Painting in the Shadows

by Katherine Kovacic

  He sighs. ‘Apparently. She must think you’re about eighteen.’

  ‘Now I’m really flattered.’

  We reach the lift and John jabs the up arrow, hard. Seems we’re headed for the storage area.

  ‘I’m over it. I’ll stay in my studio if I have to,’ John says.

  I look at him and hope my expression is encouraging, rather than showing the scepticism I’m feeling. I’ve heard all this before.

  ‘Well okay then. Good for you.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about it anymore.’ John’s starting to sound more angry than miserable and his volume increases accordingly. ‘Let’s talk about this red Brett Whiteley that we’re trying to find and what we’re going to do when we find it.’

  The arriving elevator rumbles, but not enough to drown out John’s words.

  ‘Shhh.’ I slap his arm and push him ahead of me into the elevator car. As I turn back toward the front and hit the button for three, I notice a door slowly closing, halfway down the hall. Then the elevator doors slide together and all I see is a distorted reflection of my face.

  On the third floor, the doors immediately opposite our arrival point are open and lights are on. John starts to stride across the foyer, propelled by strong emotions, but suddenly he comes to an abrupt stop and hurries back to me, still standing by the elevator.

  ‘What exactly are we going to say? I mean, if the painting is hidden here, do the staff know it’s there? Or did someone sneak it in and hide it in a dark corner?’

  I pull him back into the elevator car and press the ground floor button.

  ‘A plan would be a fine thing,’ I say as we start to descend. ‘We’ll use the visiting scholar line, because they do let you see stuff that’s in storage. Of course, like the library, people tend to make an appointment rather than just rocking up.’

  ‘So I’ll just make excuses and apologies for not calling ahead.’

  ‘Very man of action. But what do we tell them we want to look at? If we ask for something specific, that’s all we’ll get to see. If we ask to see the Whiteleys well, there’s nothing to say the mystery painting will be anywhere near the other Whiteleys that belong to MIMA.’

  We’ve reached the ground floor again and the doors open with a cheery ping. I press the button for three and they slide closed.

  ‘We’ve got approximately thirty seconds to figure this out.’ I tap my watch for emphasis as we rumble upwards.

  ‘Ask to see the Whiteleys, then one of us distracts the person while the other slips away for a look around?’

  ‘I’m sure they’re astute enough to notice if one of us suddenly disappears.’

  The indicator lights slide past the second floor.

  ‘Right. Ask to see the Whiteleys, then start a boffin-ish discourse about his oeuvre, life, and technique until the person is either totally bored or just has to get back to real work and trusts us because we’re so bloody tedious, and we’re left to finish up for ourselves. You’re good at that sort of arty talk.’

  I stick my tongue out. ‘Yeah, thanks for that. We’re stuffed if the person is a Whiteley fan but right now, it’s the only plan we’ve got.’

  The same ping announces our return to three, and this time we step out together. Just inside the open doors is a reception-style desk and beyond that, more doors, firmly closed. A tall guy with smooth, olive skin, almond-shaped eyes, and dark hair, just beginning to show a touch of grey, stands behind the desk and watches our approach.

  ‘Hang on a tic, did youse just come up here a second ago?’ he says.

  John and I glance at each other.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ John says at the same time.

  The guy looks from me to John and is about to say something when John puts his arm around me.

  ‘We did,’ he says, ‘but we just had some more things to, you know, talk about.’

  I slowly and heavily tread on his foot and grind my heel a little as I smile shyly at the guy.

  ‘Yeah, I can see. No worries.’ He grins as his gaze flicks between the two of us. ‘Just had a few hassles with the lift lately. I keep thinking someone’s there but they’re not. Gotta be careful with security and if I’m not at the desk and I hear the lift, I get twitchy. What can I do for youse?’

  ‘I’m doing some work for Giles Westerman in conservation and we were hoping to take a look at a few Whiteley paintings so I can see a bit more of his technique.’ John drops his arm from my shoulder and sticks his hand across the desk. ‘I’m John Porter by the way.’

