by Tim Buckley
In short, I hated it. This would be Lochlann’s first exhibition for years, years in which styles had moved on. But this was old school. Herding people through exhibits like cattle in an abattoir was from the past. It made the thoroughfares dark and narrow, and building the corridor would be materials-intensive, time-consuming and expensive. It denied people the choice to skip ahead or revisit, as though they were not really to be trusted to make such a decision. It gave no sense of scale. It denied Lochlann the opportunity to superimpose on the entire proceedings a message or a theme and denied him the chance to evolve that message. It fragmented the whole and it lost something because of that.
“I see,” I nodded, too vigorously. “Yeah, I see.”
Lochlann’s eyes stayed on me, waiting as though for an explanation like when I had committed some childhood misdemeanour. Oran, I could sense without looking at him, was enjoying this. Lochlann’s silence had the desired effect.
“Would you think about something a bit different?” I asked with transparently false lightness of tone. “Maybe?”
“What did you have in mind?”
I scurried off into the studio and came back with a sketchpad and pencil. I put it on the floor and crouched down to outline an alternative. It took me a few moments, then I stood up and showed it to Lochlann.
“Oran, come here and look,” I said, beckoning him over to us.
The three of us were in the middle of the room, hunched over my sketch as I started to explain.
“I’d maybe put the sections in four rooms, chambers if you like, in the four corners of the gallery. The doorway is in the middle of that wall, so you could still use that as the access point coming in between room one, on your left, and room four, on your right. The welcome desk is here, between them, and the welcome staff direct you to room one and in a clockwise direction to rooms two, three and four.”
I was, for a moment, transported back to my world. It was the world in which I was most comfortable, and its familiarity dispelled my initial nervousness.
“It has a few big benefits, I think. First, it gives a sense of space and light and scale. The Gallery is a beautiful room, with the vaulted roof and the beams. This way, rather than seeing only one small piece at a time, you can see the whole thing and that might be more impressive.”
I tried to be moderate in my suggestion, tried not to assert.
“Second, it gives you a central space where people can gather, a social space. That might be a better place for seminars – you can point to the rooms as you speak, people can better picture what you’re saying – and it’s a good place for any central theming that you want to do – banners with quotations from poets or writers that reflect your thoughts, supportive critical reviews maybe? It’s also a more efficient food and beverage point.”
The more I spoke, the more I could picture the Gallery resplendent in its show finery, the more immersed I became. Lochlann’s face was a blank screen, but at least he was paying attention.
“And third, you give people the chance to revisit sections they’ve seen before, go back to look at pieces again.” I looked at Lochlann who was staring intently at the pad. My nerve almost failed me. “Look, it’s just a thought. I’m sure you’ve thought this through more than me. Anyway…”
I was out of words, and so I stopped and drew breath, stepped back a fraction and waited for the reaction.
“How would you preserve the integrity of the flow?” Lochlann asked without looking up.
“You would have to brief the welcome desk staff carefully so that they can make it clear to people when they arrive. And you’d have to make it very prominent in the programme and make sure the signage is clear.”
“Hmm. And this central area. How would you set that up?”
“Well, it could be a fairly flexible space – with seating and tables that could be set up for seminars or in a café-style.”
“Oran?” Lochlann turned to him.
Oran said nothing for a moment, then looked at Lochlann.
“It’d mean less work,” he said, eventually. “The corridor is going to be a bastard to build. This –” he pointed at the pad “– would be a lot easier.”
“It would probably mean fewer staff too,” I suggested. “You’d be able to cover a bigger area with fewer people.”
“May I take this?” Lochlann asked, pointing to the pad.
“Yeah, yeah – of course,” I stuttered, taken aback momentarily. I tore the page from the pad and handed it to him.
“Thank you. I will need to think about it, of course.” He paused. “But you make a strong case.”
He nodded what I took to be his approval and left. I stood where I was and watched him leave the Gallery. For a few moments I didn’t move, trying to make sense of the unexpected course events had taken. At last Oran could indulge me no longer and woke me from the trance, but his voice had none of its usual brusque cynicism.
“Good man.” he said. “Will we get a coffee?”
Pauline was on her way to the shops when we went into the kitchen. Seeing her reminded me of my faux pas of the previous evening, and the frostiness of her greeting told me I’d have to work harder to regain her favour. Pauline and I had a history of falling out but we always seemed to put it behind us and this time would be no exception. I made a mental note to get her some flowers in the village and to be even more than usually effusive when it came to praising that night’s dinner.
Oran put on the coffee machine and sat down on one of the high stools in the kitchen.
“That went well,” he said, “the old man really liked it.”
“I don’t know – I didn’t do a great sales job, I’m afraid. But it’s up to him. I think it’d work.”
“So do I. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but so do I!”
