“No doubt about it, it’s the same artist, or someone’s been very faithful to his style. And where did you get this one from? Give me at least one answer, it would help me . . .”
“From a catalogue on Etienne Morand. I just want to know if he was one of ‘The Objectivists’. Does the photo remind you of anything or not?”
His rotating hand gesture could mean any number of things.
“It’s funny . . . seeing this again now. It’s more than a memory. ‘The Objectivists’, you say? It didn’t take me long to forget such a stupid name. But this, here, this piece, the red one, I remember this perfectly.”
I’m not sure I find this reassuring.
“We were wary of those unruly youngsters who wanted to burn all our icons. They would do anything to overturn values, particularly the legitimizing bodies, as they were called then. That was us, the ministry, the critics, the dealers. Everything I talk about in my book, if you’ve read it. But when this painting turned up before the committee, we were all a little . . . worried.”
“Worried?”
He seems distant, absent, lost in the depths of his memories.
“Well, yes . . . it feels strange to be. . . Yes, worried. . . There was something powerful and spontaneous about it. It had an energy. I don’t know how else to put it. I’ve forgotten at least eighty per cent of what was presented to us, but not this painting. Our deliberations usually went on forever but, that day, not one of us tried to deny the force, the urgency we had in front of us. We voted unanimously.”
“And the painters, did you meet them?”
“No, and for a very good reason! Two of us tried to get in touch with them straightaway, to visit their studios, to understand the way they worked, their methods. We were convinced that they were very young, that they were bound to need support. We were prepared to pull strings for them, that was what we were there for, after all. But they just didn’t want to know.”
He stops to catch his breath. Unless he’s heaving a deep sigh.
“Did you meet them? Was Morand one of them?”
“I’ve just told you that we didn’t. And this Morand you’re talking about is pretty obscure now so at that time, well, you can imagine. . . On the other hand, we had heard about them before they presented this painting. Three months earlier they made a . . . a contribution, an intervention at the Young Painters’ Exhibition. I wasn’t there but I wish I had been. They came on the opening night of the exhibition even though they categorically hadn’t been invited, they hung their paintings anywhere they could, and handed out tracts that were unequivocally insulting to the art world, and absolutely no one was spared. After thoroughly abusing everyone there, they took their paintings down again and left. And, between you and me, that sort of lightning demonstration became almost commonplace after that, but they set the precedent. So their name wasn’t completely unknown the day it came before the committee. We were even rather intrigued when we saw that they were putting something forward. Worried, yes, that’s the word. They refused to sign with their own names, or even to have links with any kind of institution. It was the embodiment of ‘art for art’s sake’ and a rejection of the star system, of any speculation about different artists’ popularity. Well, you see what I mean, all the movements that appeared a few years later. But this was only ’64.”
“That’s just it . . . don’t you think it’s a bit strange that these idealistic rebels refused to be picked up by the commercial dealers at the same time as presenting a painting to the nation?”
“Yes, I do.”
I wait for a bit more explanation, which he probably doesn’t want to give me. He waves his hands as if to say “yes, I know but . . . what do you expect? . . . that’s all part of the terrible contradictions of art.”
“There must be a reason, isn’t there?”
He seems to be irritated that he can’t reply, he waves his hands about in a different way and mumbles something indecipherable. I repeat my question again, just as it was – and that is when I feel I have gone too far.
“Now listen, my young friend, I’d like to know why you’re perching on the edge of that chair, resting your entire weight on the ankle that was hurting a few minutes ago.”
I didn’t think, I didn’t have time to ponder it and, without my knowing why, my arm has appeared of its own accord. It snapped up like a flick-knife with the naked stump under his nose.
He is trying not to show any surprise.
“It’s worse than I thought,” he says carefully, getting to his feet, “I think it’s time you left, don’t you?”
Yes, I think so. I’ve probably outstayed my welcome. As I stand up I put my stump back in my pocket . . . but there is still something intriguing me.
“Just one last question. Earlier on, you realized straightaway that I was talking rubbish but you still didn’t mind trawling through your memories. I’d really like to know why.”
He rewarded me with a snigger, though not a cruel one.
“That, my young friend, is very simple. It was something of a pleasure answering your questions from the minute you admitted that you don’t give a damn about contemporary art. Because, you see, whatever you may think, you could never give so little of a damn as I do! And it feels good being able to say that from time to time.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I spent thirty years of my life blathering about works of art which got more and more pared down, minimal . . . invisible. Until I saw them disappear. I lost myself and I no longer knew who I should support and why, the very act of putting some colour on a canvas was increasingly suspect, and all anyone could talk about was concepts. In the end emotion was completely forgotten. One fine day I realized there was nothing exciting about it any more, examining an art form that was more interested in establishing its own ‘history’ than anything else. Nowadays, artists don’t paint any more, they compose, they conceptualize, they confirm the fact that no one can paint any more, they put everyday objects on plinths and scream and shout about the end of ‘artistic hierarchies’ . . . and they theorize about the death of art. Actually, they’re just waiting for something to happen. And for a long time I waited with them for someone who would open up the way. Your ‘Objectivists’, for example, they definitely had something to say in spite of their absurd name, but they disappeared as quickly as they arrived. I ran out of patience and now I couldn’t give a damn. Like you.”
