by Anthony Burn
‘No, it’s all hand-etched using a needle. When you get in very close, you can see the tiny variations.’
I did as she suggested. ‘That’s a huge amount of work. It must have taken him ages.’
‘I’m sure it did,’ she said, ‘but what a fantastic result for all that effort. It’s known as systems art, which means the art is as much in the system that produces it as it is in the finished piece. Apparently, he starts by marking out one line, and then uses that as a guide to score out the rest until the surface is filled.’
‘Well, I think it’s brilliant. So, what’s the significance of the title? Why is it called 1593?’
She laughed. ‘Well, I haven’t counted to confirm, but from what I’m told it’s the number of lines in the finished piece.’
‘Really? That’s incredible! Do you have any other work by him?’
‘Unfortunately, we don’t right now, but we can certainly ask for more if you’re interested.’
‘I definitely would be,’ I confirmed. ‘Is all of his work similar to this?’
‘He has a number of similar pieces on both copper and aluminium, but he also works with other media on canvas and Perspex. I’ll give you the address of his website if you like. I think you’ll find it interesting.’
‘Yes, that would be great. Thanks.’
She was staring up into my eyes again, and I tried to hold her gaze but once more lost my nerve and looked back to the picture.
‘Can I buy this one?’ I asked.
Her face dropped. ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry, but it’s the gallery’s policy not to make sales on a Thursday.’
I stared back at her, wondering what kind of stupidity brought that policy about, but I noticed the glint in her eye and the twitch of her mouth as she fought to keep a straight face. I was about to laugh with her, but quickly changed my mind to feign an angry expression.
‘Oh, so you’ve been deliberately wasting my time,’ I said, keeping my voice firm. ‘Well, I can tell you I don’t appreciate it.’ I turned my back, as if to walk away.
I heard her gasp behind me and say ‘No, sorry. I was only joking’ in a panicky voice.
I turned back, grinning wildly, and she let out a deep sigh of relief. ‘Oh my God, I totally thought I’d upset you.’ She laughed and bumped my chest with her fist.
‘I don’t think that would be possible,’ I told her.
Back at her desk we completed the transaction, and she took my details after I accepted to have my purchase delivered and installed in my home. She wrote the artist’s URL she had promised me earlier on the back of her business card and handed it to me. ‘If there’s anything else I can help you with, or if you’d like any more advice, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.’
I checked my watch and realised I’d been there for nearly two hours. ‘You’ve been incredibly patient and extremely helpful. Thank you.’ I put her card in my wallet. ‘I really feel like I ought to pay you for your time.’
A pensive expression crossed her face, and I sensed her change her mind about what to say, leaving me wondering what kind of remark she had decided was better left unspoken. ‘It’s all part of the service,’ she told me. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Kee.’
She had very deliberately emphasised my name, and I laughed with her at the unmistakable inference; I was glad she had decided to be my friend after all.
I sat on my rooftop terrace, watching the boats on the river without really seeing them. The setting sun burnished the crests of the choppy water until they dazzled like molten gold, while the heat of the day had mellowed to a comfortable glow, and I relaxed into a warm meditation about the day just gone. I had enjoyed my time at the gallery, and I still couldn’t believe how quickly the time had passed. With Lauren’s quick wit and vibrant personality, it had seemed no more than five minutes. Yet in the time I had been there, she had taught me a great deal, and now I knew I wanted to learn even more. I went over in my mind as much as I could remember of what she had told me, and discovered that I’d got many more questions.
Lauren had said she was happy to help, and I contemplated taking her up on her offer, but instinct told me she was being polite as part of her job; I’d said the same thing to my clients many times but I hadn’t really wanted them to call me for advice, unless there was more work attached to the enquiry. I hadn’t seen anything else I wanted to buy in the gallery, but I supposed it might be worth a second look; after all it had been fun, and I still had several empty walls in the apartment.
I pulled her card from my wallet and read ‘Lauren Dinsdale, MA – Assistant Curator’. I had been convinced by everything she had told me, but those two letters added weight to her explanations, and it was comforting to know that she spoke with all the authority she had demonstrated. I recalled the radiance of her smile as she’d handed me the card, and decided I’d liked her very much.
Armed with my tiny amount of new-found knowledge, I trawled through a number of galleries over the next few days in a quest for more art to fill my walls. I found several pieces I liked, but I didn’t come across any that had the same wow factor as the first piece I’d bought.
The various staff members I spoke to were all polite, but none were as forthcoming or informative as Lauren. Their helpfulness ranged from virtually non-existent to downright weird.
One woman in particular trailed after me with insights and expressions about artistic movements that I was certain she was making up as she went along, most instantly forgettable, but when she described a style of painting as ‘transitory illusionism’ I found it particularly amusing and the term stayed in my mind. Shortly afterwards, I manoeuvred her close to her gallery door and decided to call her bluff.
‘Do you have any work by David Swinburne?’ I asked, having produced the name off the top of my head.
Her brow creased, as she appeared to consider the question. ‘Hmm, Swinburne. I don’t think we have at the moment, but I’m sure we can source some for you. He is very sought-after. Did you have a particular piece in mind?’
