by Oscar Turner
‘Mr Carva. Please just hear me out. I am looking for a way to exhibit my husband's work and I am willing to pay.’
Carva’s indignance grew. Polly saw it. He looked again at the sheet of slides and tried to hand them back to her.
‘This will be of no relevance to my regular clients Mrs. Capital. I'm sorry, but the art market does not work like that. If I showed this, stuff, my reputation would....’
‘Change?’ interrupted Polly.
‘The tradition of this gallery is built on generations of loyal clientele and I'll have you know..’
‘Is your loyal clientele living or dead?’ said Polly interrupting again. ‘Maybe that's why you're in trouble. Look Mr. Carva, I'm sorry if I'm being rude but...’
‘Yes Mrs. Capital, you are being rude and I suggest you stop right now and leave this gallery. There are plenty of those alternative contemporary places. You should try them.’
Polly stood there staring into Carva's eyes.
‘I need a gallery with reputation and a good mailing list. I'll give you five thousand pounds to hold the show and I guarantee most, if not all, of the pieces will sell. You will of course receive the usual 40% commission on sales.’
‘That, Mrs. Capital, is a ridiculous notion, one can never guarantee, or indeed hope, for a single sale from a show by an unknown artist.’
‘I am going to buy them’ said Polly, cutting Carva cold.
Polly, bit her lip, wondering if she was stepping over the mark: going too fast. She watched him as he held her gaze for a second, then looked down at his desk.
‘Simon, my husband is a very talented painter, you can see that. I do have funding in place for this, um, project.’
The words rolled easily from Polly's tongue. She was on the right track, she could see that from Carva's eyes, as he held the slides up to the light again, this time with a reserved enthusiasm.
‘Well, they do have a certain, charm.’
After clearing the several bills and the summons on the desk out of the way, Polly pulled out a cardboard tube, slid out some full sized paintings and laid them on the desk. Carva seemed genuinely moved and rightly so. The sheer power of the colours Seymour used, seemed to glow in pulses in the grim ambience of the gallery.
Polly pulled out one of her stylish business cards from her pocket and handed it to him.
‘Why don't you hang on to these and think about it for a while? Here's my number and if I don't hear from you in a few days, I'll pop in and pick them up. Ok?’
‘Yes. Yes Ok,’ replied Carva.
‘I trust you will be discreet about this matter Mr. Carva. As you know it is perfectly legal to do this but, a tinge unconventional.’
‘Of course,’ said Carva indignantly.
Polly left him gazing at the paintings. She could see the wheels turning in his head, as she headed for the door.
‘See you soon Mr. Carva.’
‘Yes. Yes Mrs. Capital I may be in touch.’
By the time Polly got home, Seymour was cooking dinner. Not only had Seymour become a dab hand at cooking, he was actually enjoying it. He was also making a passable contribution to domesticities, which gave a welcome harmony to their life. The only duty in which he did fail miserably was tidiness, but nothing would change that. The sheer simplistic beauty of his work, came from the chaos that Seymour was: deep inside. Polly had learned to live with it and despite the wake of homespun debris around Seymour, managed miraculously to keep her side of the studio tastefully in order.
‘Hello darlin’,’ said Seymour as he expertly tossed the steaming wok. ‘How’s things?’
‘Oh, I've had a big day. Good though.’
Polly was always grateful that Seymour never asked her in detail about her movements, but then she wouldn't have it any other way.
‘Some bloke called Simon Carva called just a minute ago.’
‘Oh really?’
‘He said for you to either call him, or he'll call back later.’
‘Great!’
Polly had decided on the way home not to tell Seymour about Carva; just in case it fell through. She had got herself and Seymour excited before about possible opportunities, that had turned out to be nothing more than her own wishful thinking. Polly was learning fast never to assume anything: Seymour's cynicism didn't need feeding. But this was different. Carva's prompt response could only mean one thing.
‘Seymour, I think I've got a gallery to show your work.’
‘Oh great,’ said Seymour trying his best to sound sincere. ‘Which one?’
‘The Carva gallery.’
Seymour smiled and looked across at Polly.
‘You mean that one near Olympia, near to the tattoo place?’
