Picture This

by Tobsha Learner

  ‘The apartment is amazing. I can see all the way uptown and all the way downtown. I’m king of the hill. Fuck, I love this town!’ she slurred, knowing that the last glass of wine had tipped her over into a drunken belligerency she quite enjoyed. ‘Some of my favourite artists are Americans. And the critical discourse – well, it shits all over the British. Light years ahead, always has been. When I was a kid, New York was like this glittering fantasyland, especially coming from Stockport. Know where that is?’

  He did. He’d read every single article, every piece of reportage, each scandalised blogger posting on the subject of Susie Thomas. But he wasn’t about to let her know that, so he shook his head.

  ‘The arse-end of nowhere, north of the M5. I grew up on a council estate. You call them projects here, right? I like that. Projects makes it sound like there’s potential to progress, like it’s something to be dealt with. There was no progress on my council estate, nothing but total boredom – poverty, as we know it. Except the people had a good sense of the absurd. Gallows humour. And that’s what I took with me when I left. Plus a hundred quid I’d saved from collecting used beer bottles for recycling, a copy of John Berger’s Ways of Seeing that I’d nicked from the library, a tattered copy of Blitz magazine, and a fucking great rucksack full of gallows humour. But I digress. I guess I’m trying to say that when I’m standing at that fucking huge floor-to-ceiling window with the lights of Manhattan stretching out before me, it’s one more landmark of that ballsy 14-year-old making it.’

  ‘Great spin.’

  For a minute she wanted to hit him. Then she realised there was no judgement attached to his remark. In his world, there was so much fiction involved in the marketing of the ‘story’ of each artist – to the point where it had become as important as the intellectual concepts behind the work. He’d intended it as a genuine compliment.

  ‘It’s my truth. The real truth was uglier; sexually abusive stepfather, indifferent mother. I was considered a total freak at school. Started cutting myself, but then I realised I could escape into my sketchbooks – and the art mags I’d nick.’

  ‘The cutting thing – you used blood and scarring in your earlier work, didn’t you?’

  Christ, I’m revealing all and he has to reduce it to art analysis! Does this guy ever stop? She took another swig of wine, considering her response before speaking. ‘In my twenties it was all death. Now it’s sex. I’m moving backwards in my art, growing down not up. By the time I’m in my sixties and seventies it will be birth.’ She held out her now-empty wine glass. Reluctantly he refilled it.

  ‘There is no space for an artist to doubt,’ he told her – rather patronisingly, it seemed to Susie. ‘Artists are like psychopaths; the constructs they build become their truths. They have to convince the world – and in order to keep the world convinced, they have to live the myth. The slightest whiff of fake and it’s over. The critics turn, then the curators, then the gallery directors, the institutes and museums, and finally the collectors. And then the artist is written out of the history books. When that happens, not even Mephisto or yours truly will be able to save you.’

  ‘C’mon, Felix! Rumour has it that you’re a man who’s extraordinarily astute at creating opportunity, even out of total destruction. Put like that, it makes you sound like a psychopath yourself.’ She threw back her wine and held the glass out to be filled yet again. ‘That’s a compliment, by the way.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that? Others call it genius. Who was the first to realise that the art market would end up mimicking the stock market? Me. Who realised before anyone else that the new wave of collectors would come from the City – hedge-fund managers? Me. I have made this market and, let’s be realistic, the most successful people are so driven it’s inevitable that we are entirely lacking in empathy – or maybe we just can’t afford the time.’

  Through a drunken haze, Suzie contemplated the polished features of the gallery director. There was no denying that he lacked empathy. But could the same be said of her? It was true the work consumed her like no lover had ever done, and there was no doubt that when she had been with Maxine she’d often been absent from the moment they were sharing, the images and ideas churning on in her head like some turbine that could not be switched off – unless she was drunk. Yet she didn’t want to fall in love like that again.

  ‘Do you remember an English sculptor you showed last year – a group show? Maxine Doubleday.’ There, she’d managed to say her name. But now the past appeared in the corner of the room, smiling slyly from the shadows as if taunting her.

