‘It really is superbly Victorian isn’t it?’ All my nerves are gone, replaced with excitement at seeing this painting in all its glory. ‘I mean, Landseer for starters, then the whole upper-class thing, not to mention the importance of companion animals. It’s almost as good as having one of his portraits of Victoria and Albert surrounded by their pets.’
‘Which, in any case, seldom appear outside the Royal palaces.’
‘It’s fantastic.’ I step in close to look at one of the dogs and then turn back to Barbara, a huge grin on my face. ‘This is like Christmas.’
‘I wanted to see your reaction to the painting, Alex, and it reminds me of when you used to burst into my office at the university, buzzing with the latest thing you’d come across. It’s good to see you’re still so passionate about it all. So many people lose that after years in a gallery or teaching. But come on.’ She tilts her head toward the arch. ‘Let me show you the rest. And then we can talk.’
Barbara and I spend almost two hours going through the exhibition. As she’d said, it’s almost ready, and she nods acknowledgement to all the staff we pass, even taking a few minutes to make sure the spotlights on a particular painting are adjusted minutely to avoid a shadow from its dramatically large frame. The rest of the time we talk incessantly about the paintings, the artists, the taste for British art in nineteenth-century Australia – essentially anything and everything to do with the exhibition and the subject we both love.
‘Can I buy you lunch, Alex? Employee discount.’
‘Thank you. But can I look at the Sefton family again on the way out?’
Barbara laughs. ‘I’ll make sure you have an exhibition pass so you can come back and stand in front of it as many times as you like. And of course you must come to the launch on Wednesday night. I’ll put your name on the list.’
Ordinarily I hate going to exhibition launches. The place is so crowded you can’t look at the paintings properly, and half the people attending are only there to be seen themselves, not because they have an appreciation for anything around them. Plus, the wine is usually cheap. But this exhibition? As a guest of Barbara Cottrell? I realise I may have to make an effort and go shopping for something to wear. Maybe I can pick up a decent cocktail dress at a recycle boutique.
‘Yes, oh my goodness. I was already trying to figure out how many times I could come to the exhibition but a pass … Thanks!’
Barbara shakes her head at my fan-girl babbling. ‘Come on. Lunch. There’s something else I have to talk to you about, and seeing your response to this,’ her waving hand takes in the entire exhibition, ‘well, now I think it’s even more important.’
The cryptic comment momentarily shuts me up, and I’m quiet as I follow her to the cafe.
***
‘I want to offer you a job, Alex.’
I accidentally swallow a mouthful of too-hot cappuccino and splutter, trying not to spray it on Barbara’s immaculate white dress. Across the table, her smile gets even wider in response. My cup clatters against the saucer as I put it down and pick up the water glass instead. I take a few slow sips.
‘Barbara, this is completely unexpected. I don’t know what to say.’
‘I’m serious, Alex. Come and work with me here. There’s a position on the curatorial staff and the powers that be are letting me make the appointment.’
‘So international art rather than Australian art?’
‘I know you’ve been focused on Australian art in your work these last few years, but your PhD … And seeing you in that exhibition today, how fired up you were! And the depth of your knowledge, well, you belong here, Alex.’
I pick up my coffee cup again, set it back down, then look at Barbara’s enthusiastic face. I have to look away and focus on a point just over her left shoulder.
‘Barbara,’ I say. ‘You know what happened. They wouldn’t want me working here.’
She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. I hadn’t realised I was balling the serviette up in my fist until her touch stops me.
‘I’ve already talked to the director about you. He wasn’t here when you were an intern and he knew nothing about the situation. I’ve given him the full story – the real story – and he was very surprised. Of course you know that curator is no longer employed here.’
‘Peter Reynolds.’ Even saying his name makes my throat feel constricted.
‘He’s gone, Alex. Off to some regional gallery in America where he can be a big fish in a shallow, muddy pond.’
I smile at her attempt to downplay the man’s US appointment, but I know it’s not quite Hicksville as she’s making out. I’ve made it a somewhat obsessive point to keep track of Reynolds ever since he had me kicked out of the Museum’s intern program.
‘Other people from that time still work here, and they’ll be only too happy to spread his version of events.’
‘There may be a few rough spots, but I’ll back you up. And after a month or so things will settle.’
I can’t help but wonder where Barbara’s show of support was ten years ago when I really needed it. I always wanted to ask, but thought somehow I would seem churlish, ungrateful for all the things she had done for me. Now however, seems like the moment and my chin comes up as I recall the hurt of her abandonment.
‘Barbara –’
She cuts across me. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t do more for you back then, Alex. I should have. The thing is, I knew you were in the right, so I assumed the whole mess would simply blow over. I never dreamed things would end up as they did.’
For a moment I’m totally flummoxed and I have to take a few breaths and regroup. I can hardly blame Barbara, the woman who supported and inspired me throughout my entire university career, for thinking everything would work out fine. It was exactly what I’d thought myself, right up until I was forced to hand over my MIMA security pass. I guess after that she’d just been too embarrassed to talk to me about it.
