The Center of the World

by Thomas van Essen

  Molly made no objections to Sir John’s attendance at the preliminary sessions, but she protested most strenuously when he arrived on the day that she was first to remove her clothes. She put on, Turner said, such a show of virtue that it appeared as if the painting might never come off. It was only a most generous gift from Sir John that saved the day. As Turner spoke, Mrs. Spencer’s eyes met mine. But Turner was oblivious as to how the two of us might feel about his story in light of our visits to his studio.

  Molly, Turner went on, at last agreed to Sir John’s presence, but only on the condition that Sir John sit behind a curtain that was arranged in such a way that he could see her, but she couldn’t see him. Molly was a good-hearted girl, Turner said, but also a sly one who knew that it was a rough-and-tumble world. No one would look out for her interests if she didn’t.

  Turner paused for a moment and grew thoughtful. We had by this time walked to the North Gallery to look at the painting in question.

  Servants had set up lamps and candles so that we could see it clearly. “Hoppner’s genius, you see, was to paint Molly in a way that flattered Sir John’s idea of what he wanted.” He pointed to the flesh on her raised thigh. “Lovely work here. Pink and living. Pure, but inviting. Sir John, as I said, was no better than the rest of us. A man of position, used to getting his way. Molly had not behaved as Sir John expected of a girl of her station and easy virtue. She was keeping herself dear, not flooding the market with cheap wine. But Sir John had formed his opinion of Molly not from Molly herself, but from another of Hoppner’s paintings, one called The Flower Girl, or some such.

  “It will not do to call it love. No, no. Not for a man like Sir John. But let me use the word, for I am too dull to think of another. He had fallen in love with the idea he had formed of the girl from seeing her image. And what Hoppner did here, you see, was take Sir John’s idea and undress it. Hard to say which of the two was the worse, Hoppner or the girl. We painters are both whores and bawds, you know. Sometimes both at once. Sir John was delighted with his commission when it was completed. As he should have been, for it is a marvelous piece of work.”

  It was Mrs. Spencer who finally asked the question that had been in my own mind. “Did Molly ever surrender her charms to Sir John?”

  We had begun to walk back toward the library and our tea. “Yes and no,” Turner said. “I told you Molly was a clever girl. But even so, I had underestimated her cleverness, and her real wisdom, by a long shot. Most afternoons, you see, after her work in Hoppner’s studio was done, Sir John would take her out for some light refreshment. A cup of tea, a glass of wine. Molly was not the first girl of her class Sir John had wooed. He knew his business. But she knew hers better. She put him off with one excuse after another. Protestations of virtue. I hardly know. But at last, when the painting was done, she said he might come to her apartment. There was a gift, of course.

  “She had arranged things most cleverly. Only candles to light the way. A maid to lead Sir John in. Through one room. And then another. And then the maid steps aside and Sir John hears sweet Molly’s voice entreating him to enter. He does, and there she is—a tableau vivant, if you know what I mean, lying there just as she was in the painting, with, you know, that bit of drapery arranged just so between her thighs.”

  Turner paused for a moment and smiled to himself. “I heard this from Sir John himself. And also from Molly,” he added a bit sheepishly. “She invited him to step forward. He did so. He was a man of the world. Been to Paris, you know. Italy as well. But never so entranced as at that moment. There was the painting in the flesh. Except, of course, for that silly cherub and those murky trees. So it was even better. He steps forward until he is standing by her side. He sees her breast rise and fall. She looks at him with those wonderful eyes of hers. She had that look, you know, of always being a bit sleepy. Ripe for picking, if you follow me. And she said, ‘You may.’

  “Sir John told me it was the rummest thing. A world of meaning in those words, my friends. He knew exactly what she meant. A world of meaning. He stepped forward and bent down. He grasped that bit of drapery with his fingers and pulled it away. It was the same bit of cloth that Hoppner had been using in the studio. Fine and light, but with enough body to fall. Molly said there was the odd fleck of paint on it. But now she was before him in all her glory. He never touched her. She never told him not to. They both understood that it would be better so. More perfect.

  “I don’t know how long he stood there, but they never said another word. When he left he carried the memory with him. It was a great gift. Completed the painting, in a way. For the rest of us, that bit of drapery is always there. For Sir John, it wasn’t. When Ward did the engraving that made her so famous, half the boys in London would have given a tooth to see what Sir John saw. I would rather have the tooth. But I am an old man in need of teeth and I have seen my share of artist’s models.”

  “So, Mr. Turner. Will you paint me without the drapery?” All of us were shocked by Mrs. Spencer’s question. There was an uncomfortable silence. I looked at Egremont, but I could not tell if he was angry with her, or if he felt shame at the understanding he had reached with Turner.

  We all looked at Turner. He was staring into the fire as if there was no one else in the room. Mrs. Spencer repeated her question. There was something in her voice that I had never heard before.

