Painting in the Shadows

by Katherine Kovacic

  Coming from John, this is extreme.

  ‘It’s all in the past, John. I’m doing okay as a dealer.’ I swallow and hope he doesn’t hear it. ‘In fact, it’s better. I get to run my own show rather than waste hours in meetings and filling in reams of bureaucratic paperwork. My eye for art has developed even more. It may not be the career path I thought I was going to have, but when does anything in life turn out the way you plan?’

  ‘I know you’re doing well – you’re a great dealer, Alex. But it’s not what you would have chosen.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but it still worked out. Can we change the subject now please?’

  ‘Did I tell you I’ve been asked to submit a quote to carry out conservation work on several paintings in the Markham family’s collection?’

  Got to hand it to John, he knows when to bury a topic and how to do it with style.

  ‘No, you didn’t. I assume we’re talking about the Markhams. Anything interesting?’

  ‘The collection is largely Expressionist, and the paintings they particularly mentioned were an Egon Schiele and a Francis Bacon.’

  ‘Holy –! I didn’t even know there was a Schiele in Australia! Presumably they’ll have a few Nolans and Tuckers, too.’

  ‘Yeah, but those I see regularly. The Europeans? Maybe something from the USA? I’m going to quote low just so I can get my hands on them.’

  We chat about Expressionism for another few minutes, carefully avoiding the subject of Professor Barbara Cottrell, supervisor and mentor, and how my career exploded before it had even begun. During the conversation, John has walked to the patisserie, kept me hanging while he makes his purchase, and started for home.

  ‘I’m about to turn into the street, so I’d better end the call in case Sue is watching for me.’

  I suppress a groan. ‘Of course. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘And Alex? You really are doing great as a dealer.’

  Bam. He hangs up, and my stomach flips as I think about the pile of bills and just how totally unsuccessful I am at the moment.

  Eight a.m. Monday morning and I haven’t bothered to pull up the blinds. The sun is still low in the sky, but it’s already beating on the east-facing windows, trying to force its way into the house. The meteorologists are going into a frenzy about how long summer is lasting, El Niño, and how many days over thirty degrees constitutes a heatwave. I’m trying not to think about the cost of running the air con. Hogarth and I have been for a walk and had breakfast and I’ve even gone so far as to apply makeup. Now I’m standing in front of the open doors of my wardrobe trying to work out what to wear.

  I shimmy into a dark green shift, contorting one arm over my shoulder to pull the zip up the last centimetre. When I check out the look in the mirror, it feels like I’m trying too hard, so I have to perform the whole process in reverse. By the time the dress is pooled around my ankles I feel like kicking it into the corner, but then I’d only have to iron it again, so I carefully hang it up instead. Next I try on a more relaxed sundress, but that seems too casual.

  ‘Why am I even worrying about what to wear for Barbara?’

  Hogarth, sprawled on the floor behind me, opens one eye slightly in response and sighs heavily. I take that to mean No idea, get a grip. Or it could be that he just wants me to go and leave him to snooze. Finally, I settle on a bateau top with a classic stripe teamed with linen trousers. I feel more comfortable in trousers, and it still looks quite chic. Well, I think so, anyway. It also means I can wear flats rather than heels, which is always a plus in my book.

  I’ve wasted so much time trying on different outfits that by the time I’m finally ready, John is waiting out the front, leaning against the side of his van.

  ‘Sorry. You should’ve come in.’ I pull the door closed behind me and walk out to the street. The roses that line the path have had their second flush of blooms, but they’re well past their best for the year, and some of the leaf tips look a bit burnt. I make a mental note to start bucketing more grey water onto them.

  John pushes himself upright. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be far away, and I figured I’d get as much fresh air as I can now, before I’m consigned to the depths of MIMA with its recycled atmosphere.’

  ‘Wow. It’s a day in the conservation studio, not three months on a Russian submarine.’