‘No. There's no tattoo place.’
‘Probably closed down. Thought the gallery had too.’ said Seymour as he sniffed at the steam from the Wok. ‘I've seen it. That's one of the straightest, stiffest and stuffiest places in town Polly. Why would they be interested in my work?. I'm still alive for one thing. They specialise in dead artists.’
‘They are changing their style. Honestly, I was talking to him this afternoon. Carva really likes your work.’
Seymour gently placed the wok tools on the bench and looked at Polly through the steam.
‘You'd have to pay them to show my work Polly. I'm sorry darling, but I'm just trying to be realistic. Nobody will show work that won't sell. That's how they make money.’
‘But Carva thinks they will. Ok!’ said Polly, getting irritated. ‘You'll see!’
Seymour nodded. ‘Good. Can't wait.’
Polly stormed up to Seymour and stomped her foot.
‘Fuck you Seymour!’ screamed Polly. ‘I've been working my ass off trying to get this thing happening and all you can fucking do is put me down!’
‘Ok, Ok!’ said Seymour backing away to the sink.
‘No Seymour, it's not Ok. I'm sick to death of you. You ponce around like some fucking old Queen with your head up your ass and what have you done to help me? Huh? Fuck All! That's what!’
‘Ok, I'm sorry.’
‘Sorry my ass Seymour. Fuck you. You go and get a job. I've had it!’
Polly grabbed the boiling wok, threw it into the sink, turned and stomped toward the door.
‘Polly!’ bellowed Seymour.
Seymour's booming voice crashed through the air and stopped her in her tracks. She stood there, gripping the door handle, looking at Seymour holding the empty wok in front of him, his eyes alternating between its emptiness and then to Polly.
‘That, Polly,’ shouted Seymour angrily, ‘Was the last of my fresh ginger in that wok!’
Polly's eyes fired at him. She yanked at the door and left, slamming it behind her.
Seymour waited, listened. Nothing. He went over to the front window and eased back the curtain. He could just see her, walking down the street; the faint furious click of her heels on the pavement fading, as she disappeared out of sight.
Seymour returned to the sink and wondered if he should attempt to salvage the dinner. It seemed a shame to waste it. But then again, there are all those mysterious, deadly bugs lurking in the U bend. He'd seen them in a Drano ad on the TV, when he was ten and had worried about them ever since.
Seymour hoped that maybe Polly would have the foresight to pop around the shop and get some more ginger when she calms down from her ridiculous tantrum. If they've got any ginger that is. He'd walked all the way over Waitrose to get that last lot. It was expensive, but worth every penny compared to that dried crap. God! He hoped she doesn't get the dried crap. Still, got everything else. He'd make another meal. Have a whole new stir fry sorted out by the time she comes back. That’s the thing about ginger. If you cut it up small enough you can literally add it last. In some ways it tastes better that way, as its unique flavour doesn’t get lost in all the other herbs.
Polly kept walking. She had no idea where she was going, but reached Kensington High street and remembered there was an opening
, down at The Warehouse, a new gallery just opened in the seedy end of Kensington. She felt calm now, her spontaneous outburst at Seymour had left as quickly as it had erupted via her pounding feet. She thought about phoning him but decided to let him sweat.
Polly slipped in through the door and swam through the mumbling crowd to find the drinks, overhearing snatches of conversation en route and cowering under a lacerated male shop window mannequin stuffed with dummy grenades with a huge rubber octopus placed where the genitals should be.
‘But surely lack of aesthetic appeal ostracises the virgin viewer from the desire to co-operate?’
‘Helen darling, how was the trip?’
‘Anyway enough of me, what do you think of my new book?’
‘Hi Sarah darling, so glad you could make it!’
‘Oh really, I thought it rather trite to be honest, still.’
‘My dialock should only be heard by ze peoples who wish to take ze time to look and listen.’
‘But surely if you are going to display your work in public, you must have a need to communicate.’
‘Ya. But if you find zis ugly you have a closed mind. Your concept of beauty is already defined. You must challenge beauty and zen your vision will have no cupboards to hide in. Maybe if a man made zis you would accept it easily but because I am ze woman you have a problem with it yes?...You would rather I make knitting maybe?’