  ‘Totally! Quite tortured pieces, as I recall. Magic realism meets a forensic realism. A little before her time, but it’s been vindicated by the way her works have taken off since the tragedy. Did you know her well?’

  ‘No, we were just acquaintances.’ Susie kept her gaze dispassionate as she searched Felix’s face; to share the memory of Maxine would feel like a betrayal. But he smiled back blankly. It was no surprise, she thought, that he was unaware Maxine had been her lover. Maxine had always insisted that they keep their relationship out of the public eye. Partly because she had a huge fear of the art world dismissing her as just Susie Thomas’s lover, and partly because her aristocratic family would have been appalled by any public association.

  ‘I guess I can’t believe those awful reviews drove her to such a desperate act,’ Susie finally commented. ‘It’s ironic that her premature death sent prices skyrocketing, but you must have done well out of it?’

  ‘It’s only business. I wouldn’t take it personally.’ Felix kept his expression completely neutral. To his secret relief, he even kept his hand steady. ‘An early death always jacks up the price of existing pieces. I’m telling you, art is going to be the biggest luxury-goods business on the planet by the end of this decade.’

  ‘Fabulous – that makes it so much more meaningful,’ Susie slurred cynically.

  Her irony was lost on Felix, now carried away by enthusiasm. ‘Do you have any idea how much these City boys have influenced art?’

  ‘Sure, they’ve turned us all into mini-factories. A thousand Hirst spot paintings, Chapman Brother multiples, Sarah Lucas duplicates… the list goes on and on. Last week my printer reeled off 200 editions of a print. At 10,000 pounds each. Five years ago, that would have to have been a far smaller run.’

  ‘Rule one: got to have the stock to create a self-referencing market.’ Felix nodded sagely. ‘You know why the super-rich collectors are now buying cutting-edge contemporary work like they’ve never done in the past? Because all the truly great works of the 18th, 19th and early 20th century aren’t available any more, they’re all incarcerated in public galleries, in state museums. Everything’s been bought up. I facilitate a need. More than that, I create the need, design what is required to fill it, then sell it. A perfect self-serving closed market within which the prices keep going up and up. Susie, this is our era!’

  Felix too was a little drunk, and for once enjoying it. He finished his own glass, then topped up hers. ‘Let’s go clubbing after this. You and me are opposites: you’re famous for losing control; I’m infamous for staying in control. We’re perfect together.’

  He leaned forward and placed his hand on her knee. Susie looked down at the buffed, manicured fingernails, the ageless olive skin. To her horror, she found herself wondering what his cock was like. Would it be as shapely and beautiful as his hands?

  Felix’s voice pulled her back into the room.

  ‘What do you say? I know some amazing places. We could go scouting for some beautiful extras for your photos. I’ll help you recruit. So, are we on, to go search out potential muses?’ he urged.

  Only then did she remove his hand. ‘That’s not how I make my art. It’s not an arbitrary process. Besides, Alfie does most of the recruiting. There are legal things to consider, confidentiality clauses. I’m sure you know all about that. I haven’t been sued or blackmailed yet, but I’ve had a few outraged partners show up.’ />
  Felix’s jaw tightened. Being refused was such a novel experience he couldn’t quite assimilate what was happening. ‘Another time then. We have three months ahead of us,’ he snapped through tight lips. Was she playing games, he wondered, or had he misjudged that flicker between them when they’d first met? Knowing of her reputation for liking both men and women, he’d imagined a kindred spirit, someone who would share his need to choreograph, not just for beauty but for the sublime sense of orchestrating an event, manipulating time and life itself. Wasn’t that what her work was all about? A manipulation of the participants within the frame as well as the gaze of the viewer? For her to exclude him from participating in the game felt like a slap in the face. After all, who valued or understood her work as profoundly as he?

