried ringing again but the phone was off the hook and then a few minutes later I heard his voice on the television.

  ‘Good morning Mr and Mrs Savani.’

  ‘Good morning,’ he shouted.

  Both my parents were sitting on the Land of Leather sofa. My dad had changed into his red shirt and my mum was wearing her green sari. They had obviously been briefed on what had happened. As the reporter did her introduction the camera turned to photographs of me everywhere, photos that I was sure they had got rid of.

  ‘So here we are talking to the parents of Nina Savani, the lawyer who managed to dupe the art world by getting a grocer to stand in for her as the artist.’ The reporter, realising she was getting vacuumed by the sofa, attempted to move to the edge of the seat. ‘An ingenious ploy and indeed some would say cunning. We’re talking live to her parents this morning. So, Mr and Mrs Savani, did you believe your daughter was an agent?’

  ‘Of course. It’s the normal. She is one because I am one.’

  Oh God, I thought, he’s misunderstood her: ‘Not “Asian”, Dad, “agent”.’

  ‘You are?’ Her voice sounded perplexed.

  ‘Can’t you see that?’

  Someone must have told the reporter not to continue that line of questioning as she suddenly said, ‘Did you know about your daughter’s scheme to fool the art world?’

  I shook my head: ‘Please don’t say anything, Dad.’

  ‘Definitely. I knew she was fooling them but not for one moment was I the fooled. I said fool them, do a good job and fool them.’

  ‘Is it because you agreed on her critique of the artist being bigger than the art itself?’

  He looked confused. ‘What?’

  She rephrased her question. ‘Did you encourage her because of the statement she was making?’

  ‘No, I said this because when you do any job you make sure you do it properly. I have always told her this.’

  ‘Do you have any of her art here that you can show us?’

  ‘We don’t keep the pictures here, too expensive to leave in the house because of the burglars.’

  ‘Indeed. And what do you think about what she has done?’

  ‘I am the proud,’ he bellowed.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry and then the reporter turned to my mum.

  ‘Mrs Savani?’

  My mother nodded.

  ‘Does she have any future plans?’

  ‘Marriage, hopefully,’ she sighed.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Savani, thank you. Now, back to the studio.’

  ‘Thank you, Sonia. I have Professor Landstein from Goldsmith University with me to talk about the nature of the duplicity.’ The presenter turned to the professor.

  ‘Professor, what is your opinion on the statement Nina Savani was making?’

  ‘The fact that she went to such lengths is an artistic statement in itself. She has opened up the debate even further; pushing forth the boundaries as to what one deems as art and it begs the question, can one call duplicity an art form?’ He began going off ‘on the rambles’ and she interrupted him by saying, ‘For viewers who have just joined us, one of the leading stories today is the lawyer who duped the art world by …’

  Didn’t they have more important news to discuss?

  I couldn’t listen to it and turned the television off, got ready and switched my phone on. The message box was full. I went through them quickly; most of them were from journalists and there was one from Jean and one from my dad. ‘Nina, did you see me on the TV? Did they get a picture of the sofa? They wanted us to sit in the dining room but we told them no, sitting room on sofa or no deal.’ And then I could hear my mum in the background asking if I was eating properly.

  I got a phone call from Mangetti giving us instructions as to where he wanted to meet us before going to the Tate. The three of us met him in a grotty café where he briefed us.

  He said to say that the judges had known all along that the paintings were not done by Foruki and the point they were making with the nominee Nina Savani, aka Foruki, was the extent to which celebrity had permeated today’s society, so much so that people were fascinated not just by the subject matter but by the artist. ‘You are clear on this?’ Mangetti asked. ‘You wanted to illustrate the nature of identity in today’s society. You must insist that the judges were aware. Do you understand?’

  I understood all of it but I wanted him to know why we did it – but he never let me explain. He wanted us to get into the Bentley with him so we could make our way to the Tate together.

  ‘Not you,’ he said, staring at Gina as she was about to climb in.

  ‘Rooney and I will walk then,’ I replied.

  ‘You’re not in a position to play with me, Nina.’