It was an effort not to laugh in her face. ‘There is one I would really like, I think it’s called Night Shade… No, Nocturne Shade. That’s it.’
‘Oh, yes. I know it,’ she lied. ‘It’s very good. One of his better pieces, I think. Tell me, how would you describe it?’
This time I did laugh. ‘I’d describe it as non-existent,’ I said, and ducked out into the street without looking back.
By Monday afternoon, I’d made a list of eight potential pictures that could grace my apartment, but I hadn’t yet bought any. I’d used my phone to take photos of the most promising candidates, and when some of the assistants objected I explained that I wanted to show them to my wife before bringing her in to buy them later. They had all accepted my lie without further question, presumably not wishing to jeopardise a potential sale.
I reviewed the photos when I got home, mirroring them up onto my TV so I could see them at full size, and as I looked at each one in turn I found myself wondering what Lauren would think of them.
I tried her suggestion of deciding if I wanted to look at them more than once, but it didn’t help, I liked them all, and could happily engage with them again and again. That really should have been enough, but it still didn’t tell me what I really wanted to know: whether they were any good and likely to be a worthwhile investment. For that I needed an informed perspective, and there was only one person I knew who could provide that point of view.
Fifteen
After several hours of tossing and turning, thinking about art and my empty walls, I finally fell asleep at around three in the morning, but just before I did the last vision in my head was Lauren. When she also turned out to be my first waking thought, I knew I had to call her. By then, I had come to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to make my mind up about the paintings without her input, but another thought had crystallised overnight, and I needed to run that past her too.
I waited until ten before phoning, to
give her time to settle in to her work. When she answered my call, she sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me.
We exchanged the usual pleasantries and I asked her, with apologies for finding them in other galleries, about the paintings I had shortlisted. She laughed and accused me of treachery before saying she would be happy to help.
‘I can’t let you do that for nothing,’ I told her. ‘Would you allow me to take you to lunch?’
‘I’d love to,’ she said without hesitation. ‘When did you have in mind?’
‘Are you free today?’
She sounded worried. ‘Oh… today might be a bit tricky. Could we make it tomorrow?’
‘Fine with me,’ I told her.
Her voice brightened again. ‘Great. That'll be lovely.’
We arranged a time and I hung up feeling slightly disappointed and pleased at the same time; disappointed because having decided to ask for her help, I was keen to get on with it as soon as possible, and pleased because the extra day would give me time to find somewhere decent to take her.
I left the taxi waiting while I went into the gallery to fetch Lauren the following day, but when I opened the door, she was nowhere to be seen. As I approached her desk, her boss was coming down the stairs towards me. His smile held no trace of recognition, and it was only when he spoke that I realised I was standing beside the hideous paintings.
‘Ah, Marcus Wellbeck is one of the country’s greatest artists of our times,’ he said, walking past me to stand directly in front of the pieces. ‘We’re fortunate to have so many fine examples of his work, and at these prices they’re a fabulous investment opportunity. Spellbinding, aren’t they?’
‘I’m sure they’re very good,’ I told him, ‘But I’m afraid they really don’t do a lot for me.’
‘Well, none of us can help our poor taste,’ he said, and smiled again before turning abruptly away to head back towards the office. It took me a moment to realise he had been insulting, but I didn’t have time to react before I saw Lauren coming my way, her face beaming as she greeted me.
Her elegant appearance was in complete contrast to the last time I’d seen her. She was wearing a stylish, navy knee-length skirt and a diaphanous ivory blouse over a similar coloured slip. Her lustrous deep-red hair was down, falling to several centimetres below her shoulders. Parted in the centre, she had pulled the front section on both sides back away from her face and clipped them together with a bow at the back of her head. Today there was no sign of her thick-framed glasses. With her flattering clothes and her unimpeded features, she looked amazing.
The taxi dropped us in what looked like a residential street, just to the south of Regent’s Park. We made our way into one of the buildings; the only clue to its usage was a small brass plaque beside the front door with the single word Maju inscribed on it in a cursive script.
The waiter showed us to our table, and Lauren glanced around the opulent dining room, taking in all the details with ever-widening eyes until she met my gaze. ‘Somehow, I was pretty sure you wouldn’t take me to McDonald’s or Burger King, but I wasn’t expecting this, Kee.’
‘I think the owner was a finalist on Masterchef a few years back,’ I told her. ‘I believe he’s on his way to his first Michelin star, so hopefully the burgers will be okay.’
We both ordered wine, even though I would have preferred a beer, and while we studied the menu, Lauren whispered, ‘There are no prices on this. I don’t know what to order. I don’t want to choose something too expensive.’
I laughed. ‘Don’t worry, everything is too expensive. Please have whatever you like.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘Oh, hell, no I’m not.’ I started to stand up. ‘Come on, we’d better do a runner.’
She laughed, and playfully punched my arm before turning back to the menu. I noticed she was holding it quite close to her face.
‘By the way,’ I said, ‘you look different today. Weren’t you wearing glasses last week?’
