by Linda Jaivin
For artists, visiting hours in Paddo were traditionally six to eight in the evening, when galleries had their openings. I don’t think I’d ever been in Paddo in the morning. The garden was full of strelitzia and other alarmingly vivid flora. The day was by Brett Whiteley but my brain was one of Dale Frank’s swirling, psychedelic canvases. I squeezed my eyes shut to keep the colours at bay.
Someone giggled. ‘And what do we have here?’
I willed the violent rotation of the earth to a halt.
Slowly, I opened my eyes and twisted my face around. My neck wasn’t working very well. I found myself looking into a pair of brown orbs that expressed concern and amusement in equal measure. Large and pretty, they were sexed up with a touch of mascara and a hint of eyeliner, and complemented by a prominent nose, sensual mouth and high forehead.
A very high forehead.
It was, it turns out, a rather sensitive point, that high forehead. Its owner did not like the idea that he was going bald.
I buckled over and retched into the strelitzia. ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, mortified. ‘I’ll clean that—’
‘Oh stop,’ chuckled my new friend. ‘It’s probably very good for the rooty-poots. We just won’t tell the Big T, will we?’
I smiled uneasily. The Big T? Who was he talking about? If any bells were ringing, they were in a steeple far, far away. Where was I anyway? He looked familiar, yet I couldn’t work out who he was. This was happening to me a lot lately. I recalled the man in the limo. Had that really been the previous night? As a visual sort of person, I never forgot a face. I just had a hard time recalling who it belonged to. Whoever he was, I thought it might be a good idea to stand up.
My legs disagreed. I didn’t even reach mid-point before I collapsed again. A discreet throbbing in several parts of my face and a sharp pain in my ribs reminded me that I was cut and bruised as well as filthy. I must have looked a total dero. ‘I, uh, had a bit of a night.’ It occurred to me that I couldn’t have begun to explain what had happened. Bashed for sticking to artistic principles? Kicked by clones of a dead princess? And that was only the start of it. ‘I really should be going.’ I felt desperately shabby next to this fellow in his trendy-as casuals and embarrassed about soiling his garden.
‘You are so cute,’ he said. ‘You’re an artist, aren’t you?’ Grinning, he extended a hand and helped me up.
The question sent me into a tailspin. I was outraged that just because I looked like a walking disaster area everyone assumed I was an artist. Clean Slate had popularised jokes like: ‘What do you call an artist without a girlfriend?’ ‘Homeless.’
‘Well, aren’t you?’
Being an artist is at the core of my identity. Yet I always felt put on the spot by the question. There was this sense that I had no right to lay public claim to the title until I had an exhibition, or won a prize, or earned some sort of critical recognition. As if that was even possible anymore. On the other hand, if a tree falls in the forest and no one sees it, it still falls, doesn’t it? So if an artist paints in his studio, even if no one ever views his work, he’s still an artist, isn’t he? Still, it seemed like such a pretentious statement—‘I am an artist.’ Irritated beyond logic, I lapsed into silence.
‘You’re wondering how I knew.’ He smiled. I noticed that he seemed to be wearing a light lipstick. ‘For one thing, the blue and orange pigments streaking your auburn locks are reminiscent of a Fred Williams landscape. They complement the dark smudges Rothko-ing your maroon jumper, the speckled Seurat of your jeans, and the Jackson Pollock-like masterpieces that are your workboots. The blood stains are a bit worrying, and it does look like you tried to signal the 380 to Bondi with your face, but even that, on you, is all a bit, comment dire, fauvist. Yes, an artist you most certainly are.’
He laughed at my astonishment. ‘You see,’ he explained, ‘I am, or rather once was, an art dealer. The name’s Oscar. Oscar Bone.’ He held out his hand. I shook it dazedly.
‘Uh, Miles. Miles Walker.’
‘Miles Walker. Of course you are!’ He stepped back and slapped one hand against his cheek, his mouth forming a perfect pink doughnut of recognition. ‘Love your work, darling, love your work.’
‘You love my work?’ I was incredulous.
‘I saw it at the last graduate exhibition, the one before all the art schools closed. It was stunning, girlfriend, absolutely magnificent. We were very interested, but by the time we got around to making inquiries, well, that dreadful woman got into power and we all know the rest of the story.’
He was an art dealer. An art dealer who’d seen my graduate exhibition and wanted to pick me up. I was filled with elation, then panic—that was a whole year ago. I’d progressed so much since then. I clutched the railing to keep myself upright.