‘Thank you, and for the amazing job offer. But I’ve worked really hard for the past few years to build up a presence as a dealer, and despite what you say, I’m not convinced everyone here will be quite so ready to hear anything bad about Peter Reynolds, or to give me any credit.’
‘I know how hard you’ve worked, Alex, and you’ve done great things. That experience will help immensely. You’ve probably had your nose in more paintings these past few years than you would have working your way up through the ranks here. You know the market and you know a good number of Australian collectors – people who might potentially lend things for an exhibition, or even make bequests. Those contacts are invaluable.’
‘I won’t deny I’ve learnt a lot, and I certainly enjoy the autonomy and the thrill of it.’ I pause and look around. The lunch crowd has thinned a bit, but there are still people at nearby tables, and I’m conscious of not being overheard. I lean in and take a breath, but Barbara beats me to it.
‘This is your dream job, Alex. You told me so all those years ago when you started your PhD, and you were ecstatic when you landed the internship three years later.’
‘Yes, but that was before I was hung out to dry for someone else’s arrogance and stupidity. They treated me like shit – sorry, but they did – and I’m not sure I can get past that. I’m also not convinced that I wouldn’t be the convenient scapegoat again, should they wish to cover up another fuck up.’ I can feel my face heating up with the effort of not raising my voice, and I have to blink hard to stop tears from forming. I hate crying, and I spent enough time bawling my eyes out over this a decade ago. I’ll be damned if I let it get to me again. Except clearly, it already has.
‘Just think about it, Alex. Straight in at senior level, working directly with me. Exhibitions, scholarly catalogue entries …’ She leans across the table, her art nouveau enamel and pearl pendant swinging out with the urgency of her movement. ‘Give it some thought.’
We part with me promising to think about it and Barbara telling me to take as long as I need, ‘but please say yes’.
No pressure at all then.
I should go and find John, but the job offer has left me so thoroughly discombobulated that instead I head for the Australian galleries and let myself be soothed by some old friends, whose places on these walls seem to remain permanently inviolate. I spend time in front of Tom Roberts’ Shearing the Rams, running my eyes across the tiny details that conspire to give this painting such incredible atmosphere and vitality. Skipping a few paintings, I arrive in front of Blue Eyes and Brown and sigh when I see that the staghound in the painting is still being identified as a wolfhound. The mis-identification of dogs in art always annoys me, but especially when Hogarth’s noble breed is drawn into the fray. Leaving Roberts behind, I linger in front of a Charles Conder, briefly entertain the notion of moving to Sydney when I see one of Streeton’s sweeping panoramas of Mosman Bay, then change my mind when I spot Roland Wakelin’s The bridge under construction, a stunning modernist work rich in geometry and pastel tones. It hints at the dramatic changes progress brings and reminds me just how much I hate driving in Sydney.
I hesitate on the threshold of the final room, wanting to stay in the midst of that more idyllic world beckoning from a dozen canvases. But the moment I turn back into the gallery, ready for another slow circuit, I pull up short. Facing me is Russell Drysdale’s The Rabbiters, bleached sky, dry ochre gorge, long shadows and a tree, long dead, its gargoyle-esque twist of roots pointing toward the sky. It’s both magnificent and slightly scary. I stare at the figures of a boy and his dog at the base of a massive rock, so determined to flush out their prey that tension radiates from every fibre of their bodies, and I realise that I can’t hide any longer. The world is not always pretty. I have my own demons, real and possibly imagined, to slay.
***
In the conservation studio, everyone seems to be back at work. I recognise a couple of the people from the shocked groups of the other day, but they all have their heads bent to particular tasks and don’t obviously mark my arrival. Heading straight for the far corner I can see John standing over Fiona’s shoulder while she gesticulates toward the canvas.
‘So how was lunch?’ I come to a stop just behind them.
John steps to one side, opening up a space for me between him and Fiona, who is still regarding the canvas with her head tilted to one side. ‘Hmmm?’ he says, then his head comes up and he spins to face me, eyes wide. ‘Oh shit.’
He lunges for his bag and plunges his hand in, coming up after a moment’s frantic rummaging with his mobile. He hits a button and the screen flashes to life.
‘Four missed calls! It was turned off. We just got wrapped up in the work. Shit, shit, shit.’ He hurries from the room, pressing buttons as he goes.
Fiona turns to me, eyebrows raised.
‘He was supposed to meet his wife for lunch,’ I look at my watch, ‘two hours ago.’
Fiona’s mouth forms an ‘o’ and she exhales slowly, then screws up her face in an expression of pain.
‘Exactly.’ I nod my chin toward Man Proposes. ‘Let’s act casual when he gets back. I see you’ve put a base layer in.’
Fiona casts a single worried glance toward the door, then turns back to the painting.
‘Yes, just a bit of gesso to bring the area of paint loss up to the same level and texture of the rest of the work. Not that there was too much paint loss.’
I nod, but she’s not looking at me. ‘So just figuring out what materials to use for the actual painting?’
‘I was going to go for powdered pigments in a conservation-grade acrylic resin, but John suggested straight oils.’
