He finished gazing out towards one of the broken windows framing the skyline of the city on the other side of the river. Cars streaming over the bridge, an abstract of flat red, brown, cream planes, verticals and horizontals. Again, she thought of Hopper, how these were the exteriors of his urban interiors and why Felix might be attracted to them. Looking at his profile, lit by the golden afternoon light streaming in, she thought he was godlike, a Hermes in an underworld of grand decay, and she knew his beauty was drawing her toward him, like an insidious perfume. She struggled, fighting the desire to touch him, to kiss him.
‘Can we go up there?’ she asked brusquely, determined to break free.
‘To the roof? Sure.’ And as he turned away to lead her up the rusty steel steps he felt that tension between them tear away a little with their physical separation.
*
It was about four by the time they clambered out, their boots rattling on the flat metal surface, the roof itself a lunar scape peppered with the stub ends of rusting chimneys and funnels that seemed to have pushed through the roof like alien fungi. The distant horizon, jagged with the thrust and plunge of the skyscrapers, steeples, towers, seemed to go on and on as if the city itself would continue over the curve of the Earth. It was the domain of pigeons, and the ghosts of the adventurous, who again had left their mark – the lurid pink of a heart painted on the rusting pot of a funnel, white angel wings and a gang emblem sprayed onto the flat beige of the roof itself.
‘Oh Felix, it’s amazing.’ The wind caught her words and twisted them against his tongue. He was happy. Simply content to have her standing beside him and to have astonished her; it was an emotion, he realised, that saved a little piece of his soul. Not wanting to break the magic of the moment, he took her hand and led her closer to the edge.
Five feet away from the soaring drop they both halted.
‘How many people do you think have fallen?’ she asked.
‘Thousands and none. I have a theory that the wind is made of ghosts, whirling around in some Goya-like fury, angry at the absurdities we waste our lives on, yet unable to tell us any better.’
‘You’re a surprising man.’
‘And you a surprising woman.’
Later when he dropped her off at her building he kissed her, careful to keep to the protocol of the peck on each cheek, but then deliberately drew his lips slightly toward her mouth, already hard beneath his jeans.
Chapter Six
She could still feel it on her skin the next morning, gazing down at her sketches, struggling to stay focused. The rattle of footsteps, then the creak of the studio door, broke her reverie.
‘God, you’ve begun without us. What time did you finally get to sleep?’ Alfie and Muriel stood framed in the doorway.
‘About four – I had trouble sleeping.’ Susie led them into the vast studio, sunlight streaming down from skylights illuminating two massive worktables in the centre of the space. There was a podium at one end, surrounded by photographic lamps and light reflectors, while at the other side of the space a green room was set up with a long leather couch, a coffee maker, video projector and huge flat-screen television. ‘What do you think of our new workspace? Not too shabby, eh?’
Alfie whistled in admiration. ‘So Mr Baum delivered the goods. I did have my doubts.’
‘He’s even brought in the sewing machine I stipulated – very impressive. And I thought he was all bells and whistles.’ Muriel had gravitated straight to the sewing area situated under the window.
Alfie was already at the worktable, staring down at the reproduction of an 18th-century Chinese erotic painting Susie had placed there.
The print featured a near-naked plump woman with bound feet lying back in what looked like a specially constructed chair, her ankles held up high by a man in a loose robe as he penetrated her, his penis and her vulva the focal point of the painting. Three fully clothed female servants – two young, one older – stood watching with curiously blank and innocent expressions; each held a painted fan and appeared to be fanning the amorous couple – obviously the lord and lady of a grand household. All five characters had ornate hairstyles bound high atop their heads, in traditional Qing styles. The background was a plain pale gold, which served to highlight the dark carved wooden throne the woman was lying on, as well as the ornate dresses of the onlookers and the erotic action itself.
‘Interesting. There’s a real innocence about it, despite the sex,’ Muriel interjected.
‘That’s why I chose it, because of the playful expressions. Isn’t it wonderful? It’s totally free from the Judeo-Christian notion of carnal sin – it was a Taoist principle that every man should know how to make love properly, that this was a necessary way of balancing spirit and body.’
‘Sounds eminently civilised,’ Muriel sniffed.
Susie pulled a couple of sketches across the table, placing them beside the reproduction. The first was several studies of the heads of the female servants, their hair bound in the traditional style of the era.
She stretched her hands over the drawing as if executing some strange osmosis. The other two hovered behind her, reverently: they knew better than to interrupt this crucial process.
‘So I’ve been working on ways of introducing historical American icons into the image… ’ The artist traced the hairstyles of the younger female servants, their hair bound up in two buns like rabbits ears. ‘Minnie Mouse.’ She turned to her laptop and opened it; already on the screen was a Disney illustration of Minnie Mouse. ‘We’ll change the hair on the two young servants and make them into Minnie Mouse ears, then change the pattern on the fans they are holding to the old TWA logo.’
She clicked open another screen and an illustration of the 1960s TWA logo she’d found earlier appeared. Using her mouse, she placed it beside the Minnie Mouse image.
‘It’s strong, Susie,’ Muriel commented, glancing back down at the original Chinese print. ‘I always associate the TWA logo with America at its Sixties peak. Glory years.’
‘What do you think, Alfie?’ Susie asked, knowing her manager tended to be more critical.
‘It’s getting there,’ Alfie murmured, ‘but I think you can still do something with the chair… it’s so distinctive against the plain background. If we kept all the figures in traditional robes with painted masks that are so lifelike they look like actual faces… you can afford to mess with the chair.’
Susie stared down again. He was right: the oversized dark wooden chair had the ornate embellishments of late 18th-century Chinese furniture. It historically dated the image and yet there were ways of achieving the same ambience while substituting it for something far more contemporary and Western – preferably a piece that made an ironic statement on American culture. She thought of a dentist’s chair, then decided it was too clinical. The chair in the original painting had very boxy lines, like a car bonnet.
‘How about we swap the chair for the bonnet of a Chrysler – something iconic?’
‘I like it. The automobile is America.’ Finally Susie could hear enthusiasm in Alfie’s voice. Inspired, she pulled up images of Chryslers in the top right-hand corner of the screen.
Muriel glanced across at the screen. ‘The Chrysler Imperial, 1965.’ She pointed to one of the images. ‘I had one once, when I was wild and young.’
‘You still are wild.’ Alfie smiled.
‘Thanks, darling.’
Susie saved the image of the Imperial, then deleted the rest of the pictures of the Chrysler models. ‘Perfect. We’ll group all of the figures around the bonnet. I think we should bring the actual car into the studio for the shoot.’
‘No problem – there’s a car-size lift in the loading bay, we’ll just bring it up… ’ Alfie was taking notes. ‘And I’ll organise a product placement from Chrysler. I think they’ll go for it, especially if we suggest the Met is eventually going to house the series. I’ll use my contacts over at Saatchi NY – they’ll know the car guys.’
‘Good thi
nking. So Chrysler it is.’ Susie stared down at the original print, imagining the central semi-nude woman reclining now on the bonnet and not the chair. In her mind’s eye the image was slowly transforming into a politically transgressive statement – which was exactly the effect she was striving for.
‘So we have American consumerism, an ironic take on the industry of “occidental erotica”. Is there any other subtext you’re looking for?’ Alfie asked her, a wry smile playing across his lips. ’I mean other than your usual discourse on the erotic gaze?’
‘Don’t knock it; it’s your meat and potatoes,’ Susie joked, enjoying his irreverence. She glanced back down at the print. ‘I think it might appeal to me unconsciously because if you look at it from another perspective the male is servicing the woman, she isn’t necessarily servile but empowered. Muriel?’
‘Oh, I don’t know why you always ask me, I’m just the prop-maker. But as usual it’s only going to work if we go down the usual hyperreal route.’
‘Well, for a start the Minnie Mouse ears will have to be very shiny, almost as if they are made of black glossy human hair, to reference the original painting. Plus it will look fantastic under the lights. With regard to the fans, I’ll research the correct cream antique silk, then get the TWA logo printed onto it. Any thoughts on the masks the characters will be wearing?’
‘I’m thinking they should come from stock characters that feature in Chinese opera,’ Susie suggested.
‘Right, this time I do know something about that,’ Muriel offered in her clipped English accent. ‘Different-coloured masks mean different emotions. White means sinister, treacherous – usually a white mask is worn by a villain. Green means impulsive, violent. Red is loyal and brave. Black – fierce and indifferent. Yellow, ambitious. Blue, steadfast. And pink, happy-go-lucky… How you incorporate that, I don’t know. I think to use the colours for each whole mask would clutter the image and pull the eye away from the central motif?’
Susie gazed at the print, narrowing her eyes as she tried to imagine how the faces would look, covered in thin polyester resin masks painted to replicate exactly the simplified doll-like faces on the original erotic painting.
‘You’re right.’ She rested an index finger on the forehead of the central figure. ‘Make the masks so that they look exactly like the original characters, but we’ll paint a dot on each forehead, like a bullet hole, in the symbolic colours – black for the central woman getting screwed, green for the man, blue for the young girl looking over the shoulder of the reclining woman, pink for the female servant on the left and yellow for the older female servant on the right.’
‘Brilliant! Then your Chinese viewers will be able to read the meaning of these “bullet holes”, creating a whole other narrative – even an emotional dynamic between the characters?’ Alfie responded.
‘Exactly. Our central woman will be the villain of the piece – possibly a corrupting influence on the man, whose green dot defines him as impulsive. The young girl looking over the shoulder will be marked as steadfast, perhaps not even that curious, while the older female servant on the right will read as ambitious – as is shown by her yellow dot – while the female servant on the left is happy-go-lucky; she also appears to have her left hand hidden under her robe, possibly between her thighs. I suspect she might be enjoying the scene a little more actively than the other onlookers.’
Susie’s mind was firing; it was as if she could imagine the narrative unfolding, all of the tension behind the characters and in the physical space between them. This would feed into the actual re-enactment later – a direct influence on the styling. After years of working with Susie, the team had developed a creative shorthand she still found thrilling.
‘That’s going to make great reading in the catalogue; the PhD students will have a field day. I’ll tip off our guy in Shanghai,’ Alfie said, already thinking about the marketing.
‘And the robes, Susie – I assume you want them to be reproduced exactly?’ Muriel was writing furiously.
‘Do your magic. I want the exact pleats, and the way each robe folds, to be exactly the same as in the painting. Be particularly precise about the complicated way the man’s robe is both knotted and folded behind his hips.’
For a moment the studio was filled with the sound of Muriel’s ballpoint pen scribbling on her notepad. Outside, a police siren sounded and then faded.
‘On the casting, Susie – looking at the original print I’d say the man is, well, ridiculously well endowed. Do you want me to try and find such a creature?’ Alfie enquired delicately.
‘If possible. Try any local casting for porn – that should turn someone up. I like the way the length of his cock is so ridiculous, how it is the visual pivot around which everything else revolves. That in itself is a metaphor. Another thing: the man’s slippers… ’ Susie pointed down at the delicate black half-slippers the Chinese man had on. ‘Fantastic, isn’t it, to have such incongruously domestic details in an orgy scene? In a way, that’s what makes this image poignant, as if, in all his sexual frenzy, he had been worried about getting his feet cold on the stone floor. I think we should swap them for those white hotel slippers you get and put a Hilton logo on the side. I’ll take the same position as the central figure on the car bonnet. All the other details, like the cords around her ankles and wrists, the wisps of fine straight black hair on the maidservants, must all be exactly duplicated.