He laughed and punched my shoulder as he got up to pour the coffee.
“So is that what you’ve been doing these past ten years?”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the mug, “Not really. I was more involved in the artwork that goes with events – the brochures, the posters, the invitations, sometimes the graphics for the venue. It was the events boys that looked after this kind of stuff, but I spent so much time around them that some of it rubbed off, I suppose.”
I had always envied them. I loved creating, loved seeing my work finally adorning walls and literature – but I always envied them the adrenaline rush and the thrill of watching a venue fill with hundreds or thousands of people doing exactly as they were expected to do without being told or asked, just by virtue of clever organisation. I envied them the satisfaction of watching the crowd’s reaction when things went just right, when the impact was powerful and the hairs on the nape of your neck would stand up. Of course there was always the risk that things would go wrong, and when they did it was the events people who were exposed to a client’s wrath, with nowhere to hide. But that fear only heightened the euphoria of success.
“Do you like London?” his sudden change of subject caught me unawares. “You didn’t sound so sure before.”
“I don’t know,” I said matter-of-factly. “I think I liked the life we had there.”
“But not now?”
“It’s funny. Before, if you’d asked me the same question, I’d have said yeah, for sure I like it. But I think now I liked the life in spite of London, not because of it. I never felt like I belonged, and everything felt a bit superficial. The best thing about living there was the time we spent somewhere else. Even the good friends we had, it was like we only occupied a small part of their lives. I didn’t know what they were like as kids or when they got married. I didn’t know why they started supporting Chelsea or why they didn’t like people from Wales. My friends were just nice strangers whose company I liked and who I could have a drink with. That was just it – when you just meet people for dinner or a pint, you don’t really get
under their skin. The last few months have made me realise that our friends were really just nice people we knew. And when you realise that, it’s hard to go back to the way things were.”
“So will you go back?”
“I suppose I will. But I don’t know how long I’ll stay. Maybe it’s time to try somewhere new. Australia, America, or South America maybe. I don’t know.”
“What about back here?”
I shook my head.
“Here’s not home any more either. I’ve been away too long, missed too much. I met Niamh yesterday, with her kid – Niamh with a kid, for Christ’s sake!”
Oran nodded.
“She has two actually, a boy and a girl. But you know her husband left her?”
“No. Who did she marry?”
“Fella from Portmarnock, Clancy his name was. Bit of an arse to be honest, really messed her around. So she’s back livin’ with the parents for a while.”
“Poor Niamh. See what I mean though? I’ve missed a lot, I’m not sure I’m really from here either.”
There was a soft cough from behind me. I turned around to see Hélène standing uncomfortably, framed by the doorway. Oran stood up.
“Well, I better get to work,” he said. “Excuse me, love.”
Hélène smiled an apology and stood to one side to let him past, then came uncertainly into the kitchen.
“I went to the studio but you weren’t there,” she said. “I thought you might be here.”
“It’s nice to see you again,” I said, awkwardly. “Did you… forget something…?”
She shook her head. The next thought that crossed my mind was that she had come to be paid for the previous day’s debacle, before it suddenly dawned on me that she was back. She had come back.
“I came to apologise. I was very rude yesterday, and I am sorry.” She looked down at the floor, then back to me. “And I came to ask if you still want me to be your model.”
“Yes,” I blurted, getting up from the stool, “yes, absolutely! If you will, if you really want to?”
She nodded.
“That’s great! Fantastic!” It was almost too perfect. After talking to Johnny, I had a real picture of what I wanted to do – all that was missing was a muse. I could probably have concocted something from photos, but I felt since the day I saw her that Hélène’s was the face I wanted to paint. The face that might take me to Aoife.
“Come in, have a coffee.”
I took her jacket and handed her a mug.
She looked ill at ease, which I took to be a function of the awkwardness of the situation. But there was more, beneath.
“Are you ok?” I asked.
“I’m fine, thank you.” She smiled. “This is just difficult for me.”
I spoke slowly, selecting my words carefully, desperate not to lose her a second time.
“Why… why did you come back?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“It is between you and Aoife. I have no right to judge or to take a side. But I have listened so many times to Aoife talking about finding you and her mother, and you never came looking for her. It was like you were hiding from her. And that is why I was angry yesterday.”
Her voice quavered slightly and I was afraid she was going to cry, or to run out on me again. But she took a moment and composed herself.
“But it’s not my business.”
She looked up into my eyes, and the look in hers winded me. That was the look I was desperate to capture.
“Look, let’s go into the studio and we can make a plan. When can you start?”
“I can start tomorrow? We are playing tonight in… I don’t remember where. But not in Dublin and so we have to drive there this afternoon.”
“That’s ok, tomorrow is fine. Come on.”