  ‘You know, I’ve always been so cerebral, yet when I stand in front of your images I feel a familiarity, as if I’ve dreamt or been in those rituals myself. It’s like sex magic. Yes, that’s it, primal sex magic—’ He stopped mid-sentence, appalled at his own honesty. Before he had a chance to explain himself further, she got to her feet and asked the waiter to fetch her coat.

  ‘So there is a heart in the Tin Man after all,’ she retorted flippantly, holding her handbag in front of her like a buffer.

  Felix, working his face to hide his disappointment, tried to sound casual. ‘The character I related to most was the Wizard. Dry ice and mirrors, selling his sorcery to the masses. It’s circus, that’s all it is.’ He helped her on with her jacket. ‘But I insist on taking you out tomorrow, I have a few really special places I want to take you to.’

  ‘Deal, but the morning is mine. I have to scout out some locations – join the dots on a journey a good friend of mine took a year ago,’ she replied cautiously, again not wanting to reveal herself.

  ‘He must have meant a lot.’

  ‘Yep, that one got through the trapdoor.’

  He studied her for a second. ‘You know, I learnt a while back that when it comes to loss, recovery’s always staggered. The brain tends to be the quickest – it intellectualises grief, tearing it up like defiant confetti. The heart comes next – a great lumbering dinosaur, incredulous that someone has really gone. But the slowest is the soul. When someone gets to your soul, it takes years to recover,’ he concluded with a sincerity he’d perfected in front of a mirror. It was a monologue he’d used to seduce before, and he had the delivery down pat.

  ‘Blimey, Felix – a Tin Man with a heart and a soul! Maybe you should stop there before you completely ruin your reputation,’ she joked. All the same, she lingered, knowing that, if he laid hands on her, she would respond. It was a terrifying yet erotic thought, and one that stayed with her long after she had stepped out of the restaurant.

  Chapter Four

  The music snaked through Felix’s head and up through the soles of his feet. The only distraction was Harold Weiss, who was now bobbing up and down on the leather couch in front of him in an embarrassing display of enthusiasm.

  ‘Oh my God, Felix, you’ve excelled yourself this time! I mean, this place, it’s goddamn bedlam! Makes Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights look like Disney.’ Harold, in beige chinos, brown baby-poo boat shoes, a tight fluorescent T-shirt with the words ‘Sugar Daddy’ encrusted in sequins, and a gold chain with a Star of David nestling in his copious chest hair, looked as if he’d been dressed by his teenage son. Felix, knowing the fashion-design aspirations of Harold’s gay son, Elijah, assumed this was actually the case.

  Harold’s head whipped around. ‘Jesus, is that guy really being tortured?’

  ‘Why don’t you go over and investigate for yourself?’

  ‘Are you sure… it’s like… safe?’

  ‘Safe?’ Felix winked lewdly. ‘Harry, baby, we didn’t come here for safe! Go out there, enjoy yourself!’

  ‘I dunno… ’

  ‘Harold, you’re seventy, you’ve been married three times, divorced now for… how long?’

  ‘Nine months, three weeks and two days. I still can’t get used to the empty side of the bed.’

  ‘Just think about the Monet that bitch walked with – not to mention the Bacon and the Whistler.’

  ‘Yeah, she had taste.’

  ‘Taste! She had no taste! I chose all those pieces for the collection – we’re talking years of emotional investment on my part, Harry. It’s no wonder I take these things personally.’

  ‘And you weren’t even married to her. What am I gonna do? The holes on my walls… ’

  ‘I’ll fill those holes, don’t worry. I think I have access to another Hopper, and you should see the guy I’m showing on the Upper East Side – Marc Tooplich. I’m telling you, this guy is going to be hotter than Gursky.’

  ‘I saw the show. I wasn’t crazy about it.’

  Felix blinked in amazement. Dissent from Harold Weiss – and on the subject of art? This was a disturbing development. In the 15 years he’d been working as a consultant for the Weiss collection, he’d never known the guy to form an opinion of his own, let alone disagree with him. ‘Harry, is there something you’re not telling me? Is there a potential Mrs Weiss number four on the horizon?’