‘All this Clean Slate business is such a shame,’ Oscar continued. ‘Thank God we made such a killing off the artists we represented in the past, otherwise I don’t know what we’d be doing now.’ He pulled a pair of garden shears from a clay pot next to the doorway and decapitated a hydrangea. ‘Mmm.’ He inhaled its scent and passed it to me.
Oscar shook his head. ‘Here I am prattling on,’ he reprimanded himself, ‘while you, my dear boy, look like you’re about to expire. Like anyone else in this town, I’m not ungrateful for the occasional spectacle of famous artists perishing extravagantly—acts of fatal dissipation, rare tropical diseases, romantic gestures of opiate abuse and, of course, motorcycle accidents, which are my personal favourite. Death is a bit wasted on inconnus, don’t you think?’
‘Depends,’ I said, thinking of Thurston’s theory.
‘I must say, those are some mighty impressive wounds. Can I ask?’
I grimaced. ‘In the wound the question is answered,’ I quoted.
‘Caravaggio.’ He clapped his hands. ‘What a divine film. Well, girlfriend, I won’t ask you more than you want to tell me. But why don’t you come inside and freshen up?’ He opened the door and beckoned me in. ‘I was just about to make some coffee. I can do espresso, or cappuccino if you prefer. If I say so myself, I’m very good with the frother.’
I hesitated for a moment but, the truth was, I was in desperate need of comfort and comforting and it looked like Oscar was offering a bit of both. An art dealer! I followed him inside. The foyer was clean, light and uncluttered, an alternative universe to my own.
As he chattered, Oscar broke the hydrangea up into florets, which he dropped into a shallow ceramic bowl filled with water. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let me show you the bath.’ Oscar led me upstairs. I couldn’t help stopping for a better look at the framed drawings and paintings on the wall by the stairs, recognising them as the work of Strayer’s most celebrated artists. At the doorway to the master bedroom, my progress was brought to a dead halt by the sight of a garish painting over the bed.
I remembered seeing it in the Archibald Prize exhibition several years back. It was a portrait of the art dealer Trimalkyo. The Chinese emigre artist Hu Lüexin had depicted Trimalkyo as a one-man history of modern art. In the painting, Trimalkyo, draped in velvet, reclined Rubenesquely on a chaise longue. A melting watch crawling with ants sat upon his wrist. His head was a study in photorealism, his torso neo-expressionist, his knees cubist, his toes minimalist. In the background hung one of Lynda Tangent’s trademark triangles and on a shelf over the chaise longue laughed three jolly Chinese-style gods wearing sashes that identified them as Cobber, Lucre and Luck. It was hideous.
‘It is a bit hard to sleep under,’ Oscar conceded.
Why would anyone try? I nearly asked, then it occurred to me that the Big T to whom Oscar was referring was probably Trimalkyo himself. This was his house. Oscar was his partner.
I barely had time to digest this fact when Oscar led me into a massive bathroom, about the size of my bedroom. He hung a thick terry-towelling robe on a hook. ‘Take your time,’ he said fluttering his fingers at me like Liza Minnelli in Cabaret as he left, pulling the door shut behind him.
The bath was t
he size of a wading pool. On a shelf above the taps was an array of salts and oils in jars and bottles. Trimalkyo’s things. I poured some into the steaming water. My teeth felt like they were wearing unwashed jumpers. Opening the cabinet, I found a spare toothbrush still in its packet. By the time I finished brushing, the bath was ready. Because of my cuts, I entered the water gingerly, but soon sank into it like sleep.
I felt all the heaviness inside me lift. I was Henry Moore reincarnated as Alexander Calder. I scrubbed the traces of the night off my skin with a big loofah. Trimalkyo!
My thoughts turned to ZakDot and Maddie. I would have liked it if ZakDot had tried to stop me from leaving, but what did I expect? And Maddie—she’d fought for my honour. I wasn’t sure what I’d done to deserve such friends. On the other hand, you couldn’t be too careful. ZakDot did incite that whole painters’ strike thing, after all. And Maddie returned to see Gabe right afterwards—what was all that about? As for Thurston—he disappeared from the scene a tad too conveniently, if you asked me. Lifting my hands from the hot water, I watched vapours rise from my fingers like smoke. I lay back and closed my eyes.
