Painting in the Shadows

by Katherine Kovacic

  I must have made some sort of noise because when I look up, John is staring at me with his eyebrows raised questioningly. I turn the book around and try to toss it gently in front of him. It lands with a huge thwack that seems to reverberate through the room.

  ‘Sorry!’ I stage whisper for the librarian’s benefit.

  John stares at the page for a moment and a smile spreads slowly across his face.

  ‘I do believe we have a winner.’

  Less than ten minutes later and with a sheaf of photocopied pages in my hand, we bid the librarian a cheery goodbye and are buzzed out into the hall. I check my watch and it’s already after three.

  ‘I think we’re done here for today,’ I say, and turn in the direction that will take us back to the mousehole and out.

  ‘Hang on.’ John puts a hand on my arm.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s see if they’ve got any Whiteleys on display before we go.’

  ‘You want to mingle with the great unwashed? Then we could go back to my place and hash over everything.’

  ‘Definitely. I mean the talking it over, not the hoi polloi bit.’ He shudders theatrically. ‘But I would like to get my nose up to a couple of his paintings and have a look at the brushwork.’

  ‘Sure. If we do stumble across a lost masterpiece, it would be good to have a feel for what we’re looking at.’

  ‘Particularly if we want to prove it’s an unknown Whiteley.’

  ‘Or not.’

  ‘Or not.’ John makes a gun shape with his hand and points at me.

  I turn around and we start walking toward the main galleries. Luckily, MIMA’s entire collection is still housed in the one building. Construction of the new Australian Museum at Federation Square is well underway, but it’s at least a year out from the scheduled opening in late 2002. MIMA owns several Whiteley oils and given his near-iconic status in Australian art, there’s sure to be at least one on public display. The excitement of our library discovery has buoyed me along, although I’m starting to feel a hint of fatigue creeping in.

  ‘The thing is, we’re still not sure if the photo has anything to do with Meredith’s death.’ I run a tired hand through my already mussed hair.

  ‘But like we said it’s all we have to go on, so we may as well see where it leads. And I keep coming back to the fact the photo was ripped up like that.’

  I shrug. ‘It’s what you do when you’re done with something isn’t it?’

  ‘Not like that.’ John shakes his head. ‘I might rip it in half, or maybe quarters, but I wouldn’t take the time to make confetti out of it. And if a conservator was using the image as a reference for Whiteley’s work while they did something else – touched up another painting, say – well, if it was me, I’d keep the image on file either for next time or as part of the record of why I did what I did in the conservation process.’

  I sigh. ‘You’re right.’ Even a curator researching for an exhibition or article would keep it as part of their reference file. The ripped-up photo is definitely suspicious.

  We step through a door marked Galleries and into the exhibition space. The change from institutional passage to walls dripping with amazing art is so dramatic, it feels as if we’ve entered Narnia. The sense of otherworldliness is intensified by the fact that a couple of people stare at us curiously, as though we’ve appeared from nowhere. We’re on the first floor, but both of us are frequent flyers in the Museum and know our way around, so we aim directly for the Australian galleries. Of course, that doesn’t mean we reach our destination quickly. There are regular stops as we recognise old favourites among the paintings or notice something new in the hang and pause to take a look. Our tastes are wide-ranging, and even the artists that we don’t necessarily like sometimes get our attention for the sheer power of their work or their audacious technique. I pause in front of John Brack’s The Block. There is something deeply disturbing about that empty butcher’s shop. It is totally devoid of life, except for the hulking presence of a dark chopping block standing in front of a closed coolroom door. The starkness of the scene is heightened by Brack’s smooth application of paint, and there is a clinical quality to his sharp lines that contrive to turn an empty room into a visceral scream. The coolroom door is the stuff of nightmares. John tugs at my sleeve and I drag my gaze from the canvas.

  Finally, we spot Evening coming in on Sydney Harbour and work our way across to the large canvas. A couple lingers in front of it, and we wait for them to move on before planting ourselves close enough to discourage other patrons from giving it more than a passing glance. The painting is an archetypal Whiteley: a big, bold, blue harbour scene. The information card on the wall dates it to 1975, when his talent still seemed limitless: a star burning with incandescent fire. The ultramarine blue of the harbour’s water – Whiteley’s signature shade – is overlain in parts by deeper blues graduating into black, shadows lengthening on the water. Here and there, the artist has used whites to describe the suggestion of things like a boat and its wake, a larger, unmoving ship and a few small yachts. There are also some more significant structures – still white – giving context to the rest of the image: a pier juts in from the bottom edge of the canvas, buildings are blocked in on the right, and, at the top, there is an almost apologetic whisper of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

  ‘I suppose this perspective would be painted from some­where around Lavender Bay?’ I take a couple of steps back so I can take in the whole image.

  ‘I think that’s where he was living in the ’70s. But my Sydney geography is a bit hazy, so don’t take my word for it.’

  We both contemplate the painting for a few minutes, stepping in to look at details, then backing up again for the overview. At one point John leans in so close his nose is almost touching the canvas and as he straightens up, his right hand is moving in the air, fingers clasped around an invisible brush as he mimics Whiteley’s brushstrokes. I look over my shoulder and see the room guard, stationed in the arch between two galleries, watching us carefully.