  Turner looked up and met Mrs. Spencer’s eyes. “That is not the point,” he said. “There is a truth beyond nudity, madam. Hoppner’s is a fine painting. Molly is a pleasant nymph. But that is not what I am about. So perhaps yes. Perhaps no. It is, as I have said, a damn hard business. You have your sorrows, I mine. If you understood my struggles, you would never ask your question. But you cannot. Nor is there any reason I should expect you to. Good night! Good night!”

  Turner rose abruptly and left us.

  . 39 .

  I DECIDED TO SPEND my last afternoon in England in my favorite room at the Tate, the one devoted to Turner’s unfinished canvases, large and almost formless fields of color which hover on the verge of becoming. It is like being in a room of possibilities. Before I’d found the painting, I’d felt that the only thing left for me to become was dead. I couldn’t have seen the hope and potential that were the true subject of Turner’s unfinished work. I still didn’t know what I was to become, but I was pretty sure it was something else. The funk that came over me in London and in the days following my return from England was the anxiety occasioned by being poised between one state and another.

  The unfinished paintings made me see that there was something sad about all the Turners I’d seen since I’d been in England. In none of them had Turner achieved anything like The Center of the World. Only the unfinished canvases held out the possibility of becoming what The Center of the World actually was. All the others, even the greatest of them—the Dido paintings, Rome, from the Vatican—had, like me, done all that they ever would. They were still great paintings, of course, but in my painting everything was more than perfect; in the others perfection, I now saw, was an unrealized possibility.

  I had first noticed her when she was standing a few feet from Turner’s early self-portrait in the first room of the exhibit. Her name, I found out later, was Gina. She was in her early thirties and carried herself like a movie star. Though the outfit she wore—straight black skirt, white blouse, and high heels—was not particularly special, no one in Princeton could have pulled it off with the same kind of drop-dead sexiness. She had her back to me. I followed the seam of her stocking as it rose from her ankles until it disappeared beneath the hem of her skirt a few inches above her knees. I assumed that she was French or Italian. I remember feeling my wedding ring among the unfamiliar coins in my pocket. I thought about putting it back on, but I decided to let it stay where it was. I realized I was staring at her and turned away before it became too obvious. Everybody in the room except her had probably noticed the middle-aged American making an ass of himself.

  After I had bee
n in the room of unfinished paintings by myself for about half an hour, Gina came in. I tried not to look at her, but I found myself stealing a glance whenever I thought she might not notice. In the line of her legs and hips there was something of Helen. It was remarkable.

  For about fifteen minutes we were the only two people there. She was on one side, I was on the other. We each took a step to the left at about the same moment as we moved on to the next painting. I felt as if we were dancing. The spell was broken, however, when two young Americans entered. They were in the midst of an argument about where to eat dinner. They plunked themselves down on the bench and raised their voices: he said she thought they were made of money; she said he was mean-spirited and stingy and no fun at all. The volume rose as they batted each other’s faults back and forth. Between their asinine argument and the way Gina stood as she studied the paintings, with her left hand placed on her hip and right leg slightly extended, I couldn’t concentrate at all. I decided I needed coffee.

  The cafeteria was crowded, but I found the only free table and sat down. Taking out my guidebook, I tried to decide if I should see anything else before I left London. I looked, I thought, just like a tourist. People who go to museums are tourists. I tried to enjoy my coffee.

  “Excuse me, but do you mind if I sit here?”

  I looked up and noticed that the top three buttons of her blouse were unbuttoned. I felt myself starting to blush, but I guess she was used to seeing middle-aged men making fools of themselves.

  “Sure,” I said. I moved my coffee closer to my side of the little table and went back to my guidebook.

  “You’re not waiting for anyone?” she asked as she placed her cup on the table and sat down. I assured her that I was by myself. She took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “You’d think,” she said, “that at these prices they could produce a better cup of coffee. Between this coffee and those people up there, it’s like there is a conspiracy to ruin a wonderful place.”

  The coffee wasn’t that great, I agreed, and those young people were hard to put up with.

  “You got out while the going was good,” she said. “You must be more sensitive than I am. I didn’t leave until it got to his faults in the bathroom and hers in bed. That was way too much information.”

  I smiled and went back to my book.

  “And it was such a shame,” she went on. “That’s my favorite room in the Tate. It was like having somebody throw this nasty coffee all over them. But look at me. I’m just as bad: you’re trying to read and I’m yammering away. I’m sorry.”

  I looked up and allowed myself to meet her eyes for the first time. She was so attractive that I could hardly speak. “It’s okay; it’s nice to talk—except for waiters and hotel staff I haven’t talked to anyone in three days. But I agree about that room: those unfinished canvases are my favorites.”

  She smiled at me. I smiled back, partly to return the gesture, but mostly at the pure pleasure of how pretty she was. I felt almost giddy as I thought that she might be trying to pick me up, and I am embarrassed, looking back, at how quickly I spun out the most improbable and lascivious fantasies.

  We chatted for a while about London. This was only her second visit. She worked for an investment firm and was in London for a series of meetings. We talked about how weird it was that the cars came from the wrong direction and how the food wasn’t nearly as bad as people said. She lived in New York; I told her that I lived in Princeton. I felt myself being swept up in the pleasure of talking to an attractive woman. She had such a wonderful smile; she seemed so funny and interesting. Best of all, she seemed to find me interesting, too.