  ‘At least there’d be vodka on the Russian sub.’ He looks me up and down. ‘Hey, you look different. Really smart.’

  ‘Meaning that I look like crap the rest of the time, huh?’

  ‘But it’s a very deliberate type of crap. I mean, it’s not like you try hard but look crap anyway, it’s a calculated move.’

  ‘In reality, this,’ I fan both hands down either side of my body, ‘is the way I always dress. It’s when I hang out with you that I generally have to dress down a bit.’

  ‘Hey, I only get paint on my clothes because I’m a passionate artist.’

  ‘That, and you’re just plain messy when you work.’

  ‘Pot-ay-to, pot-ah-to.’

  ‘Snappy comeback! Entertaining as this is, shall we go?’

  ‘Only if you feel you can lower your sartorial standards enough to ride in the van.’ John pulls open the passenger door for me and bows flamboyantly.

  ‘As long as you’re comfortable with me crouching in the footwell if we happen to see anyone I know.’ I climb in, instantly enveloped by the comforting scent of paintings old and new.

  John shuts the door, ducks around the front of the van, and gets behind the wheel. ‘At least you’re prepared to get in the van in the first place.’ He turns to tug on his seat belt, pulling too hard so the mechanism immediately locks up.

  I hesitate a moment, fiddling with my own seat belt so it doesn’t crumple my top. ‘Things not so good with Sue then?’ John’s van is entirely necessary for his work, but his wife despises it with a passion that borders on the irrational.

  John keeps yanking hard on his seatbelt, over and over, then finally gives up and tries to fling the buckle away, at which point the whole thing releases and the belt gently retracts. He makes a fist and looks like he’s about to slam it into the steering wheel, but at the last moment the momentum of his hand stops in mid-air and he changes the gesture, opening the hand and covering his eye before dragging the hand down the side of his face.

  ‘She was grilling me about who I’m working with at MIMA.’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘Naturally about you, but also about any other women I might have had occasion to speak to.’

  ‘I’m going to assume that no matter what you said, she didn’t believe you.’

  ‘Nope. Just like every other time she’s done this. Just like every time I stupidly tell her I have a new female client.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why she thinks you’re planning adultery with every woman you meet.’

  ‘I’m sure it stems from her parents’ views on people in the arts. Everyone’s either gay, sleeping with everyone else, or both.’

  ‘For God’s sake John, Sue’s a grown woman and she’s a corporate lawyer. She’s quite capable of thinking for herself. I’m sorry, I know I’ve said it before, but you need to stop making excuses for her.’

  ‘She told me she could probably get me some sort of job looking after her company’s art collection.’

  One of Sue’s specialities when they’re arguing is to belittle John’s work as a conservator, pointing out the difference in their respective incomes. She doesn’t know about all the cash-in-hand and contra deals.

  ‘A real job you mean? With the added bonus of her being able to monitor you at all times?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘And you told her no.’

  ‘Correct. And then she suggested a trial separation.’

  I sat up straight and stared at him. This was new. ‘Oh my God! What did you do?’


  ‘I said maybe that would be a good idea, if that’s what she wanted.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Oh wait. Turns out it was a test. My quick agreement triggered a thermonuclear meltdown. I thought it was never going to end and I couldn’t say anything right, even when there was a nanosecond for me to say anything at all. Then we circled right back around to her favourite questions, “Who is she?” and “Is it that bitch Alex?”, sorry Alex.’

  ‘Nothing she hasn’t called me before.’ I reach over and pat John’s bicep. I can tell, based on his demeanour and past experience of Sue’s tantrums, where things ended up. ‘So now?’

  ‘Now I’m meeting her for lunch today – at her office so I have to take extra time away from my work to get there and back – and I’m picking her up from the station after work this week.’

  ‘Doesn’t she drive her BMW in?’

  John shakes his head. ‘She’s decided she likes to read on the train, but not the ten-minute walk to and from the station. She wasn’t feeling well after … our loud discussion. Sue just gets so worked up she makes herself sick and I hate being responsible for that.’