After a long while, I opened them again and sat up. The water sucked at the sides and dribbled over onto the floor. I felt light-headed. My skin tingled. I’d gone pink all over and my fingers and toes were puckered like an old man’s. I smelt like boronia and ylang ylang. My hair, which I’d washed, gave off a whiff of marshmallow. I stepped out of the bath and wriggled my toes in the bathmat’s deep pile. Wrapping myself in one of the fluffiest towels in world history, I felt like the subject of one of those Orientalism paintings. I only required a Nubian slave to help dry me off. Clearing a little circle in the steamed-up mirror, I peered at my face. With the crusted blood washed off and a few Elastoplasts in place, I looked almost normal. I glanced at the stinking pile of rags that were my clothes. Unable to cope with them for the moment, I slipped on the terry-towelling robe and emerged into the hallway. My clean feet squeaked on the parquet as I made my way to the kitchen.
‘I knew there was a person under there,’ cooed Oscar, handing me a steaming cappuccino. I felt as warm and fuzzy as one of Kathy Temin’s duck-rabbit problems, and just as weird.
I followed Oscar into the lounge. The room was cool; an air-conditioner hummed quietly in the background. The furniture was all polished surfaces and elegant lines, like something you’d expect to see in a Tanguy painting, moon-landing furniture, lounge suites for flying saucers. Oscar gestured for me to sit down on a chaise longue and disappeared back into the kitchen. I obeyed, then jumped up with a yelp. It was made of aluminium and felt like a big ice cube under my thighs, which were naked under the robe. I spread the spilt coffee around with my toes on the polished floorboards until you couldn’t see it.
‘Everything okey dokey in there?’ Oscar trilled from the other room.
‘Fine,’ I answered. This time I made sure that the robe was positioned between my skin and the hard cold surface. The lounge had obviously been designed for small alien beings with no bones in their arses. I shifted about, trying to get comfortable.
Oscar reappeared holding a platter heaped with pastries. ‘While you were in the bath, I nipped out to this marvellous little bakery down the road, Le Petit Con.’ Gratefully, I selected an almond croissant. The combination of caffeine and sugar did its work instantly.
Oscar perched himself on what looked like an enormous white staple, one foot of which had been bent forwards and the other back. It didn’t look much more comfortable than the chaise longue. He informed me it was David Star’s Stool for the Gallery Sitter. He warned me not to try and balance my cup on the nipple-shaped coffee table, designed by someone else I’d never heard of, as the mound in the centre caused things to slide off.
‘Isn’t that silly?’ I asked. ‘I mean, for a coffee table?’
‘Oh stop,’ Oscar giggled. ‘Of course it’s silly.’ He looked around, as though checking that we weren’t being overheard, and whispered, ‘This whole place, if you ask me, is silly. The bathtub is the most comfortable thing in the entire house. And that was my decision. The Big T picked the rest of this stuff.’
The Big T. I couldn’t wait to tell ZakDot. If he was still talking to me, that is. I hoed into another pastry, too hungry for either regrets or apologies.
‘I do love a starving artist,’ Oscar commented, clapping his hands with glee. ‘Now. You must tell me all about yourself, Miles Walker.’
‘Nn.’ I pointed with embarrassment to my mouth, which was full.
Oscar smiled, a distant look in his eyes. ‘We used to meet artists all the time. It’s all too rare these days. Most of our stable has fled overseas.’
Stable. Such a funny word, as if artists were animals to be groomed and watered and trotted out from time to time and then retired when they passed their prime. On second thought, it was rather appropriate.
He chattered on, apparently forgetting all about his intention to ask me about myself. I reached for another pastry. They were very more-ish.
‘It’s funny,’ he said, ‘I mean, before all this distasteful Clean Slate business, I used to complain about artists all the time. Artists can be so difficult.’
True. If it weren’t for a certain degree of difficulty on my part, I wouldn’t have ended up on Oscar’s doorstep. I nodded and sucked on the soft centre of a buttery pain au chocolat.
‘For one thing, they can be so bitchy. Worse than poofters, don’t you think?’
I wasn’t sure how to respond. I didn’t want to agree too heartily, for fear of causing offence.
‘I mean, every time you organise a dinner party you have to make sure no one is seated next to anyone they might be tempted to stab with a fork—but honestly, darling, if you’re going to worry about that in the art world, you might as well have dinner parties for one.’
I heard the front door open and someone come in, but Oscar was so caught up in his rant he didn’t appear to notice.