  Harry laughed. ‘That reminds me: the Susie Thomas show – I checked her out online. Wild art, I want a piece.’

  ‘I can add your name to the list. Everyone who’s anyone is breathing down my neck—’

  ‘What did I just say? I want a piece – at any cost, you understand?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘And a good seat at the artists’ dinner afterwards. She looks cute in the catalogue. Maybe I’d like to meet her.’

  Felix reined in his immediate reaction – an impulse to punch the oversexed optometrist – and instead reminded himself of the extraordinary amount of money he’d made over the years from the Weiss estate. Forcing a smile, he told him, ‘I might be able to put you next to the critic from Artforum – that’ll be four seats away.’

  ‘You will introduce us though?’

  ‘Of course. An eminent collector like yourself? She should be so lucky.’

  ‘Oh boy, that would be so fantastic!’

  ‘But tonight is not about talking about art; it’s about making art.’

  ‘So you really think I should get up, go… exploring?’

  ‘What have you got to lose? Your virginity?’ Felix joked, now craving nothing more than his own company.

  ‘You’re not coming?’

  ‘Harry, I would only cramp your style. Go forth, young man, and conquer!’

  He pulled Harold to his feet, then pushed him lightly toward the dance floor, beyond which a bewildering variety of sexual acts were being performed in a series of alcoves set in the far wall. There was something faintly satanic and primal about these tableaux that brought to mind Dalí or Goya. It was a world that appealed to Felix visually and, in a strange way, the brutal honesty of people seeking pleasure for themselves was refreshing to one who dealt in artifice so much. This had once been his milieu, but lately he had been reduced to voyeur only.

  He watched as Harold glanced back at him, blinking short-sightedly like a lost child, before disappearing among the writhing figures. Satisfied he’d carried out the role he was expected to play, Felix relaxed against the cushioned seat and closed his eyes.

  *

  ‘One Campari with orange… Hey, I know you. You’re that famous art dealer, aren’t you? F… something?’

  The voice was female, young and provocative.

  Felix opened his eyes. A cherry-coloured nipple mounted on a pale breast seemed to stare back at him accusingly. The waitress, to whom the breast belonged, was a tall redhead of indefinable age, somewhere between 20 and 40. Semi-naked, a pair of bronze feather angel wings strapped to her shoulders, she wore a bondage harness under which a G-string was visible. She stood balanced on her roller skates, peering down at him quizzically, the drink he’d ordered balanced precariously on a silver tray she held out. Pulling himself up out of the leather couch, he reac
hed for the glass.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ The drink was cool and soothing. After a long sip he held it to his burning cheek.

  ‘I’m an artist. And I believe in synchronicity, so this was meant to be.’ Her confidence was brazen; it gave her a certain beauty. But he’d seen it all before.

  ‘Like fuck it was.’

  ‘You’re cynical. That’s sad. It makes you seem older than you are.’ She glanced over at the floor manager and, seeing that his attention was otherwise engaged, slipped into the seat next to Felix. ‘They say you’re good – the best, in fact. They say you can make an art superstar and that the work is irrelevant. I’m good. See these wings? I made them myself.’

  She thrust her back towards him. The feathers were stiff, encrusted with a cheap gold acrylic, but at a distance they appeared sculpted. For a moment he wondered whether, if he tore them off and attached them to his own back, he might fly right out of the club, his legs dangling over the heaving mass of dancers, the writhing ensembles in the corners, the torture racks, the pole dancers, the MC crouched over his spinning records clad in a red devil costume, horns curling up over his thick black hair. Ascending like a fallen angel – to what? What did he want to escape from? This persona he’d made for himself? Why now, when there was so much money, so much pleasure and that glittering path to transcendence, the actual art itself? Susie Thomas might have rejected him tonight, but he’d have her in time – he always did.

  He felt his heart rate ratcheting up ten notches and the inside of his mouth drying. This coke is very pure, he thought to himself, recalling the three lines he’d snorted in the men’s toilets after shaking off Harold Weiss. He made a mental note to thank Chloe.