  I look at him sideways but say nothing. I want to be the good friend here, even though I’m dying to shake him and yell, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  ‘So I agreed to pick her up from the station, but she doesn’t want to risk her work clothes in the van.’ He pats the steering wheel as though apologising to his reliable transport.

  ‘So how does that work?’

  ‘I have to go home first and get the BMW to collect her.’

  ‘John, no. Please tell me you’re kidding.’

  He shakes his head again. ‘It’s just a little thing, and it matters to Sue.’

  ‘You’ve got to stop this, John. Every time something like this happens with Sue the whole situation just gets worse. I can see how unhappy you are.’

  ‘I can’t stand to make her unhappy. And I worry about her health.’

  ‘Sue knows it, John, and she uses it against you.’

  ‘I don’t think she’d do that, Alex.’

  ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, John, but she does. Whenever you start to question your relationship or even just step outside the boundaries she’s created, first she gets clingy, then she has a turn. Not enough that she needs treatment or anything, just enough to bring you to heel.’

  John jerks away and twists in his seat so he’s facing me for the first time. ‘That’s a bit harsh, Alex. Sue has problems and she can be difficult, but when things are going well, she’s just the same old lovely Sue.’

  ‘And how long does that last? Come on John, at the very least she’s manipulating you into staying in the relationship. You’ve said it yourself. Sue was a spoilt only child, her parents were germaphobes and she quickly discovered that the tiniest cough or sniffle could get her exactly what she wanted. Nothing’s changed! Except now she’s got a bigger repertoire of maladies and you’re the one doing backflips.’

  ‘Alex …’

  I soften my tone. ‘John, we’ve been friends forever. You know I’m always going to be honest with you, and you know that I’ll also shut up if that’s what you want. You just can’t go on like this.’

  ‘I know.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘But I’m scared. Scared of how Sue will react, what she’ll do. And I guess I’m also scared of starting my life over.’

  ‘There’s always a spare room at my place.’

  ‘I know, you’ve said that before. But what would that do to Sue?’

  ‘Easy! She’d feel vindicated if you left and came to stay with me. All her years of obsession finally proven! And it might be good for her if for the first time in, oh forever, someone actually called her bluff. You’d probably be doing her a favour.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to dump all this on you, Alex.’

  ‘Who else?’ I smile. ‘I’m available when you want to talk about what you’re going to do. Because you do have to come up with a plan.’

  ‘Yeah, I really do, don’t I?’ John sighs.

  ‘Shall we go now? Plenty to distract both of us at the Museum.’

  ‘Crap, yes, look at the time.’ John cranks the ignition and the van rumbles to life. ‘I hope it all goes well with you and Babs today.’

  ‘Me too. But let’s just focus on your life for now. We need to stagger our crises, don’t you think?’

  ***

  At the Museum, John and I split up. He heads back to the conservation lab to find Fiona and get to work in-painting the damaged area of Man Proposes, and I make my way to Federation Court, the grandly-titled open area in the middle of the ground floor. I’m right on time to meet Professor Barbara Cottrell, but as usual, she’s late. Ten minutes later, I’m gazing blankly at a gaggle of tourists dressed for the heat in shorts and tacky souvenir T-shirts, when their leader suddenly thrusts a tiny flag into the air and the whole group shuffles off in her wake like zombies following a trail of gore. Stepping forward into the space just vacated is Barbara, her distinctive silver bob catching the light in a way entirely unknown to natural hair colours. I swallow my anxiety and step forward to meet her, arms out but low in a way that could turn into a hug if that’s how she plays it, but could also look like a there-you-are-pleased-to-see-you-again gesture, so I won’t look like a dill if Barbara sticks her hand out for me to shake. Instead she grabs my hands in hers and gives them both a squeeze.

  ‘Alex! So good to see you.’ She pulls my hands out to the sides a bit and looks me up and down before letting go.

