by Henry Cecil
‘ “Have you sold any of them?” I asked.
‘ “I thought I had once, but the lady was short-sighted, and returned it next day in a fury and demanded her money back. At least she didn’t come herself. She sent her maid. She was a nice girl and even offered to pose for me, but after we’d had tea and so on there wasn’t time.”
‘Then I had an idea. “This Rokeby Venus,” I said, “she has hands and feet and so forth, I suppose?”
“Certainly. Everything you can see from behind.”
“Haven’t you ever thought of doing another part of her for a change — her neck, for instance, her arm or the like?”
‘He thought for a moment. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I never have, but I don’t think it would do.”
‘ “Worth trying, perhaps?”
‘ “If only I knew what I was seeking for. I’m in the dark — groping in the dark — but all the time there’s this uncontrollable force driving me on. I just have to do it.”
‘ “Some more cocoa?” I said.
‘ “Just a cigarette, thank you, if you happen to be able to spare” — he paused and I thought it was the end of the sentence — but he went on after a short interval, “a packet”, he said.
‘I gave him my last. I’m sure Nicholas would have done the same.’
‘Nicholas,’ said Petula, ‘would not have been there. An instinctive reaction at the mention of the Rokeby Venus would have told him it was time to leave. Am I right, Nicholas?’
‘Always, when we’re together, my sweet.’
‘Don’t interrupt Basil, Nicholas,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He will be coming to the point any month now.’
Basil looked at his watch.
‘I shall have to finish my introduction in about half an hour, as we have a visitor coming.’
‘Now, he’s not coming here, surely. You said he was dirty.’
‘I am not referring to my artist friend, Mr Simon Plant, but to someone quite different and none other than Mr John Rock.’
‘Not the John Rock.’
‘Himself.’
‘But what has he got to do with it?’
‘If you will allow me to finish, you will learn.’
‘I cannot see what a football pools expert can have to do with it. You’re sure your lines aren’t crossed.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Basil, ‘you are so impatient, all, of you. I suppose you want me to start from the beginning.’
‘Not that,’ said Elizabeth.
‘All right,’ said Basil, ‘I will. What is our object in life? Answer, to live happily. Can we live happily without money? No. Can we live happily if we have to work? No. Object, then, to make money without working. How have we done that in the past? By trading on human weaknesses. Malice and inquisitiveness have yielded good dividends, but they’re not the only weaknesses by a long way. My present scheme is based on snobbery and greed. Is it plain so far?’
‘Nothing is in the least plain. Suppose you get back to Mr Simon Plant and your last packet of cigarettes.’
‘Very well. “Are any other artists like you?” I asked.
‘ “There are plenty who can’t sell their pictures and don’t get enough to eat, if that’s what you mean.”
‘ “But do any of them only paint one part of the body?”
‘ “Not that I know of.”
‘ “I suppose they could do it to order,” I said.
‘ “Most of them.”
‘ “Of course, there’s a good deal of character to be shown in a person’s hands.”
‘ “Certainly.”
‘ “Or eyes.”
‘ “Of course.”
‘ “You happen to have chosen a part which is possibly less expressive than some others, but do you think you could get some of your friends to follow in your footsteps, but using another part of the body?”
‘ “As a commission, you mean?”
‘ “I do.”
‘ “I expect I could. But what’s the idea?”
‘ “It’s only just occurred to me and I’ve only begun to work it out, but let me know where I can get hold of you and I think we may both hear of something to our advantage.”
‘ “I haven’t a card, but I’ll write my name and address on the back of this if you like. You can have it,” and he handed me Cable and Wireless. Here it is.’
‘You’re not putting that up here,’ said Elizabeth, after one glance.
‘Does he have a model for each picture?’ asked Nicholas.
‘He told me that he painted mostly from memory. Now, listen. This is my idea. It’ll soon be summer. What does that mean?’
‘A new dress,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Cricket,’ said Nicholas.
‘Warmer,’ said Basil. ‘It means no English football.’
Elizabeth and Petula exchanged glances. ‘He’s not been strange in any other way, has he?’
‘No — just glowing and shining, you know.’
Nicholas had been thinking. Suddenly — ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘Picture pools.’
‘Picture pools it is,’ said Basil.