“Doesn’t any of it interest you any more?”
“Oh, you know, I don’t know this world and its landscapes. And that’s important – the landscapes, the earth, things. I’ve never walked through something beautiful or taken a stroll through lots of colour. Or I must have let it pass me by. I started with the opposite. Monochrome before chlorophyll.”
“Do you regret that?”
“Not really. You know, I understood Turner much better when I flipped through an article about Venice. I should have gone there when I still had the strength in my legs. There isn’t a single painter, not even Van Gogh, who’s succeeded in recreating the strident yellow of the rape fields in Provence. And I’ve never been there either.”
He walks me to the door.
“That’s what you claim but. . . I don’t know how to say this . . . I saw a picture hanging in the next room. If none of it means anything to you any more, there are just a few square inches which still warrant being looked at.”
He sniggers as he opens the door and pushes me out. Before closing the door he gives another snigger.
“The picture you saw is magnificent, it’s a portrait of my mother done by my brother. And it’s priceless. But, between you and me, it was just as well he didn’t pursue his career.”
*
Once outside I hurried into the Métro as if there was some emergency, and I spent the rest of the afternoon at the Archives Office of the Paris Biennial Exhibition, another library of contemporary art in an annexe of the Grand Palais. I found everything they had on 1964, particularly the pres
s cuttings for the Fourteenth Young Painters’ Exhibition. In one article The Objectivists did get a mention. I couldn’t quell a surge of anxiety that stopped me concentrating on an important question: should I steal the documents or copy them? I hovered in front of the photocopier for a minute, then in front of the librarian. She hardly looked at me and completely failed to notice my missing hand. I waited for the man next to me at the table to leave before scrunching everything I needed into the rubbish bin of my left pocket.
As the clock struck seven, I made another attempt at the typewriter. I feel as if I’m getting worse, it takes me a ridiculously long time to get the sheet of paper lined up on the carriage and it’s mostly my irritation that makes it take so long. I’m short on patience. My father chose that exact moment to ring and complain about the weeks of silence. I didn’t tell him anything in particular while trying to lie as little as possible. I’m a bit worried they will turn up unannounced one day and I wouldn’t have the courage then to put my arm up in the air like I did this afternoon. That’s actually just what I need, something as clear-cut as that gesture. An overall picture with all the accuracy of a photograph. A cold, clinical vision. A hyperrealist image.
Dear you two,
Imagine a part of the human body that doesn’t exist, a smooth rounded extremity that you would almost swear was natural. Put it in the exact place where there’s usually an ordinary hand. That’s my stump.
Somewhere between a slight feeling of drowsiness and a lukewarm bowl of soup, I let the night creep up on me. But there was no question of going to bed until I had completely unravelled the crumpled paper in my pocket. The telephone rang, and I almost didn’t answer, convinced that Briançon was at it again.
“Antoine . . .”
“Nico?”
“I know it’s late, I’m still at the depot and I’ve got something for you. Something big, bring your Polaroid. You’re starting to bug me with this business . . .”
Is it the darkness, the fact that I’ve never spoken to Nico after eight o’clock, or the thought of coming face to face with this something big, but I didn’t spark as quickly as he wanted.
“Can it wait till tomorrow?”
“No chance, it won’t be worth it any more tomorrow, and hurry up, I want to go to bed, my little girl’s waiting for me, and I don’t get paid overtime. And bring the picture you took yesterday because this time I’m the one who’s going to need it. You’ll see what I’m on about the minute you get here. See you.”
Just time to pick up my camera, hurtle down the stairs and nab a taxi over by the Place des Vosges. I didn’t need my right hand for any of that. But I managed to forget – for the space of ten minutes – that it was missing.
He has thought to leave the door open. The light isn’t on; I’ve never known where it switches on but the spotlights from the hangar of sculptures in the distance guide me on my way. In the darkness I bump into a small trunk and, by some miracle, I manage to save a sort of vase (I don’t know if it’s a work of art waiting to find its own place or a common jug for watering the plants). If only I knew where the switch was. . . I step over a roll of bubble-wrap lying on the ground next to a frame waiting to be wrapped up. Nico has so little room in the hangar that he squats in Véro’s office to make up his parcels. I cross the little courtyard which leads to the store of sculptures that, by contrast, is ablaze with light as if some high-ranking official was expected at any minute. The familiar smell of old wood and fermented resin hits me. I yell Nico’s name. I’m not forgetting that it’s night-time, not that that changes anything but it adds a dimension, an air of decadence. I take a few shy steps into this disintegrating fortress. A Xanadu.
“Nico. . .? Nico! What the hell are you doing. . .? For fuck’s sake!”