‘Now there's an idea,’ thought Polly smiling, dodging a raised elbow as she reached the drinks table. She was in luck, there was bubbly on offer. She took a glass; proper flutes, she noted, exchanging a smile with the handsome Spanish looking young man, who was pouring.
She took the first sip, it was a good sparkling Chardonnay, perfect, this was a good show. She scanned the room, yup, there they were, same old crowd, plus a few Civil Servant looking types, who wore fixed smiles that had to give out sooner or later. Must be funded by some government art grant, maybe elections coming up.
‘What do you think then?’
Polly turned to face the deep voice behind her. It was Harry Steadman, a tall, always immaculately dressed, elderly gentleman she had met previously at other openings and had shared many a glass of free wine with. Harry was a retired Daily Mirror journalist, attempting to ward off boredom by writing critiques on contemporary art that never got published. He was also a painter himself, was writing a book called The Human Tribe, or something, and came to art openings to get pissed for free. He also had a genuine interest in artists, not so much their work, more why they do it. It was all something to do with redundant instincts according to Harry. She had picked up a few useful tips from him.
Polly held up her glass to Harry's and chinked it.
‘What you mean that thing in the middle?’
‘Yes, rather O.T.T. for me.’
‘I think it's bloody ugly.’
‘Yes, quite. So how are you Polly?’
‘I'm fine, how about you?’
‘Oh you know doodling along. That's Ingrid, the artist over there. Amazing lady.’ said Harry jerking his glass in the direction of a hard looking woman with a severely cropped punishment hairdo; who wore clothes, probably designed by a Russian interrogator.
‘Bitter and twisted old dyke if you ask me.’
Harry laughed. ‘Yes maybe. But nonetheless she has a mind to be reckoned with, you should see her early work. Astounding.’
‘Then why is she churning out this rubbish?’
‘Because she can I suppose. Still, everything is art Polly, everything is art.’ said Harry downing his glass in one gulp.
Harry often said things like that. Polly grabbed two full glasses of the chilled fruity, sparkling Chardonnay from the passing tray carried by an agency waitress, who would much rather be at home watching telly with her unemployable boyfriend.
‘Yes, everything is art Harry, once you isolate it and put it on a stage, that's what you said before, remember?’
‘Well, yes of course.’
‘How's the book coming along?’ said Polly offering one of the glasses to Harry.
‘Reached a bit a block to be honest, got to this point where I thought I'd come up with the origins of art.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well. If everything is art, and I think you'll agree Warhole made that perfectly clear, then there are definitely only two types of art.’
‘I'm intrigued.’ said Polly in a mocking tone that she knew she could do with Harry.
‘Good and bad.’ said Harry wisely.
‘And how can you tell the difference?’
‘Only you can know that.’
‘That sounds like a cop out to me.’ said Polly.
‘Mmmm, does doesn't it, still not to worry.’
Harry looked sad in a theatrical way, he was thinking. Polly waited, Harry hadn't finished, she could tell by the way he looked at his glass.
‘You see Polly, art became art the moment man stepped out of nature. How on Earth that happened is another issue. But when he did, well, he had to do something didn't he. So with the total preoccupation of surviving, eliminated as a daily necessity, he had the possibility to suddenly be creative, to reflect on his life and represent it in a manually contrived form. Pretty strange behaviour, when one stands back and looks at it. That doesn't mean he developed a superior intelligence mind you. Just means he's got more time on his hands and a couple of juxtaposing thumbs, not to mention multiple blood groups. You see what I mean Polly?’
Polly watched Harry, he was wavering.
‘Yes. Yes I do,’ said Polly. ‘So art comes from bored men.’
Harry nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Good point Polly, good point. Having time to contemplate what life is, and therefore challenge it, was probably the tipping point that is leading us to the demise of our species. And art is the very symptom of that.
‘So an artist's life is just an argument and art is the result.’ said Polly, remembering Tracy’s words.
‘Mmmm,’ said Harry. ‘Never thought of it that way, but yes. Maybe you're right.’