  ‘Hi Barbara, great to see you too. It’s been quite a while.’ It took me ages to get over my natural urge to call her Professor Cottrell.

  ‘I was so pleased when I heard you’ve been floating around the Museum, and I would have come to find you before this if it hadn’t been for the exhibition.’ She rolls her eyes and leans in. ‘Not to mention the horrendous amount of paperwork and grovelling I’ve had to do in the wake of this disaster with Man Proposes.’

  I wince in sympathy. ‘I can only imagine how difficult and embarrassing it must be for MIMA to be caught out.’ It comes out in quite a normal tone, no hint of sarcasm, but Barbara narrows her eyes and gives me a sharp look.

  ‘Hmmm, yes. Very difficult. But at least we can play up the fact that the man was ill. It wasn’t clumsiness or van­dalism. There was no lack of care on our part, just terribly unfortunate that he became unwell while on the job.’ I can hear from her tone that this is a line she has used a number of times.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tom. Or Thomas. The packer who …’

  ‘Oh of course, him. Still off work.’

  ‘Well yes, I’d assumed as much. But do you know what exactly was wrong with him and if he’s on the mend?’ I’m trying to keep my face neutral, but the words come out more abruptly than I intend.

  Barbara blushes slightly. ‘I haven’t had an update. But we sent flowers.’ She turns and tucks her arm through mine. ‘Anyhow, do come and have a walk through with me. Just about everything is in place now. We’re just working on the lighting, labels, all those sorts of details. Then we’ll have the volunteer guides through on Wednesday morning to acquaint them with everything and, fingers crossed, a perfect opening night Wednesday evening.’

  I let Barbara propel me toward a corner of Federation Court, skirting a ragtag school group, stopping abruptly as a woman – head tilted to look at the upper levels – steps unknowingly into our path, and excusing our way through a stalled cluster of senior citizens, dithering between having a cup of tea now or later. Then we’re standing in front of a temporary door, the sort of thing you see in hoarding around a construction site, only this one is covered by a large poster of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s painting, Beata Beatrix, emblazoned with the words, Masterpieces of Victorian Britain, in a suitably vintage fon
t.

  ‘I didn’t realise you had Beatrix. That’s a bit of a coup.’

  ‘I know. I was as shocked as anyone when the Tate said yes. Personally, I thought a posthumous portrait of Rossetti’s dead wife in the guise of an Italian poet’s wife at the moment of her death was a bit gloomy for a poster child, but the marketing department assure me that all the public will see is lush colour and high Victorian melodrama. Exactly the sort of thing they want.’ She shrugs. ‘So there it is. You’ll probably see her on the side of a tram as well.’

  I get an instant mental picture of this exquisite painting of a beautiful red-haired woman at the moment of spiritual transformation, painted with a hazy, almost transcendental quality and heavy symbolism, trundling past me on the side of the number 70 to Wattle Park and shudder involuntarily.

  Barbara pulls a keychain from her pocket, selects one, and fits it in the Yale lock of the door. It opens smoothly and we step into the exhibition space, this time from the front, exactly as the public will enter. She shuts the door firmly behind us, closing out the echoes of the rest of the museum. In here there is a hush, the sort of reverence you used to get in art galleries when I was an undergrad. Quiet voices and the occasional squeak of a rubber-soled shoe on the polished floor are the only sounds disturbing the otherwise silent atmosphere. We’re standing in a sort of foyer, the wall on my right covered in explanatory text about the theme of the exhibition, and, to the left, an arch leading through to the exhibition proper. But the space is dominated by a painting hanging immediately in front of us, another of Landseer’s works.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen this out of storage. With decent light. Wow.’ I step back to take in the entire painting, which must be almost three metres across and just under two metres high.

  Barbara smiles at me. ‘If it wasn’t for your PhD research, I wouldn’t have even known that The Earl and Countess of Sefton and daughter, with horses and dogs even existed, let alone that it was lurking in the storage racks at North Melbourne.’