  We had been talking for about twenty minutes when she said, “I think it’s safe to go back; they’re probably gone. Shall we go together?” I said yes and started to gather up my coffee things. She reached her hand out and placed it on top of mine. “I have to ask you a question,” she said. “Are you married?” I was startled by her touch, but didn’t try to move my hand away. For a moment I was tempted to lie. I wondered if she caught my hesitation and, if she had, how she interpreted it.

  “Yes,” I said. “For over twenty years. One kid on his own in New York, one with a year to go in college. And you?”

  She made a face. “Sort of. He’s seeing someone else. And he knows that I know. But we haven’t figured out what to do. We don’t have any kids, but it’s still complicated.”

  “It sounds like a tough situation. I don’t have a lot of information, but he seems like a fool to me.”

  “You’re very kind,” she said. “People my age don’t know how to be kind. But sometimes I feel that if I was married to me, I’d want to see someone else too.” She seemed to be in danger of drifting off into a funk, but she pulled herself out of it and looked at me brightly.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” she said. “Let’s go look at some beautiful paintings.”

  It was at this point that she told me her name was Gina. I told her mine. We walked upstairs together.

  . 40 .

  ABOUT TWO WEEKS AGO, Turner came down to dinner for the first time in over a week. Egremont had called for a fresh ham to be served, as he knew it was one of Turner’s favorite dishes. Turner paid the meat his most gracious compliments, but the only part of the meal he did justice to was the wine. The conversation proceeded by fits and starts. Mrs. Spencer did her best, as did I, but Turner cast such a gloomy pall over the proceedings that it was all in vain.

  Turner has put aside his pads and sketchbooks and has started to work on a medium-sized canvas. He often takes his meals in the studio. Sometimes, he sends his excuses at dinner, saying that he needs to take a ramble to clear the smell of turpentine from his brain. If he eats at all, he grabs something in the kitchen and eats it like a tramp as he marches along. Without Turner’s company our dinners have become quick and silent affairs. I can sense Lord Egremont chafing at the lack of interesting conversation. I do my best, David, but I know that I am found wanting.

  Turner’s face has become thinner. This means much in someone as devoted to the table as he. On those occasions when he has sent for me in the studio, he hardly greets me when I arrive. He has given up all pretense of considering my feelings, although, to be fair, he has also ceased asking me to take those undignified poses that had been so disturbing. Usually he asks me to stand with my back toward him. Often he has me lift a heavy iron bar over my head, or do some other exercise to exaggerate the articulation of the muscles in my back. My face, I was somewhat chagrined to realize, no longer holds any interest for him.

  Mrs. Spencer has been required more often. When she returns from the studio her face is cold and hard, as if she is willing herself not to weep. It does not become her. Sometimes she goes directly to her chamber, but more often she seeks me out and asks me to accompany her on a walk through the park. By an unspoken agreement we have ceased to speak of what goes on when we are alone with Turner. She leads the way and I follow. When we first start out, she is grim and purposeful in her stride, as if she were a foot soldier escaping a bloody defeat. She marches so for perhaps half an hour. Then she slackens her pace and offers up some commonplace topic for conversation. I respond. She helps me along, and soon we are in the midst of the most delightful chat. It is only when she has outrun her demons that she graces me with a smile.

  At last, when the cheese was brought in, Egremont looked squarely at Turner and said, “Come, this will hardly do. How goes your work, Turner?”

  Turner looked up from his port. Something like a smile appeared on his face. “I am sorry, my lord. Behaving like a beast. Never before have I struggled as I have struggled this past fortnight. It takes its toll. It goes well, damn well, although I fear it may be the death of me. There comes a time in all of my paintings—all my paintings, you know, with weight: Dido, Ulysses, Regulus—when I feel like one of those naked fellows in the arena. Lions all about; other fellows with spears. The crowd roaring. Thumbs up? Thumbs down? One way seems as likely as another. Harr
owing. But exhilarating too. Quite out of myself. More myself than ever. It’s a queer business. But that is why I have come down tonight. I am done with models, sir and madam.” He looked first at me and then at Mrs. Spencer. “I thank you both. You have been patient with me. You have been skillful. And, I hope, forgiving.” He raised his glass to me, and then to Mrs. Spencer. He held her eye for a moment, before turning to Egremont.

  “My lord,” he said. “Our two friends have been most able assistants. I have asked much of them, and they have provided it. But, as I said, I am done with them. I must now gird myself for the final battle. I will not, begging your permission, take my meals with you any longer. Not until I am done. Or undone. I will send down for what I require, but do not expect to see me. If I should happen to go out for air, do not detain me. I know myself in these times. I will not be fit company. Pray forgive me. And now I shall bid you good night.”

  Turner rose to go, and we all bade him good night in return. Egremont added, “Godspeed, my friend, Godspeed.” Turner was visibly touched by His Lordship’s condescension, but he left the room hurriedly, without saying anything further.