I hold up my hands in surrender. ‘You guys are the experts there, but John’s always told me acrylics give a different surface gloss which means you’re forced to over-varnish to get an even finish on the entire painting.’
‘Yeah he said that. Most people at MIMA use the acrylics though. But I guess that’s why Giles wanted John here.’
‘Giles is just being politically cautious with someone else’s painting. You wouldn’t be working here if you weren’t already very good at what you do.’ As I say it, Barbara’s offer flashes through my mind again. ‘John’s not the sort of person who’d want to show you up or anything; he just loves the work.’
‘Oh he’s been amazing. I thought he’d have me in the fetch and carry role while he went ahead and did all the real work, but he’s let me do heaps of stuff and helped if I need it. I think I’d rather he did the in-painting though.’
I look at the damaged area again. To my non-painter’s eye the detail is not too difficult but the gradation of colour is very subtle and nuanced.
‘I’m sure you’ll manage between you. Are you planning on doing more today or do you need to let the gesso layer dry?’
‘It’s got to dry. We were just working out what we’ll need for tomorrow.’
Fiona turns to me suddenly, and her hip bumps the small table they’ve been using for their supplies. A brush falls to the floor with a clatter. I stoop to pick it up. From this angle, I see the lake of Alizarin Crimson in raking light and for the first time, I notice the surface is not as smooth as I thought. It’s barely visible, but there is a faint half-footprint on the edge of the paint, on the opposite side to where Meredith was found. The tread seems vaguely familiar. It looks like some sort of sneaker, with a pattern that is a distinctive combination of diamonds, surrounded by diagonal stripes and with a few horizontal lines across the toe.
‘I shouldn’t have kept him talking.’
‘What?’ I straighten up and put the brush back on the table.
‘We’d sort of decided on the paints ages ago and just got to talking about techniques and other stuff, paintings we like … You know.’
I nod.
‘And he forgot his lunch and now he’s in trouble.’
‘That is entirely John’s own fault.’ I look at her for a moment, her bright eyes and the slight hint of pink flushing her cheeks. Then I look toward the door where John disappeared, but there’s still no sign of him.
‘Look, John and I have been friends for ages, so I know what he’s like. He’s fun and charming and great to talk to, especially when you’re talking about art.’ Fiona isn’t meeting my eye, so I figure I’m definitely on the right track with this. ‘But he’s married. He doesn’t wear the ring because he gets paint on it all the time. His wife is …’ I consider my words. ‘Very invested in the relationship. As you may have gathered from the four missed calls and John’s reaction when he realised what he’s done.’
She nods, sighs. ‘Oh. I didn’t know the details, I only knew … It’s just so nice to be working with someone who doesn’t have an ulterior motive.’
‘I understand. But you know John will help you any time, right? Even once this job is done? He’s always glad to give conservation advice.’ I look toward the door again. ‘I think I’d better go and see what’s happening. Might see you tomorrow.’
I pick up John’s bag and leave Fiona tidying up around the painting. It’s not until I’m almost out the door that I realise something and turn around. Sure enough, all those other busy conservators are arranged on the far side of the room, as far as they can possibly get from where Fiona and John have been working on Man Proposes. They remind me of sheep when a dingo is on the prowl but then as I watch, one of the guys looks in Fiona’s direction. He has a dirty blonde ponytail and a hoop earring that catches the light and when I see the narrow-eyed, thin-lipped look on his face I instinctively back into the hallway before he notices me noticing him. Now I’m not thinking about sheep; I’m thinking about a pack of wolves.
***
Out in the hall, John i
s slumped against one wall, phone dangling from his hand.
‘Bad?’ I hand him his bag.
‘You have no idea.’
‘Fiona told me you’re done for the day, so do you want to just go, or shall we see if we can have a look in the storage area? Or I could just take you to a pub and watch while you get thoroughly pissed.’
‘Option C has the most appeal, except for the part when I turn up at home drunk and Sue is waiting.’
‘I could get you so smashed you’d be beyond caring. Just like when we first met.’
John is silent.
‘Won’t take much. You always were a bit of a two-pot screamer. How does that translate to wine? A two-pinot screamer.’
Still nothing.
‘You want to tell me?’
‘It really doesn’t bear repeating.’
‘Right, new plan. I gather there’s nothing to be done now, so let’s attack the storage area and then find you some alcohol. Just enough to take the edge off.’
John shrugs.
‘Forgetting the lunch was dumb, but you didn’t do it deliberately. You just got caught up with work. Surely she’ll get over it.’
He pushes himself off the wall and starts in the direction of the elevator. ‘This is Sue, remember, and things were already delicate. She doesn’t believe I got caught up with the work, because what could possibly be so engrossing about fixing a painting? No, she thinks I must be shacked up in a hotel somewhere. Your name came up again, by the way.’
‘Maybe I should be flattered. At least she’s not accusing you of chasing someone new.’
‘Oh she asked about who I’m working with, don’t worry. But I told her it was a guy named Phil. Doubt she believed that.’
‘Yes, but she wouldn’t believe it even if it was true. She clearly still views you as a twenty-something stud with a very busy social calendar.’
Painting in the Shadows Page 13