  ‘Well, from my perspective,’ I say, ‘I can appreciate that the overall structure of the work – his use of the whites against the deep background – is the same as in our photographed painting, but that’s classic Colour Field anyway. And I can certainly see how the paint has been applied, but how distinctive is it?’

  ‘There are a few things …’ John says slowly as he moves to examine another corner of the painting. ‘But I’d really like to look at a couple more of his works to get a proper feel for how Whiteley usually handled paint. I mean, anyone can toss off a bit of scumble, but there are areas of the impasto that have a certain flair to them and I want to see if that’s repeated in other works.’

  ‘We may have to ask to see what’s in storage, then. I think this is the only work currently on display. Unless one of the auction houses has something catalogued for the autumn sales. We could try them.’

  John stops his contemplation of the painting and looks at me. ‘That might be a better idea. After all, if we request access to storage, someone might find out about it. We’d be tipping our hand.’

  ‘And by someone you mean?’

  ‘Mr X. Whoever’s responsible for whatever is going on.’

  I nod. ‘True, but we’re going to have to chance it. We have to check the storage area to see if the red painting is there. If you need more Whiteley paintings I can still check the autumn auctions on Monday, but...’

  ‘Let’s see how we go over the weekend.’

  ‘Sure. So, back to this painting.’ I wave an arm toward the canvas and out of the corner of my eye I see the guard straighten up. ‘Do you think it’s alla prima?’

  John tilts his head back as he surveys the canvas from bottom to top. ‘It certainly has the feel of being done in a single sitting, doesn’t it? But somehow I think not. There’s an area of intensity here,’ he points to a spot on the ri
ght of the painting, ‘that makes me think he came back to it to get exactly what he wanted.’ He gives a satisfied nod. ‘I think I’m good for now, but I do want those other paintings to study. Let’s go.’

  We walk past the guard, now lounging indolently against the wall, and make our way slowly down to the foyer. This time we aren’t looking at art, we’re both lost in thought. Well, I am. John might just be tired. In the foyer we veer left and through an exhibition space that will take us back around to the mousehole.

  ‘Are you coming back to my place?’ I ask. ‘We could get Chinese takeaway, open a good red and see if we can come up with any new ideas about all this.’

  John stops walking and sighs. One shoe absently scuffs on the polished floor. ‘That would be great, but I promised Sue I’d be in for dinner and you know Sue.’

  ‘Surely she’d understand if you said it was part of the work at MIMA? Doesn’t that carry enough prestige to make her a bit flexible?’

  Every now and then, I give John a bit of a push about his wife. He and I have been friends for years and when he first introduced her to me, I felt my hackles rise. Not because I had serious designs on John – not really – but because, well, I hate to say it, but sometimes you just know. And I knew immediately something was not right about Sue. She was a palimpsest: a bright and beautiful surface with murky, partly obscured depths. Eighteen months later I grimaced my way through their wedding, and now here we are ten years on. Occasionally John tells me how miserable he is and how she can be quite controlling, I tell him to man up and start running his own life, he vows to do it – once he even found a place to live – then Sue has a meltdown, John feels horrible and collapses like a house of cards, and we’re back where we started. Needless to say, Sue hates my guts because of my close friendship with John, and of course she knows that I know exactly what she’s like. We keep out of each other’s way.

  ‘Are you really using Sue and flexible in the same sentence, Alex?’

  I stare at him and sigh. ‘We can map out the next few steps on the drive home then.’

  As one, we start walking again.

  ***

  John drops me out the front of my house and I sketch a tired wave as his white van putters off down the street. There’s a dead branch hanging over the fence from my lemon myrtle tree and I snap it off with more force than necessary, flinging it toward the corner of the garden for later retrieval. John is such a wuss. But then again, I’ve seen the fallout when things don’t go Sue’s way, and I can understand why he’s keen to keep her sweet.

  I check the letterbox and head up the rose-flanked path, inhaling the soft scent and lightly touching a couple of blooms as I pass. As I step up onto the front verandah, I hear a clicking sound coming from behind the door. Hogarth must be standing right there, shifting from foot to foot as he monitors my progress from street to door.

  ‘Just a sec, dude,’ I say, groping in the bottom of my bag for the keys. My fingers close around the bunch and I give it a little shake and pull, dislodging it from underneath whatever else is down there. My key ring is a sweet little piece, designed by Henry Pilstrup for Georg Jensen and made some time in the early 1950s. It has the pared-back Scandinavian elegance that is characteristic of Jensen, but the weight of that little circle of smooth and cable silver always makes me think the keys must open something monumental. It’s a lovely way to come home. The moment the key turns and I lean on the door, a large, shiny black nose is inserted from the other side and with a sharp shove from his shaggy grey head, the door swings open, thumping into the strategically placed doorstop.

  ‘Hey Hogarth.’ I reach out my free hand and scratch behind his ear. There’s no need to bend for an Irish wolfhound; his head is at hip height. The hallway isn’t narrow, but Hogarth’s wagging tail slaps the opposite walls in a steady rhythm for a few moments before he obligingly backs up several steps to let me in. He gives my hand a welcome lick before executing a neat turn and double-timing it toward the kitchen. Subtlety is not Hogarth’s strong point.