  ‘I’m not playing, I never was, it’s the three of us or we walk.’ And I don’t know where the courage to say that came from but I meant it literally because the side of Mangetti I was seeing was ugly and making him look good didn’t seem as important as having my friend there.

  ‘Get in,’ he mumbled, not even looking at her.

  A few photographers pounced on us as we got out of the car and made our way into the Tate. We were taken to a room. It was packed. Photographer’s bulbs were flashing away. Rooney and I were seated next to each other, alongside Mangetti, another judge and a spokesperson from the Tate. Questions were fired at me from all directions. I stuck to the story that Mangetti had told us to say: that we had gone to such lengths to make a statement about art and the best way to illustrate the point was to demonstrate the very nature of identity. The panel were asked at what stage Mangetti knew about it and he answered: he was adamant that it was from the beginning. They were then asked if I would still receive the £20,000 prize money, as technically I was not the one who had won. They responded by saying that the work was judged on its own merit and not by the artist and therefore the prize would still go to me. There were more questions but it was the one from a lady sitting two rows from the front that stopped me for a moment. It was a lady who had wispy white hair, and she reminded me of the woman who had smiled at me on the tube a year ago. She asked me about the theme that ran through my first exhibition at Artusion and specifically about the painting of the hand, which I had named Beyond Indigo.

  I wanted to tell her about my best friend Ki who had died in my arms two years ago – but how I wasn’t lost any more. ‘Beyond Indigo is about believing and knowing that something exists even if you can’t see it. It’s about believing in all possibilities,’ I replied.

  There were questions for Rooney – who he was, what he did. It was endless. After half an hour the press conference was brought to a close.

  Mangetti had his arm around me for the press shots and was smiling, and then as soon as it was over he left without saying a word to me.

  Gina and Rooney invited me back to celebrate at their house but I needed time on my own to take stock of what had happened and so I told them I would catch up with them later. After successfully dodging the press, I went to Green Park. It was cold, but not as cold and wet as it had been a year earlier. The trees were looking bare. Had the leaves jumped off the branches of their own accord or were they pushed along by the wind? A year ago I was here on my knees, stripped of everything, and
a year later I had finally learned to see flowers; I had kept believing even when there was clearly nothing there. And in my moments of doubting, people were sent to show me otherwise. I had defied all odds and won the bloody Turner. How mad was that? Was it because I had taken a leap of faith and done something out of the ordinary? Or was it because I was pushed and swept along? Whatever it was, on the journey I found parts of myself that I never knew existed.

  The greatest irony in being someone else was that I learned to be me: to trust myself, to be myself. It was as simple as that. Maybe there were no concrete answers to anything, just experiences; to live each moment as it came.

  There were press camped outside my doorstep so I went to the studio, packed up my paints, took down the buddha and wrapped him up. I then went to the rental company to hire the van again, loaded everything up and went to Gina’s house.

  Gina and Rooney were having lunch with Mrs Onoro when I walked in.

  Mrs Onoro smiled. ‘Ohhhhhhhh, Nina, you done so good. I saw the TV and news; you and Rooney everywhere. They come looking for Rooney. I say I not know no man call Rooney. After, I go to Japanese Association and make them follow someone else, then I come here.’

  ‘It’s all so crazy,’ Gina said. ‘You’ve been on every channel, Nina.’

  ‘I told you Rooney win prize. He always win everything when he was child. Lucky charm,’ she said, touching her necklace.

  ‘It’s mad, I still can’t believe it,’ I replied. ‘They are camping outside the flat and the phone hasn’t stopped ringing.’

  ‘What are you going to do, Nina?’

  ‘I’m going to go away for a few months until it dies down.’

  ‘You can come stay with me,’ Mrs Onoro suggested.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Onoro, but I’ve decided to go to Ireland.’

  ‘Who’s in Ireland?’ Rooney asked.

  ‘Man who you write “go for it” to?’ Mrs Onoro interrupted.

  ‘No. Another experience, maybe?’

  I stayed over with them all. Gina crept into my flat for me in the middle of the night to get a few things together, and in the morning I said my goodbyes.

  ‘I’m going to make this quick as I’m not really very good with goodbyes and anyway I’m not going for long. I just don’t know how to thank you all enough.’