We walked back to the Gallery and into the little studio in silence. I opened the studio door and ushered her in, and Oran raised his eyebrows to me as we passed. I answered his unspoken question with an almost imperceptible nod.
I closed the door behind me and beckoned to Hélène to take a seat.
“I went down to the art shop today,” I said, gesturing to the pile of supplies on the desk. “The man there is a friend of my father’s. We had a good chat, actually. He gave me some great ideas for the portrait.”
I picked up one of the paint tubes.
“He says I should start the portrait in charcoal but then bring it together in acrylics. In paint. But not in oils.”
Her face was a blank.
“It means I don’t have to do a pencil sketch. And I don’t really want to. So it was a good conversation. And he sorted me out with pretty much everything I need.”
“So we will start tomorrow?”
“Yes, yes. What time can you make it?”
“Nine? Eight even?”
“Eight would be perfect – we have a lot to do and not a lot of time.”
“And you want me to bring my violin, and to dress as we said?”
“Yes, please. What time will you finish tonight though? Won’t you be late home?”
“A little, maybe. But it’s ok. I like to get up early.”
Out in the Gallery I heard Lochlann talking to Oran, and his voice drew nearer until he came through the studio door, still talking to Oran over his shoulder. He turned around and started to talk to me, then noticed Hélène.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you had company. I’ll come back.”
He turned to leave.
“No Lochlann, I’d like you to meet Hélène. Hélène is sitting for my portrait.”
A puzzled look briefly passed over his face, but he recovered immediately and, always the epitome of decorum, greeted Hélène as though ignorant of the events of the past few days.
“It’s a very great pleasure,” he said, proffering his hand in greeting. “Aengus has told me about you. If there is anything I can do to help, please do not hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you,” Hélène replied coyly, getting to her feet. “I have read a lot about you since Aengus told me about you. It is a pleasure for me, too.”
“Please, don’t get up. I just came to speak to Aengus but it can wait until later.”
“No, it’s ok, really – I have to go anyway,” she said. She turned to me. “So I will be here at eight tomorrow, yes?”
“Yes.” I walked her to the Gallery door.
“And, Hélène?” I said quietly, “I’m really glad you came back. Thanks.”
She nodded, walked down the little path that led to the garden gate, and was gone.
I walked back into the Gallery.
“So what’s the story,” Oran asked eagerly. “Is she back?”
I nodded and smiled in spite of myself.
“Yeah, she is.”
“Deadly,” he grinned.
“Did she simply come back?” Lochlann asked.
“Yes, just an hour ago.”
“You must have been surprised to see her. What was it that led to her change of heart?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “She just lost her temper yesterday, I think. Today she thought about it and said she over-reacted. Whatever the reason, I’m just glad she’s back. I’m not sure I could have done it without her.”
“Not the set of circumstances to inspire confidence,” he warned. “Just make sure you manage her properly in the future.”
He let his admonishment hang in the air for a moment before speaking again.
“I couldn’t help noticing the paints on your desk,” he said and my heart sank. I was going to have to talk to him about it sooner or later, but I wanted to be at least prepared. “I take it you went to Johnny Wright?”
“Yes, I want to talk to you about that actually.”
“Indeed.”
“Look, I really
want to work in paints, and Johnny had some great ideas. I know you think I won’t get it done in time and, to be fair to him, Johnny said the same, but I really think I can get it done. And you’ll know whether or not I’m going to be done in plenty of time for the final programme print, so it’ll be your call.”
“And how are you going to work?”
“I’m going to start it in charcoal and finish it in acrylic, in monochrome except for a splash of red, leaving the charcoal exposed in places. Johnny had an idea to give it a more texture – washing it in thinned burnt siena acrylic to give it an older feel.”
I bit my lip and waited like an accused waits for the pronouncement from the chairman of the jury. He made me wait.
“And you’re starting tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I have made no secret of the fact that I think your inexperience and the lack of time will make it difficult for you to prepare something of the requisite quality in time. And you know that I will only hang a piece that truly merits inclusion. But if this is what you want to do then you must follow your instinct. Working on something to which you are not fully committed is almost certainly doomed to failure.”
Not guilty.
“Thanks, Lochlann,” I said. At the back of my mind I still doubted that he would hang my work, but at least this was a licence to continue.
He nodded.
“And as for your thoughts this morning on the structure for the exhibition,” he went on, “I have given it some thought and, I agree, you raise some valid points. I admit, I still have some concerns about maintaining the integrity of the flow, but that can perhaps be managed.”
He turned to Oran.
“Oran, discuss it with the exhibition manager, have Aengus explain his ideas. If it is feasible in the time available and not more expensive, then have him put together a proposal for no later than the end of the week.”
“Will do, Lochlann,” Oran replied.
“Have you thought about music at all? For the show, I mean,” I asked Lochlann.
He looked a little surprised by the change of subject.