‘I’ll get some genuine antique Chinese silk flown in for the robes, and I’ll start with the Disney Museum in San Francisco for the Minnie Mouse ears – they’ll have a source. I’ll see if I can source real human hair. I promise I’ll be meticulous with each strand, Susie. It will look extraordinary under the lights.’ As she spoke, Muriel was taking photos of the details of the robes and their colours from the print.
‘Obviously details will evolve from this point onwards, and I expect things will come up during the shoot – they always do – but I think we have enough to begin sourcing at the very least,’ Susie said.
Just then she noticed a new message on her phone; it was Felix Baum. She ignored it. Better to make him wait and keep the upper hand in the relationship, she concluded, fighting the urge to respond immediately.
‘So it’s the usual ten-day turnaround?’ Muriel asked, interrupting Susie’s chain of thought.
‘Actually I was thinking a week. Is that too crazy?’
Alfie and Muriel exchanged worried looks.
Finally, Alfie spoke: ‘Let’s stick to ten days?’
‘Okay, ten days. Meanwhile I’ll work up the other images.’
She glanced back down at her phone; there was another message from Felix.
There’s an opening at the Frick tonight. Goya’s last works, made when he was in exile in Bordeaux. I’ll pick you up later – Felix.
She stared at the text. One of Goya’s drawings had been her and Maxine’s favourite works – Enredos de sus vidas – ‘Entanglements of Their Lives’ – would it be one of the drawings exhibited? It had been one part of the lexicon she and Maxine had shared – the secret language of lovers. In their case it was always artworks rather than pet names or favourite poems or films. Enredos de sus vidas was the linchpin, a black crayon drawing of two clothed women in an embrace, encircled by a floating wreath of symbols: heads, butterfly wings, bats and bat wings, along with the usual grotesque half-formed faces characteristic of the artist. Susie and Maxine had always interpreted this floating wreath as the domestic and emotional chaos their own liaison had caused among their friends and families – particularly Maxine’s family, who perceived Susie as a morally corrupting influence. The drawing had intense appeal to them because, despite the surrounding cloud of complication and chaos, the sentiment between the two women was one of quiet joy, as if their union had triumphed against all odds. Maxine had had a copy of it pinned up in her sculpture studio, while Susie, unbeknown to Maxine, had slept with a print of the image under her pillow during the first tumultuous days of their courts
hip – the superstition of the desperately in love.
Again, she thought about the long silence after Maxine left for New York. There had been no communication, and when she’d tried to phone her it was obvious Maxine had cancelled her UK mobile account. But here was the motif, Enredos de sus vidas, rising up like an ironic phoenix. Was it a sign? Maxine’s ghost calling out to her? The image of Felix’s face lit by sunlight in the grain elevator came back to her, the intense intimacy of his vulnerability, the brush of his lips on her face, the smell of him that was maddeningly seductive. She couldn’t help herself.
See you then, she texted back, then flicked her phone shut decisively.
‘Another thing: Mr Baum or his staff are not to have access to the studio during the process, nor to have any updates on the work other than my direct communication to Felix himself. So please, no leakage. I want him to walk into the finished show and see the work for the very first time – understood?’
‘Totally understood. You don’t even have to ask,’ Alfie assured her.
Chapter Seven
They stepped into the great hall of the Frick. Susie had insisted that she pay homage to the Holbein paintings before going down to the basement galleries for the private viewing of the Goya exhibition. The museum was the perfect marriage of commerce and art as far as she was concerned; the fact that railway tycoon Henry Clay Frick had built the mansion to house this extraordinary private collection was testimony to the immense wealth the American industrial magnates at the turn of the 20th century were able to amass. Power fascinated and appalled her and, as the prices of her own work reached astronomical heights, she was beginning to find herself in the company of the 21st-century equivalent of such men.
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