  I follow him through, hang my bag on the knob of the kitchen door and drop the sheaf of photocopies on the table. It’s after five, which means canine dinner time in the Clayton household, and all other activity must cease. I ladle veggies into his bowl and mix in meat and a bit of linseed oil. He waits by the raised feeder – a little tower that stops him from having to bend as low as the floor to eat – while I set the dish down, and step back.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. He gives me a quick glance, part gratitude, part relief, and then lowers his muzzle into the dish.

  Just then the home phone rings and I snatch it up, hoping for a client, preferably one looking to buy. If it’s someone with something amazing to sell, I’ll have to scramble for funds.

  ‘Alex Clayton, fine art consultant.’ I use my professional voice with the well-rounded vowels.

  ‘Alex, it’s Barbara. Barbara Cottrell.’

  The voice is instantly recognisable but the call is so unexpected it takes me a moment.

  ‘Barbara! What a lovely surprise! How are you? It’s been too long.’ I haven’t seen Professor Barbara Cottrell since shortly after I was awarded my PhD in Art History.

  ‘Sorry to rush, but I’m just on my way out to a dinner for a retiring professor – such a bore – but I heard you’d been at MIMA lately.’

  ‘I –’

  ‘Did you know I’ve left the university? I’ve taken up the post of Head of International Art at MIMA.’

  ‘What? No, but congratulations. I –’

  ‘Look I want to catch up. Can you meet me on Monday at MIMA? Ten o’clock in the main courtyard?’

  ‘Yes, I –’

  ‘Marvellous. We’ll talk properly then. I really must dash, sorry Alex.’

  There’s a click and the connection is broken. I stare at the receiver, frowning, then slowly return the phone to its base. Typical Barbara. Assumes everyone is there to do her bidding, but manages to be so charming you don’t realise you’ve been played till it’s too late. Nothing I can do and no point worrying about what she wants until Monday.

  Hogarth’s stuff is still out on the bench, and as I put it back in the fridge, I survey the contents. Zero inspiration. I’ve been on a budget-induced healthy eating kick, so the inside of the Kelvinator looks like something a celebrity publicist would dream up to make it seem like their wild-child client had turned a corner.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ I mutter, staring at the yoghurt, fruit and leftover brown rice. Hogarth is pushing his food tower around the floor as he chases every last crumb in the dish and his enthusiasm makes up my mind. I slam the fridge shut and reach for the phone.

  After the last couple of days, I need pizza. Not virtuous pizza, where Hogarth and I walk the couple of kilometres to Nostralis, then take our pizza to the park and hang out. I want comfy-clothes-on-the-couch-do-nothing pizza. I punch in the number and order a small mushroom pizza on a wholemeal base with vegetarian cheese. Healthy eating plan intact, justifiable financial outlay.

  ‘Twenty minutes, dude.’

  I toss the Whiteley notes on the desk in my study, change into some trackpants and ugg boots, and instantly feel better. Back in the kitchen I pour a glass of mineral water, blocking out the siren song emanating from the depths of my pantry, where a bottle of cab sav – a gift from a grateful client – lies.

  The doorbell rings and Hogarth trots down the hall. He rarely bothers to bark – only when we’re having a great time, or deep don’t-even-think-about-it woofs if he thinks something is seriously wrong. No shifty character has ever waited around for the follow-up to those woofs. He sticks his nose into the seam between the door and the frame and inhales deeply, then his tail starts a low, slow wag. We could make a fortune if there was a need for pizza detection dogs.

  I lever him away from the door so the delivery guy doesn’t have a meltdown. Some people are scared at the sight of Hogart
h, some are just thrilled and amazed, but everyone wants to chat, and tonight I just want pizza. Money and salvation change hands, and I head into the lounge with Hogarth barely half a step behind, flop onto the couch and grab the remote. The news is on and I turn the volume down so I can catch the gist without being bombarded by the trivial, the disturbing, and of course the preliminary posturing about the impending football season, and the endless speculation about the cricket and tennis recently played. Comfortably ensconced, I work my way through several slices of pizza. Hogarth has stationed himself at the opposite end of the couch and is taking great pains to act casual, but drool never lies and I dutifully pass him the crusts. By the time I slam the pizza box shut, I’m feeling much more human and I let my thoughts turn back to Landseer, Whiteley and Meredith’s death.

  I have no particular desire to spend a weekend bluffing my way through the nooks and crannies of MIMA, but no reasonable excuses spring to mind. I already know there are no auction viewings this weekend. If there had been, I could have gone and done a sweep for Whiteleys to satisfy John’s need to examine technique. But the auctions are still a couple of weeks away, which means if there were any Whiteleys about, John and I would have to make an appointment. I make a mental note to phone the three or four larger auction houses on Monday to find out what they’ve got and what can be arranged. They’ll happily let me have a private viewing because they all know I’m a dealer, but I have to decide whether to tell them up front that I have no interest in actually purchasing a Whiteley.