  ‘Kev.’ The guy replies, meeting John’s hand with his own and shaking it firmly. Then he turns to me, a slight smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Dr Alex Clayton. I’m John’s associate.’ My official title rarely comes into play, but it’s gratifying to watch that smirk disappear. I don’t offer my hand.

  ‘Alex is actually a Whiteley expert. Well, Australian art expert really, but I wanted her opinion on the Whiteleys.’

  ‘Sorry we didn’t organise this in advance, but I’ve been in a meeting with Barbara Cottrell and there was no guarantee what time I’d be done.’ The shameless name-drop might be laying it on with a trowel, but it goes well with the supercilious arch in my left eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, well, we do prefer if people can make an appointment,’ Kev says.

  ‘Of course.’ I soften my tone.

  ‘Otherwise you’d never get any real work done, am I right?’ John says. ‘It’s just that we both have this window in our schedules, and from a conservation point of view, it would help me enormously.’

  Kev is rubbing one hand across his chin and a faint vertical line has appeared between his eyebrows. He probably gets sick of curators and conservators waltzing in unannounced and telling him how busy they are.

  ‘There’s probably none here. Or maybe a few minor works in storage at North Melbourne, but perhaps we should leave this until the next time we’re in Sydney. The Art Gallery of New South Wales’ Whiteleys are simply unbelievable.’ I open my eyes wide and sigh. ‘Sorry to bother you, Kev.’

  ‘Oh, no bother! And don’t you worry about Sydney! We’ve got Whiteleys. We’ve got great Whiteleys. Seeing as how you’re already here, with the right ID tags, and it’s a slow afternoon, let me check what we have on hand.’ Kev subsides behind the tall desk and starts clacking away on his computer. ‘Whiteley with an “e-y” right?’ He says to no one in particular. ‘Mm, couple on display, all the works on paper are at North Melbourne. Were you interested in those?’

  ‘No, just the oils.’ John leans on the desk and cranes his neck toward the computer screen.

  ‘Photograph, earthenware, textile …’ Kev clicks his mouse a couple of times. ‘Here we go. Got two for you: Park under sunlight, and the second one, oh, this one’s just called Painting.’ He reaches for a block of Post-it notes and scrawls down a couple of numbers. ‘Righto. Come on through.’

  Kev pulls the top Post-it off, rolls his chair back and stands, stepping around the desk. As he walks toward the doors he drags on the end of a key chain and a bunch of keys emerges from his hip pocket.

  ‘I thought it was all electronics and keypads these days,’ John says.

  ‘Mostly. I’m sure this lot will be quite a bit thinner before long.’ Kev jangles his fistful of keys before selecting the one he wants. ‘And a few too many of these floating around if you ask me.’

  The locks turn smoothly and he pushes open the heavy inner door just enough for us to get through. Dim security lights cast a yellow glow from above, dispelling the gloom without actually illuminating anything directly, and a faint current of cool air from the filtration system brushes my face. From somewhere in the shadows comes the soft, steady tick of a hygrometer keeping track of the humidity in the room.

  ‘All the really delicate things are stored in light
-tight drawers and cabinets, but we still do everything we can to reduce light exposure for all our works,’ Kev says, walking across the electrostatic mat and moving ahead of us down the centre aisle. ‘There are a few fluorescents on separate switches, so once we get to the paintings you’re after we should be able to light you better.’

  John and I follow a little way behind Kev, twisting left and right to try to see what hangs on each bank of racks we pass. Frustratingly, it’s very shadowy and the racks are too closely spaced to see beyond the first couple of paintings.

  ‘So it’s all rolling storage?’ I quicken my pace a little so I can talk to Kev without raising my voice.

  ‘Shelving for the dec arts, obviously, and a few extra rows of shelves and drawers for artworks that we can’t hang or that need extra protection. There are a couple of A-frame trolleys if we need temporary storage while we’re moving things between here and North Melbourne, but they rarely get used. The racks are great, double-faced mesh so we can hang on both sides, and then you just roll out whichever rack you need. Really increased our storage space when these went in.’

  It’s a nightmare from our perspective. The red Whiteley could be on any one of these racks, but the only way to find it would be to slide out every single one and check both sides. I look back at John and he shakes his head and shrugs. We cross an aisle at right angles to our own and now Kev is slowing down and checking labels on the ends of the racks.

  ‘One of them should be here.’ He motions for us to step to the far side of the rack and then he slowly rolls it out. A seemingly random assortment of paintings glide into view, including a very large canvas that is distinctly the work of Brett Whiteley.

  ‘Can we get some more light?’ John sets his glasses on his nose and moves up to the painting.

  ‘Hang on.’ Kev disappears and after a moment a fluorescent flickers overhead. ‘How’s that?’ he calls from somewhere nearby.

  ‘Better, but if you’ve got a hand-held I wouldn’t say no.’ John turns his head over one shoulder, directing his voice back into the gloom.

  ‘Just a tick.’ We listen as the sound of Kev’s footsteps diminishes.

  ‘We’re never going to find one painting in here!’ I thought I’d said it really softly, but in the strange acoustics of the storage area it sounds much louder than I’d intended.

  ‘Well do you have a better idea, Einstein? All we can do is look at as many racks as we can. If we don’t find it, we’ll just have to come up with another excuse and come back again.’

  I’m about to make a snappy comeback when footsteps announce Kev’s return. I switch on my inner pontificating arty wanker.

  ‘We’re used to seeing the vivid yellows and cool blues that dominate this image but now, in Park under sunlight, rather than Sydney Harbour, the artist has used his favourite trope of depicting a scene through a partially opened French window to show off an almost tropical park, with the city of Sydney making only a token appearance in the background.’ I match the words with a sweeping gesture.

  Kev taps John’s folded arms and holds out a small box, about half the size of a paperback book. ‘LED. We haven’t had them long, but they work a treat.’

  John takes it from him and turns it over a couple of times before locating the switch, and a section of the Whiteley is illuminated by a bright, well-defined circle of light.

  ‘Ah, perfect.’ John plays the light across the painting’s surface. ‘Exactly what I needed.’

  ‘Look at the scumbling here.’ I point to an area where the green of a palm frond seems to dance across the yellow background. ‘And look at these vast swathes of blue. You can see how he’s applied the paint quickly and yet quite methodically.’

  ‘What do you think his motivation was?’ John and I have our backs to Kev and John smiles as he asks the question. The real answer is probably Whiteley loved Sydney and he loved light, but the concept of the artist’s motivation has inspired some of the most verbose bullshit in the annals of art history. Especially when the artist is dead and can’t contradict the “experts”.

  I turn to face John and steeple my hands, resting the tips of my index fingers on my lips a moment before I answer. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Kev watching. Taking a breath, I open my hands out as though I’m holding an invisible ball.

  ‘I think what we’re seeing here is the clarification of temporal phenomena, a veritable solipsism, if you will. There’s a sense of contemplation, yet also diligent artistic practice. The diverse influences of Bob Dylan and Van Gogh are evident, but I sense the emergence of what one could almost think of as an homage to Madame Blavatsky and L Ron Hubbard. Hardly surprising in light of the artist’s American experiences.’

  ‘Hardly.’ John nods slowly and frowns at the painting.

  ‘Whiteley seems to be distilling new synergies from his known universe and one of hyper-reality, and this manifests in his art in a way that – contrary though it may seem – is best described as a vision of utopia undercut by a sense of nihilism.’

  ‘Are you guys going to be long?’ Kev has a look on his face that I usually associate with someone who has a massive migraine.

  ‘Pardon? Oh sorry. John, let’s get back to technique and then we can move on to the other painting.’ I nod and smile at Kev.

  ‘I really should get back out front.’