‘Now, in order to start a pool we’ve got to get the interest f the public. That isn’t really very difficult if you go about it he right way. We must get the Press interested. To do that, we must stimulate in one way or another the interest of the artistic profession, the dealers, the artists, and those members of the public who look at pictures. It doesn’t matter how much we annoy them. In fact the more we annoy them the better we shall do. When we’ve got them all talking, the rest of the public will come in. Look how they flocked to see Picasso. Half the people who went there had never been to a picture gallery before. They heard about these new pictures which were attacked by many, praised by a few and took a lot of understanding. Of course, they didn’t understand them, but they went. Having got their interest in our new group of artists — I’ll tell you about them, if you haven’t guessed, in a moment — we then introduce the picture pools. We take premises and hang, say, forty pictures. They will all be of the new group. They are to be called “The Gropists”. Their founder is my friend Mr Simon Plant. We shall pay starving artists a fee for hanging their pictures. Normally, it’s the other way round. We may even buy the first lot. Each picture will contain some portion of the human anatomy and anything else — much or little — the artist likes — except the rest of the body. That would disqualify. These artists, led by Mr Plant, are seeking for something — they don’t quite know what. As a matter of secondary interest, it will be pointed out that the whole of the human form is really too much for one artist. You can spend a lifetime perfecting arms, hands, or eyes. That is what they are doing. One day we might have a composite picture of a whole person painted by different members of the Group. In exchange for an admission fee of sixpence or a shilling, you will be given a coupon. This will be arranged like a football pool coupon. For instance, on the left (what you might call the home team) will appear Mr Simon Plant’s Cable and Wireless and on the right (the away team) Mr So-and-So’s Hands across the Sea. Members of the public will be asked to record their opinion of each picture by giving it marks — say from one to ten. Of course, they won’t in any way be compelled to record their opinions, but quite enough people will do so to enable us to work the pool. If Cable and Wireless gets altogether twenty marks and Hands across the Sea only nineteen, it’s a home win and vice versa. If neither of them gets any marks (which I suspect may sometimes occur) it’s a draw. See the idea?’
Nicholas nodded eagerly. He was already wondering how much the dividends on the treble chance pool would be likely to be. Even Elizabeth and Petula were beginning to see daylight.
‘I see,’ said Petula brightly. ‘But mightn’t it be difficult to run off with the money without being caught?’
‘We shan’t have to do it,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You and I can go abroad for a year or two while they’re keeping out of the way of the police. I do hope you don’t get caught, darling,’ she added.
‘We’ll see how it goes,’ said Basil. ‘Now you understand why Mr Rock is coming here today. What he doesn’t know about pools and permutations isn’t worth knowing. We’ll give him free advertisements of some of his systems on our coupons. The more permutations the better. The great thing is to get it started well. That’s why we’ve got to run up and down Bond Street and the neighbourhood plugging the Gropists for all we’re worth. It’ll cost some money, but it’s a fair risk. D’you agree, Nicholas?’
‘Yes; I think so.’
‘Good. You’ll be running it. Elizabeth and I will be doing the advertising and shan’t appear to have anything to do with you.’
‘How often will you have to change the pictures?’
‘Oh — we can decide that too as we go along. The votes of the public will be different each week. If there were a hot favourite, it might be necessary to change it after a couple of weeks or even after one week, but between you and me I don’t think there’ll be very much between any of them.’
‘There’ll be nothing to stop people getting all their friends to vote for a particular picture so as to help them win.’
‘Of course there won’t. That’s part of the idea. Just think of the number of people coming in that will mean. And you don’t imagine only one person will think of that. No; provided we can get a really good start, we should make a fortune.’
‘I’m glowing a bit myself at the thought of it,’ said Elizabeth. ‘We might even buy some Defence Bonds.’
‘When I’ve seen Mr Rock, I’m going down to see Mr Plant just to make sure everything is in line.’
Some time later that day Basil knocked at the door of Simon Plant’s studio.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said. ‘I’m in a bit of a mess at the moment. You see, I live here. But, thanks to you, I should be expanding shortly. Yes,’ he added as he noticed Basil looking curiously round the room, ‘I do a bit of sculpture too, but I’ve nowhere to put them. I was going to say sit down, but all the chairs seem to be occupied. Wait a moment. I’ll move this one for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Basil. ‘Now, how have you been getting on?’
‘Famously,’ said Mr Plant, ‘thanks to your generous advance I have three full meals a day and paint very little. I shall come back to that, of course, but I’ve got to get used to the idea of eating again. It’ll take a week or two.’
‘Quite,’ said Basil, ‘don’t hurry yourself. There are plenty of your things to go on with. Have you got that list?’
‘I have. Here it is. What d’you think of it?’ He handed a piece of paper to Basil. This is what it contained:
1. Henry Crotchet Hands
2. Ernst Wasserbraun Lips
3. C. Y. Mandeville Eyes
4. George Goat Hips
5. Martin McGillicuddy Finger-nails
‘That’s all at the moment, but I’ve promises from a dozen others. I held a meeting the other day. They were all in great spirits.’
After a short further discussion, Basil left Simon Plant, who was trying to make up his mind whether to submit for the first exhibition a small picture called Drat that Fly or a larger one, Are you asleep dear?
For the next few weeks Elizabeth and Basil were hard at work visiting art galleries while Nicholas and Petula, with the able assistance of Mr Rock, prepared the pools side of the exhibition. It did not take long before the Gropists were known — by name, at any rate — throughout the world of art dealers. In fact, the day after Basil’s first visit to the Markwell Galleries Mr Bronck had called on Mr Macintosh.
‘Some new nonsense, I expect,’ said the latter.
‘He offered me £50 for one with fingers or a whole hand. What on earth did he mean?’
A week later both these experts were surprised to find a small paragraph in one of the newspapers which does not devote much space to art, referring to the Gropists by name. This happened to be a newspaper to which Mr Rock contributed, and the Editor, with whom he was on excellent terms, allowed him a few lines on the sports page, as the football season was nearly over. In fact, no reasonable request of Mr Rock would have been refused. He was the doyen of football pool experts and much beloved by the Daily Sun’s readers. It is amazing how far a few lines in a popular newspaper travel. On the day of the publication, Mr Sumpter Hedges, R.A., while happily correcting the proofs of his new book, was asked by his young daughter:
‘Who are the Gropists, Father?’
Mr Hedges was a famous artist — famous alike for his excellent pictures and for his forthright opinions on modern art.
‘Gropists, Gropists? Something to do with the Chartists perhaps. Look it up in a history book.’
‘No; they’re artists.’
Mr Hedges Sat bolt upright, took his pipe out of his mouth and upset his glass of sherry. When order had been restored, he looked at the newspaper. This is what he read.
New Form of Art
Picasso caused a sensation and almost a riot with his pictures, but it looks as though the Gropists — the name given to a new art group containing, we believe, some of the more prominent modern artists — are likely to cause a traffic block when they hold their first exhibition in the near future.
The paragraph appeared just below the place where the dividends for the previous week’s football pools were forecast. That was how Selina Hedges had happened to notice it. The journalistic ‘we believe’ can cover a multitude of errors. No prominent artist, modern or otherwise, was included in Mr Plant’s band of brothers, but Mr Hedges at once assumed that one of the well-known artists whom he regularly attacked whenever he got the chance must be at the back of it.
‘There he is again,’ he said. ‘If he could paint half as well as he advertises himself he’d be in the top rank. If he could only advertise as well as he paints, he couldn’t get a job selling bootlaces. Give me some more sherry, please, Selina. It makes me sick. I don’t know what we’re coming to.’ He went back to his proofs, but he couldn’t concentrate.
‘Who on earth are they? What do they do?’ he said. Selina could not help him, and, try as he would, he simply could not dismiss them with the contempt they unquestionably deserved. The fact that he had not seen one of their pictures (not even a reduced reproduction in black and white) made no difference. He knew he couldn’t sleep until he’d confirmed his belief as to who was behind them and let off some more steam. He went to the telephone, and a minute or two later was talking to an old friend of his, also a great artist.
‘Yes,’ his friend was saying, ‘Mary has just told me. She’d been doing her football pools or something and saw it. Can’t make it out. Never heard of them.’
Mr Hedges toyed with the idea of ringing up his bête noire and sarcastically congratulating him on his publicity service, but he felt he couldn’t take the risk in case it was someone else. He had a poor night. A few days later, in the correspondence columns of the Daily Sun appeared the following letter:
The Gropists
Sir, It was good of you in the face of so much blind prejudice against anything new to refer to the forthcoming exhibition of ‘The Gropists’. May I venture to express the hope that your readers (and others) will look at our pictures before they pass judgement on them. I know that this idea is getting out of date, but it is certainly one of the formalities which even our group considers should be observed.
Yours faithfully,
SIMON PLANT
The handwriting was that of Mr Plant, but the wording was Basil’s. — ‘Simon Plant,’ said Mr Hedges. ‘Simon Plant. Never heard of him. I know what it is.
The blackguard. The coward. He’s either using another name or he’s just put up someone to take the first blows. Just like him. Can’t face the music.’ He went to the telephone directory. No Simon Plant. He telephoned several of his friends. No knowledge of Simon Plant. Shortly before the exhibition opened, an advertisement appeared in several newspapers in the following terms:
The Gropists
Five or six lunatics have joined together and exhibited their work. They take a piece of canvas, daub a few patches of colour at random, and sign the whole thing with their name. It is as if the inmates of Bedlam picked up stones and imagined they had found diamonds.
We shall be honoured if this sort of criticism is accorded to us. This is what was said of the famous Impressionists Monet, Pissarro, Morisot and others in 1876. Come and see for yourselves. If only we are as bad as they were. Exhibition opens at 10 a.m. on the 1st June at the Drewe Galleries, 11 Touchstone Street.
Special inducement: Every visitor will be given an opportunity of registering a protest against or recording his enjoyment of each picture, and OF MAKING A LARGE SUM OF MONEY.
‘The police ought to stop this sort of thing,’ said Mr Hedges. ‘It’s prostitution; that’s what it is. Much worse than the poor creatures who get taken to Marlborough Street. They’ve no alternative.’
‘Don’t artists ever starve?’ asked Selina innocently.
‘Then they should give up being artists. Look at me. Did I ever starve? Not a bit of it. Of course, I was hard up to begin with and it was a bit of a struggle — but that’s not starvation. If you can’t make an honest living at art, do something else at which you can.’
‘Are you going to see them, Father?’
‘No, thank you. I do not require a LARGE SUM OF MONEY. My means are sufficient for my requirements, and I am thankful to say I made them honestly and not by bribing people to come and look at my pictures.’