‘And then, of course, they’re such prima donnas. We’d do everything for them and it was never enough. We showed their works in our beautiful gallery, which, quite frankly, looks perfectly fine without anything at all on the walls. We sent out the trendiest little white cards printed with the trendiest illegible white ink inviting everyone and their dog to the launch. On the night, we’d hold their hands and assure them they were more brilliant than anyone else we’d ever shown. We gave all their scruffy, free-loading, gas-bagging non-art-buying friends as much wine as they could drink and then, with any luck, sold their work for them and never, ever, took more than sixty per cent commission in return. And of course, who got famous? They got famous. Did we resent that? Not at all. But who did all the real work? We did.’ He exhaled a little sigh.
It occurred to me that I might have felt offended, but I was having mixed feelings about artists myself. Besides, I liked Oscar. I still do, despite everything that’s happened. Happening.
‘And all they can do is whinge, whinge, whinge,’ he continued. ‘There’s an itsy bitsy scuff mark on the wall and Finn starts screaming, there’s a wee little typo on the date and Tobias Gerbil snaps my head off. One bad review and we’re peeling Lynda Tangent off the pylons of the Harbour Bridge.’
‘Ooscar, eef you don’t shut oop, I am goink to eat my own ‘ead.’
An older man stood in the doorway of the living room with his hands on his hips. Trimalkyo! I’d never seen him close up before, only across a room. He was tall, about my height. He had hooded eyes that I felt I’d looked into before. He was quite striking despite the fact that his gingery hair was mixed with grey and age had begun to claw its lines into the soft skin around his tired-looking eyes. He smiled politely.
I put down my half-eaten Danish and tried to swallow inconspicuously. For the third time in twenty-four hours, I was struck by that odd, nagging sense of familiarity, though this time it made no sense. After all, I knew who Trimalkyo was.
I could have sworn that some kind of recognition flick
ered in his eyes as well. ‘Do I know zees gentlemoon?’
‘This is Miles Walker. Miles, Trimalkyo.’
‘May-alls Vucker. May-alls Vucker.’ Trimalkyo’s eyebrows shot upwards and then nudged down again.
His accent was the weirdest I’d ever heard. The voices of Amsterdam, Bolivia and half a dozen Latin cities appeared to cry out amongst the tortured vowels and mangled consonants of his eccentric diction. There was even a hint of the Transylvanian, though I suppose all art dealers have a touch of the vampire about them.
‘Mek yourself at hoom.’ He motioned Oscar to step outside for a moment. They closed the door behind them. I quickly stuffed the rest of the Danish into my mouth. When they didn’t return immediately, I had a look around. On a side table lay a book with the title Natural Healing for the Apocalypse. With restless fingers, I flipped through it. It had a section, dog-eared, I assumed, by Oscar, that gave tips for protecting your hairstyle from the effects of atomic wind.
I heard the door open and close once more. I wondered if I hadn’t overstayed my welcome.
Oscar returned. ‘He wanted to know all about you. Pardon my directness, but you are straight, aren’t you, girlfriend?’
I was taken aback by the question. Sexuality was a spectrum, and I wasn’t totally certain what my hue was. On the other hand, I hadn’t had sex of any kind for so long it felt like a past-life experience. I struggled for the mot juste.
Oscar interpreted my awkwardness as an affirmative.
‘No need to be embarrassed.’ He patted me on the shoulder. ‘It’s perfectly normal for a certain percentage of the population to be straight.’ He sighed. ‘I’m afraid the old boy gets a little jealous.’
‘Oh, no. I hope…I mean…did he say…’
Oscar held up a hand. ‘No, dear boy. But to tell you the honest truth, sometimes I think he’s looking for an excuse to dump me.’ He slumped over the table, just missing the plate of pastries. I pushed the platter to the side and patted him on the arm.
Oscar’s shoulders juddered. ‘And if he did, who would have me? I’m nearly forty.’ He sat up. ‘Too old to be a catamite, too young to die. All the anti-ageing, collagen-boosting, free-radical quashing, triple Alpha-Hydroxy fruit acid peels and aloe vera-and-vitamin E potions in the galaxy can’t stop my hairline from retreating, or my gums from receding. I can’t even stand up at a urinal any more. Years of sporting a Prince Albert—you know,’ he elaborated, noting my puzzled expression, ‘a cock ring—have left me peeing like a garden sprinkler.’