  ‘Ah.’ I look at my watch and frown. ‘We really will need a bit more time here, and then with the second work …’

  Kev looks at his own watch and rocks onto the balls of his feet. ‘How about I just pull out the other work for you – it’s a few rows further on – and leave you to it? Just give me a hoy when you pass the desk on your way out.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ John asks.

  ‘I reckon you’re both basically as good as on staff and there is only one door out.’ He smiles broadly. ‘Nah, should be fine.’

  ‘Thank you Kev, that might be for the best. I’ll try to get as much as I can from the experience today so that I don’t have to come back and bother you again,’ John says, ‘unless something odd crops up.’

  ‘Take all the time you need.’ Kev is sounding a little desperate now. ‘I’ll just pop along and find the other painting, but I’ll only roll the rack out enough so you know where it is. Against policy to leave the racks pulled out, so make sure you push them home when you’re done.’

  ‘Of course.’ I smile. ‘Thank you so much for letting us in without an appointment, and for all your marvellous help.’

  John and I stand and watch Kev disappear into the gloom.

  ‘Well we got rid of him faster than I expected,’ I murmur.

  ‘Are you kidding, with that crap you were spouting? I would have left if I could. What did that even mean?’

  ‘No idea. A pastiche of art-school rhetoric, accumulated over –’

  ‘Don’t bloody start!’

  Just then, Kev looms into view again. ‘Found it. Just a little bit further on, this side of the rack.’

  ‘Thanks. Don’t let us take up any more of your time.’ John eases the rack back in slightly so Kev can pass and get out. ‘See you in a bit.’

  Kev heads off and John rolls the rack out again. ‘I’ll leave it out so we’ll have a bit of warning if someone comes. Shall we start at the back and work our way forward?’

  ‘If I was trying to hide a painting in here, I guess I’d try for somewhere down the back.’ I shrug. ‘It’s as good a place to start as anywhere else.’ I close one eye and apply the other to the steel mesh; I can see Kev’s silhouette down near the doors and then he passes through and is gone. ‘Let’s go.’

  We turn and hurry toward the back of the storage area, which as it happens is not very far at all.

  ‘Should we check this one out?’ I pause with my hand on the edge of a slightly more prominent rolling rack; it must be the one Kev singled out for us.

>   ‘May as well. Especially as the work is just called Painting. That could be anything and it would be a genius way to hide something.’

  ‘Yeah, but I think there are quite a few Whiteleys known as Painting or Untitled Painting.’ I pull out the rack as I speak, exposing the second catalogued Whiteley. It’s a square painting, and really quite inspired if you’re into avant-garde, but it’s not red.

  ‘Well if I wanted to study his technique, this would almost count as a masterclass.’ John steps back a bit and shines the LED so it lights up a good portion of the work.

  ‘It’s like an experiment with texture, isn’t it? From what we were reading the other day, this must be from when he was in London and having a crazy-successful time.’

  ‘Look at that gorgeous creamy impasto and then this bit – the glaze. He was on fire. And the colour. You know, it’s not our red, but the palette is certainly starting to lean in the right direction.’

  ‘There was something else about Whiteley in London – something that I flicked past in one of those books because the paintings weren’t quite the red we were looking for.’ I bite my lip.

  ‘It’s a fairly abstract work isn’t it? Not like one of his nudes or anything.’

  ‘Abstract nudes, yes! This was when he really started to get into painting nudes, only a lot of the ones from this period showed female bodies that were sort of violated and twisted, bordering on the abstract. It was because he became obsessed with a series of murders that happened near where he was living. A guy named … Christie. Who strangled a whole bunch of women including his wife and stashed their bodies around his flat and garden.’

  ‘That’s a lot of detail for something you flicked past.’

  ‘Okay, so I read a bit of it, but it wasn’t relevant.’

  ‘No, but it’s creepy, a bit sick, and rather disturbing considering what we’re actually doing here. In the dark.’

  ‘Coincidence. Irrelevant. And we need to stop discussing art and get on with it.’

  ‘Shit yes.’ John pushes the rack halfway back in and we start carefully sliding others in and out.