Harry was chewing over Polly's words when suddenly, from nowhere, a screeching voice cut through them like a falling axe.
‘Oh Harry darling! How are you?’ Came a deep husky female voice followed by its owner, a loud gushing woman in her sixties and leader of two other lower ranking blue rinse ladies in tow. Harry discreetly rolled his eyes but went along with the woman's absolute thrill at seeing him, by being absolutely thrilled to see her. Polly took the chance to slip away and glided around the walls looking at the scratchy, meaningless sketches, mounted in driftwood frames. Then, as she turned, she spotted someone through the crowd, over in the corner, something about him seemed familiar. Then it clicked. It was Carva. She watched him for a moment. He looked uncomfortable in his dour, conventional tweed jacket, collar and tie and matching body language. It was as if he were sneaking around in the dark, hoping to pass unseen, his eyes darting around the room. A passing waitress offered him a glass of wine. He refused at first, then grabbed one at the last minute as she turned away, apologising for his indecision.
Polly slid behind a convenient pillar and watched him, his mouth switching between a silly grin and dragging scowl as he looked around. He gazed up at the mannequin, his face looked puzzled and dismissive, as he sipped his glass. His eyes swung around surveying the room, as if he were doing a head count. Somebody recognised him and began engaging in formal small talk, that Carva seemed uneasy with.
‘Hi. Polly isn't it?’
Polly turned around to see Ed Clancy, a short stocky American art critic for The Easel magazine that she had chatted with a few times in the past. He had irritated her. The Easel was basically a magazine for hobby painters. Ed wanted to turn it around and become a cutting edge contemporary art magazine to be taken seriously. A mammoth task with a magazine that has articles with titles like: ‘Painting away arthritis.’
‘Oh. Hello. Yes that's right. Ted isn't it?’ said Polly
‘Ed. Name's Ed. Remember we
met at the Outer Space, a few weeks back.’
‘Oh yes that's right, how could I forget. How are you?’
‘I'm real good. Great show huh?’
‘Um. Not for me. Not my cup of tea I'm afraid.’
‘Cup of tea?’ said Ed. Polly smiled. ‘Oh I see. Oh really! I'm surprised. It's pretty out there I guess. Kind o' shocking. But I can see where she's coming from.’
‘Well I hope she can find her way back.’ said Polly attempting to spot Carva again.
‘Yeh? How do you mean?’
Polly smiled as she took a sip of her glass, acknowledging someone behind Ed who wasn't there.
‘Oh that's a joke right,’ said Ed laughing. ‘God. You know? All the months I've been here I still can't get that Brit humour. All that irony and stuff.’
‘I wasn't joking actually.’ said Polly
‘Yeh right.’ said Ed chuckling. ‘Been trying to get to talk to Ingrid, but she's kind of busy I guess. You know her?’
‘Who?’
‘Ingrid. You know. The artist who did all this stuff.’
‘No Sorry. No I don't.’
‘Damn. I reckon I could do a good piece on her. Helps if you can get an interview. Still I guess I can get enough just from the work. Pretty intense stuff.’
Ed picked up that Polly was preoccupied with something across the room and wasn't really paying attention to his riveting conversation. He looked across the room to see what on Earth could be more interesting than him.
‘Well I'll be damned. If that ain't old Simon Carva, first time I've seen him at anyplace like this.’ said Ed.
‘You know him?’
‘Yeah sure, well kind of. Been trying to get him to do something about Dutch masters for The Easel. He's a real expert you know. He's kinda hard to pin down though. Busy man I guess. Got a gallery near Olympia. He's real interesting. Kinda private though. Never thought I'd see him here. He told me that he reckons contemporary art is like. How did he put it?. Oh yeah. Nothing more than expensive graffiti. You know him?’
‘No, never met him.’ said Polly craning her neck to keep him in sight.
‘Yeah well, he's kinda eccentric. They reckon he inherited a bunch of money from his mom and dad a few years back and opened up the gallery with his boyfriend. Gotta say, he don't seem to sell much though. Seems like he's had the same old paintings hanging ever since I first went there. Nice guy though. Hey, lets go talk. I can introduce you.’