The stone faces no longer look bored at all, oh no, they’re threatening this individual who has come to disturb their rest. A wan-looking virgin watches my progress with her empty eyes. “After seven o’clock I leave the works in peace,” Nico always says when he wants to leave. And it’s true that, outside the working day, they seem to want to be left alone. Nothing seems ugly any longer, or pointless, each piece reaches its own threshold of maximum inertia at last, as if just being looked at by visitors forced them to pose.
I head down an aisle outside the range of the light.
And there, as I come round a huge thing in wood, it takes me a while to realize that a set of shelving containing busts has toppled to the ground. A tide of heads has washed up at my feet, earthenware cheeks, dozens of women in greened bronze, in varying shapes and sizes and variously cracked. And on the edge of this wave there is another face that looks even more inanimate than the others.
“Nico?”
I brought my hand to my mouth.
Not far behind me I heard an order.
“The photo . . .”
I didn’t turn round straightaway.
The voice, Nico’s smashed-in temple, the fear so strong I want to throw up, I thought I was back in that moment that turned my whole life upside down.
“Give me the photo . . .”
The photo. . . I’m well aware that he’s going to want more than a photo tonight. Last time he took one of my hands. The time has come to see whether I can really count on the one I’ve got left.
I didn’t turn round, I leaped forward to grip another set of shelving and pull it off the wall with all my strength. I didn’t look over my shoulder but the crashing sound ran through me like an electric shock. I raced to the exit, jumping over everything in my way, climbing over cases and leaping over tables. I remembered a row of paintings leading to a door that would get me back to the office. I don’t know if he’s following me or if he’s using the main door to cut me off. After the excess of light and flashes of bright colour, I was plunged back into the shadows of the office. I could tell he was in there too, and I closed the door to make it completely dark. He must be over by the door, trying to find the light switch. In hand-to-hand fighting I wouldn’t last long, I remember that from last time (and that was when I had two to match his). He may be armed, I don’t know, I didn’t turn to look: he may have a gun trained on me, I wouldn’t know. It’s a big office, by feeling my way I might manage to find something, I don’t know what, just while my pupils dilate. His too, mind you, it won’t be long before they get used to the dark.
“I advise you to give me that photo.”
Yes, it’s coming from the reinforced door, the one that goes out onto the street. He doesn’t know where to switch the light on. It’s my only hope. In case he does find the switch I give the lamp a good kick and then dash over to a stack of pictures.
“You won’t be as lucky as last time, I’ll make sure of that.”
If he were really sure of himself he would head straight for me. He needs to work out where I am too. Even I’m lost, and I know the place.
“And your friend, who works here, he told me you’ve been somewhat . . . diminished.”
He already knew he was going to do Nico in, almost before he hung up. He must have grilled him for quite a while before finishing him off. He came here for Attempt 8: Nico got it out for him straightaway and told him everything, my visit, the photo. . . Another trace of The Objectivists, not counting all the ones I have in my head. He wants to destroy them, all of them, that’s why he got Nico to ring.
“You’re persistent, but I’ll get you in the end.”
With great difficulty I manage to make out the things around me. I don’t imagine he can see much better.
“Tell me, I didn’t really notice earlier, do you have a hook?”
A what?
A hook, that’s all I need to rip your throat out. I heard the scratch of a match, and a little sphere of light created a faint halo around him. It just gave me a chance to see his face again and his gentleman’s tie. He is trying to make out my outline, huddling between two pieces of furniture.
The little flame goes out.
“You’re very persistent.”
> Another scratch. I can only see his legs now; he has moved forward a good three yards already.
“You and me, surrounded by all these works of art . . . we have the whole night ahead of us.”
I can sense his stealthy progress as he brushes past something that snaps like a straw. I manage to crawl into a different position but the Polaroid swinging from my shoulder knocks into a table leg.
Another match, but this time I can hardly see anything.
A scrunching of paper . . . the light becomes much brighter. He must have set light to something. An improvised torch, a print perhaps.
A smell of burning? A crackling sound. Proper flames, something really is burning. He is more than ten yards away from me, I can look up enough to see what he is up to.
He is trying to light a rolled-up picture with his torch.
Attempt 8.
He’s actually risking setting light to the place. I’m going to roast like a chicken. For him that’s more than a hypothetical solution. With all the stuff in storage here, there could be two nights of inferno before they find me. It would be a spectacular, grandiose fire.
It’s almost over, the flames have nearly devoured the painting.
“I’d like something to drink. Some whisky . . .”
What on earth can he mean by that? Maybe nothing. . . Or just that he feels like drinking whisky. I didn’t see a gun. I miss my hand, with that I could have hurled a whole table at him, I could have used it as a shield. Or maybe it’s inside my head that I miss it. He’s right, I’ve been diminished, and he knows it. Diminished . . . that’s the word. Impotent. Concentrate all your work on your left hand. I’d really like Briançon to see me right now.
“The only thing I regret here is the quality of the pieces. I thought I would find absolute wonders.”
Judging by his voice, he is walking up and down, pacing between the tables.
“It’s incredible trying to work out which of these might be the same age as our grandfathers. