Painting in the Shadows

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘Maybe don’t mention that just yet. What do you think, Hogarth?’ I scratch his head slowly and he sighs in response. It might even be a good thing – keep them guessing – if I throw in a few bids at auction. Whiteley is not an artist I’d usually be bidding on, so it will fuel plenty of gossip if people start to think I have a mystery client with deep pockets. I realise I’m smiling at the thought. Any client would do right now.

  I snap the television off, push myself up from the couch’s embrace and pick up the pizza box, destined for the fridge and most likely an encore performance dinner. Given that Hogarth will probably have another long day at home tomorrow, a good walk tonight is essential. Suddenly I’m keen to get outside, breathe fresh air and prowl the twilight streets with my hound. It takes me five minutes to stash the pizza, change into shorts and sneakers and grab the leash. By the time we’re striding down the street past my neighbour’s ranks of tea-trees, redolent with the lingering sun-baked smell of camphor, I’ve consigned MIMA and all its strange problems to the back of my mind. Until tomorrow.

  The mousehole isn’t staffed at the weekend, so John and I meet outside MIMA’s main entrance on Saturday morning. I’d caught the train in partly so I don’t have to worry about the ridiculous cost of parking, and partly so I can bum a lift from John at the end of the day, giving us the chance to talk freely. I’ve got no idea whether Fiona or anyone else will be working in the conservation lab today, but I’m operating under the assumption that with a big exhibition due to open, there are sure to be a few people bustling around. At least – in typical Melbourne fashion – the weekend weather is looking lousy. After five days of blazing sunshine the sky is overcast and heavy. The occasional fat drop of rain smacks into the footpath, and a fierce northerly whips up St Kilda Road, somehow managing to find us as we stand hunched in front of the door.

  It’s a few minutes before the Museum opens to the public – there are quite a few people waiting – and I can see movement inside. John and I have been issued with temporary security passes that could get us straight in, but there’s no hurry so we decide to hang back and wait. I just hope our names are still on the guard’s list when we do get in.

  Ten o’clock comes and goes and it’s a few minutes past before a blank-faced guy in a MIMA polo shirt begrudgingly unlocks the door as though he’s doing us a tremendous favour. It’s a sad day when you think you could get better service in a bank. At least the woman on the security desk is cheery and helpful, and a couple of minutes later we’re on our way to the conservation department.

  ‘So you’re going to patch the painting today?’ We step apart to allow a woman holding a screaming toddler to pass between us. She makes eye contact with me, but I can’t tell if it’s a thank you or a silent plea for help. The toddler cranks it up a notch as John closes the gap between us before replying.

  ‘Can’t say till I see what the front looks like – and find out what Royal Holloway has decided. Giles called late yesterday and said he was expecting to hear and would leave a note with their instructions next to the painting.’

  ‘Well I’ll give you a hand moving the canvas around so you can inspect your work properly.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m assuming Fiona won’t be here. There was no chance to mention that working through the weekend was a probability.’

  ‘If she’s on the ball, surely she’d know you need to crack on to have the painting ready?’

  I step ahead of John to weave around a small group listening to a volunteer guide’s spiel, and lead the way across the exhibition rooms, through an unobtrusive door, and into the working heart of the Museum.

  ‘So how long will patching take? And then how soon can you start the painting part of things?’

  ‘I’ll have to fiddle around with it a bit as the patch starts to dry, but then it’s just a matter of putting a light weight on it and leaving the repair overnight again. After that, I can finally start thinking about tackling the actual painting.’

  ‘Now I see why you wanted to work over the weekend. And this means you knew all along I’d be the one creeping around and acting shifty while you sit there looking like an angel.’

  John bares his teeth in an overly-enthusiastic smile. ‘To be fair, you should have known based on past experience that I’m a total chicken and there was very little chance of me doing anything risky.’

  I shake my head and sigh. He’s right.

  ‘In that case, let’s get the painting set up so you can do this bit.’ We’ve reached the conservation department and I keep talking as we walk through the door. ‘Then I guess I’ll leave you to it while I start rattling door knobs and looking for –’ I break off.

  ‘Looking for what?’ The voice is quiet, but with a thin reediness that seems to pierce right through my eardrums. The question has come from a man standing near a suction table. Light reflects off his Lennon-style round glasses so I can’t see his eyes, but I can see his Adam’s apple jerking up and down in his scrawny neck. He is tall and knobbly-thin, reminding me instantly of a Giacometti bronze, and his lab coat, sleeves pushed up, flaps loosely above tattered jeans and what look like Birkenstocks or some similarly chunky, ugly and eminently healthy form of footwear.

  ‘Oh hi,’ I say, trying to remember exactly what he might have overheard. We’ve stopped short just inside the door and I shoot John a quick glance. He looks shifty, so I try to discreetly nudge him into some semblance of normality.

  ‘Hey there! I’m John Porter.’ He steps forward, hand out and smiling broadly. It’s almost the same smile he tried on me a minute ago, and it looks ridiculously fake, but hopefully that’s just my assessment after years of the real thing.

  Habit of a lifetime has mystery man moving forward to meet the handshake almost before he has time to think.

  ‘Oh that’s you.’ He grabs John’s hand and gives it a single shake before letting go. ‘So you must be …’ He looks at me, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Hmm what? Oh I’m Alex, John’s, um, associate.’

  ‘Assistant,’ John says at the same time. I shoot him a dirty look.

  We all stand there for a moment.

  ‘And you are?’ I sound like a mother encouraging her child to be polite.

  ‘Phillip Montagu-Jones.’ He says it with a rising inflection, as though he’s not quite sure. ‘But everyone calls me Monty.’

  ‘Sorry for our confusion,’ I say. ‘I guess we weren’t expecting anyone else to be in here over the weekend.’

  ‘Yeah, ordinarily not. But what with everything that’s happened here in the last few days, I’m horribly behind and I need to clean an engraving, and as the weather is going to be atrocious, I cancelled my plans for a weekend at Portsea – none of the yachting crowd will be there – and so I decided I may as well come in and get this done.’

  ‘Thanks for … filling us in, Monty.’ John has a faint crease in the centre of his brow. It was a suspiciously detailed explanation.

  ‘We’ll let you get on with it then. We should get to work ourselves, John.’ I incline my head in the direction of Man Proposes.

  ‘Rather you than me.’ Monty gives a fake shiver as we edge toward the painting.

  ‘It’s terrible about Meredith. You must all be quite devastated.’ I watch him closely.

  ‘Well of course! Nothing like that’s ever happened to me before.’

  John and I gape at him, but Monty seems completely oblivious.

  ‘I mean, oils aren’t my speciality, so we didn’t work closely, but you don’t expect that sort of thing where you work. Everyone is quite rattled. The place was already tense, what with having damaged another institution’s painting and the pressure of getting the restoration perfect. Not that it seemed to bother Meredith, but she was like that.’

  ‘Rational?’ I say it, but I don’t think it really registers with Monty.

  ‘A shark. Always showing someone up.’ />
  ‘But you weren’t close.’

  ‘No, otherwise I don’t think I could bear to be here right now.’

  I can feel my face trying to screw up with distaste and it takes all my effort to keep my features even. This guy is an arsehole. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a killer or even a forger, but his lack of empathy is chilling. It’s going to be hard to get on with things if he’s hovering over our shoulders.

  John ambles over to where Monty was working and looks down at the work surface. He inhales sharply, like a mechanic who has just eyeballed your car’s engine and is about to tell you exactly how very, very expensive the repair is going to be.

  ‘Oh dear,’ John says.

  ‘What?’ Monty hurries over to join him, pushing his glasses up his nose.

  ‘That’s a nasty stain on the engraving isn’t it? A real tide mark. I think you’ve got mould here too. And look how delicate the paper is. And is it? Yes, it’s glued to the mount. This is going to take you a while. A new acquisition or donation I gather and …’ John leans closer and peers at something, presumably a signature. ‘Quite valuable too! It can be such a pressure working on things like that. We’ll get out of your way and let you concentrate.’

  John leaves a suddenly silent Monty staring anxiously at the paper in front of him and turns toward me. We both make our way across to the Landseer and when he is standing right next to me, John leans in.

  ‘That ought to freak him out enough to keep him out of the damn way,’ he says, sotto voce.

  ‘Is it valuable?’ I match his volume.

  ‘Not particularly. And I’m sure that’s why Giles has given the task to an oaf like that. Must be related to somebody to even work here.’

  ‘Hey, he may be a rather disturbing, self-centred dick, but he could also be a good conservator.’

  ‘If he was, he wouldn’t be worrying about anything I just said.’

  We both sneak another look at Monty, who is delicately sweeping a dry brush across the surface of the engraving.

  ‘Pity he’s here, but can’t be helped.’ I turn to the painting, still lying face down on its padded surface. ‘How do you want to do this then?’

  The promised note from Giles is sitting to one side of the canvas, and John glances at it before examining his repair. ‘Back on the easel so I can look at the front.’

  We step to opposite ends of the canvas and carefully lift it up and off the table, then move crab-wise across to the easel. Someone has cleared the debris from the floor, but we still have to cross the lake of red paint. I lower and tighten the top clamp, then John snaps on a lamp and slants it in close to the area of damage. He goes quiet. I watch as he drops his glasses onto his nose and gets his face right up to the canvas, twisting himself this way and that as he looks at the surface from every angle. He puts a finger up to the centre of the repair and applies a tiny bit of pressure and as soon as he does his lips purse. He straightens up and shakes his head.

  ‘Royal Holloway have confirmed they definitely don’t want it lined at this stage, so I’ll have to reinforce it with a patch.’

  ‘Well, you thought that was going to happen anyway.’

  ‘I was just hoping maybe I was wrong, but there’s no getting around it.’

  We reverse the process of moving the painting and settle it carefully back onto its bed. John makes a trip to the supply area and quickly returns with a few bits and pieces, which he lines up to one side of the painting.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you patch a canvas before.’

  ‘I do patches from time to time, but not if I can help it. Canvas likes to expand and contract, and when you patch it you interfere with that. I’ve seen some shockers. If it’s not done properly, you can end up with a bulge on the surface of the painting, and in the worst ones, the paint around the patch site cracks in a really hideous way, especially if some idiot has used glue to secure the patch. You’ve probably seen a few like that in the sale rooms.’

  I nod. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  John looks at me. ‘This bit is only slightly more exciting than actually watching paint dry.’

  ‘Well I’m interested. Give me a run-down, then I’ll go for a bit of a wander. Just make sure you keep one eye on Creepy McCreeperson.’ I incline my head to where Monty is working.

  ‘No need to tell me that.’

  ‘So …’ I gesture to the painting.

  ‘Okay, well I’ve got this piece of linen and if you have a look you can see it’s quite densely woven but with a nice fine grain.’ He hands me a piece of fabric, which I hold by the edges to inspect.

  ‘I’ll cut a piece to size and then I’m going to sandpaper the edge just a bit so it frays. That’s really important to help the patch sort of merge onto the canvas without a hard edge.’

  I place the piece of linen carefully back on the table.

  ‘Now, see behind us I’ve already got a hot plate and pot set up? I’ll melt together equal parts beeswax and Damar resin and then apply the hot wax-resin mix to the patch and the surrounding area of the canvas. Then I’ll use this small brush, which has quite stiff bristles, to sort of push the fibres of the patch away from the tear, like feathering things out a bit. Just to make sure there’s a smooth seam and not too much wax compound.’

  ‘So this is instead of glue?’

  ‘Please.’ John wrinkles his nose. ‘Like I said, glue is for hacks and amateurs.’

  ‘And then it’s just a matter of letting the wax harden?’

  ‘Almost. I’ll put a bit of tissue paper over the patch and hold a warm iron on it for about ten minutes to help the process along. Finally, I’ll put a light weight on it for a few hours, maybe overnight, then scrape away any excess wax and it’s done. Because it’s not a straight tear, I think I’ll probably need to put in a ground layer before I start painting, but I’ll make that decision in the morning.’

  ‘You should probably wait for Fiona for that bit, so I’m thinking Monday.’

  ‘Dammit, that’s right. I got so wrapped up in the process I forgot I’m technically meant to be advising only.’ He fiddles around, rearranging his materials.

  ‘Don’t sweat it. They’d rather have the painting repaired and on display at the exhibition opening than you standing on ceremony until Fiona turns up.’

  ‘I guess. If I at least get this bit done, she can handle the painting on Monday.’

  I nod. ‘I’ll see if I can poke around a bit then. And we need to be telling the same cover story, so if Creepy asks where I am, just say looking at British art.’

  ‘British art, got it.’

  I turn to leave, then hesitate. I’m really not sure what I’m doing and the whole thing seems fraught. The anxiety I’ve been holding in check comes bubbling to the surface.

  ‘And if I get caught somewhere I shouldn’t be, should I tell them it’s the curse and plead temporary insanity? I mean, no one around here will believe anything I say anyhow. History attests to that.’

  John looks at me and frowns, then grabs my shoulder and gives it a gentle shake. ‘Geez Alex, get a grip. Just tell them you were looking for me and got lost. Stop making it harder for yourself.’

  I leave him to his repair work and step out into the silent hall. Thank God it’s not lined with portraits, because as I walk away from the conservation studio, the sensation that I’m being observed sends a thrill of electricity down my spine.

  I have no idea where to start and have no real feel for the layout of the various behind-the-scenes parts of MIMA. It’s been ten years since I had staff access, and even then I spent most of my time in one area. So I formulate a loose plan for my search: start on the ground floor, because the library is there and I sort of know my way around that bit. As far as plans go, it’s fairly crap, but then this whole situation has a seat-of-the-pants quality to it, and I figure that means it’
s either going to conclude with glorious triumph, or the sort of humiliation that will have me cringing in shame for years to come. And I gave up my Saturday for this.

  I find the library locked up tight. Moving down the hall, I realise that at least I’m not going to have to try every door. Slide-in plates bearing each occupant’s name and job title identify the offices, so I can avoid all those. Besides, it stands to reason that no one is going to stash a stolen or forged painting in their own office. You could probably do that if you were a Federal MP – just say it came from the Parliament House collection, stick it above your desk and claim it had always been there. But in an art museum, almost everyone is in the business of noticing what’s hanging on the walls. More importantly, John and I have already determined that this is likely to be a fairly large painting, and, like a large piece of furniture, that makes it harder for a single person to manoeuvre it through a normal-sized door. So for the moment I can concentrate on checking out what’s behind unmarked or extra-large portals. That doesn’t stop me from pressing down gently on the handle of each office door I pass, but it seems the staff of MIMA are not a particularly trusting lot, and none of them yield.

  By the time I’m nearing the end of the first hallway, I’ve found a rhythm: zigzag from door to door, press handle, repeat. My brain has gone into stand-by mode, drifting from the thought of leftover pizza for dinner to the idea of taking Hogarth to the dog beach tomorrow if the weather is better, so I’m taken by surprise when the handle of the penultimate door gives. Luckily my zigzag pattern means I was already moving away from the door, so there was no chance of me falling into an office full of people, but it snaps my attention sharply back into focus.

  Now I hesitate in front of the door. Did I rattle the handle? Is there someone in there waiting for me to do something? Are they about to rip the door open to see who’s out here? The silence stretches as I stand there, my hand hovering. I can hear the rush of air in my ears, the buzz of an overhead fluorescent light and somewhere, the sound of a door closing. The thought of scuttling around a corner and away flashes through my head and the idea is so appealing I do the only thing possible.