‘Oh no, please… don’t remind me. I only wear glasses for reading and computer work but I broke my usual ones, so I was wearing an old pair that I had at uni. I can’t believe I forgot to take them off and then didn’t notice. You must’ve thought I looked a complete nerd in those awful things.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ I lied, ‘but perhaps they weren’t the most fashionable pair I’ve seen.’
The waiter poured wine and took our orders. I smiled into Lauren’s unadorned eyes and remembered something I’d been meaning to say. ‘Before we go any further, I think I owe you an apology. I looked at your gallery’s website, and I saw under your profile that Marcus Wellbeck is one of your favourite artists. I completely dissed him last week, so I’m truly sorry about that. I hope I didn’t offend you.’
‘No, not at all.’ She pulled an odd face that I couldn’t read.
‘Have I said something wrong?’ I asked.
She grimaced slightly. ‘No, it’s just that I’m totally getting the sack if I tell you this.’
‘If I tell your boss, you can call me a liar to my face.’
‘Or I could just tell you, and then shoot you,’ she suggested.
I laughed. ‘Yeah, okay. So, out with it. What’s the deal with those paintings?’
She leaned towards me and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Marcus Wellbeck is a talentless shit.’ Her voice returned to normal and she continued, ‘He and my boss are supposed to be friends, but they’re more like cronies really. You’re totally right about the paintings. I’m sure he knocked up all eight of them in about ten minutes, without any thought about what he was doing. And as for that stupid signature, I’ve never seen anything so pretentious.’
‘I don’t remember seeing a signature.’
‘Right across the whole picture,’ she explained. ‘Like a big white squiggle. It’s meant to be MW.’
I laughed as I remembered. ‘Oh, that. I thought maybe he’d crossed them out because they were wrong.’
She smiled. ‘I like that. Yeah, they’re definitely wrong.’
‘So, why the high price tag?’
‘Because he comes in regularly, strutting around the gallery like he owns the place, and somehow he’s convinced my boss he’s both clever and important. He claims he’s sold hundreds of his paintings at that price.’
‘So, how many have you sold?’ I asked.
She became thoughtful and started silently counting on her fingers. Halfway through her second hand, she looked back up at me. ‘None,’ she said with a grin.
Our starters arrived, and they were little works of art on the plates. I watched Lauren pick up her fork and hesitate, and I guessed that like me she thought it was a shame to dismantle them. She took a tiny forkful and put it in her mouth; her face lit up and she murmured with delight. ‘I’ve watched cookery programmes, and I always thought you would have to have a sophisticated palate to appreciate all the different ingredients and combinations they use in fine dining, but this is delicious.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’ I smiled, and allowed her to enjoy her food for a while before speaking again. ‘So, I guess you weren’t responsible for your profile on the website?’
I could tell I’d touched a raw nerve when her voice became indignant. ‘No, I’m really embarrassed about it, but the boss insisted, just like he insists that I always show the paintings to people, but I would never let anyone buy one… Oh, I totally didn’t say that.’
‘Your secret is safe with me,’ I assured her. ‘Should I be getting the impression that you’re not happy in your work?’
‘No. I love my job,’ she said quickly. ‘I just sometimes wish I had a bit more say in some of the artists we show. Don’t get me wrong, we do have some really talented artists, but my boss also takes on some dubious characters from time to time. He says he values my opinion, but he won’t let me disagree with him. He can be very rude.’
‘Yeah, I noticed.’
‘Oh, he didn’t?’ she asked. ‘I
’m so sorry, Kee.’
I shook my head. ‘Please, don’t be. You don’t need to apologise for your boss.’
Her relief gave way to another grin. ‘Anyway, were you looking for something in particular on our website, or were you just checking up on me?’
I matched her expression. ‘Definitely stalking you! I looked you up on Facebook too, but you don’t share a lot publicly, do you?’
‘You should have sent me a friend request.’
‘I thought about it,’ I said, ‘but I wasn’t sure if you would be offended as we’d only met once, and on a business basis.’
‘And you would’ve had to come clean about stalking me.’ She laughed. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything,’ I told her.
‘Okay.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘I’ve been married twice. I’ve got one kid from the first, and two from the second. My oldest, Josie, is a real handful. She’s coming up to twelve, going on eighteen, and she’s a proper madam. Argues with me about everything. The twins, William and Benjamin, turned nine in April. They’re good boys… so far.’
I was completely stunned and failed to hide it. I’d completely misjudged her age, but even as I looked at her I couldn’t believe she was more than twenty-five. She clearly had some sort of youthful secret, and her slender figure showed no signs of motherhood.
‘You look dazed,’ she said.
I had to think carefully, to remain tactful. ‘Forgive me, but it’s just that you look too young to have a twelve-year-old daughter.’
‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said, and paused for effect. ‘I am… unless I was pregnant at eleven.’ She broke into a huge grin. ‘And that’s for letting me think I’d upset you last week!’
I laughed out loud with her, causing several of the nearby diners to look in our direction. ‘Good one.’
Her expression was triumphant. ‘I totally got you.’
‘I should have cottoned on with the twins’ names. Who would call their kids Bill and Ben?’ I shook my head, still reeling from the con. ‘So, no kids? No marriages? Boyfriend?’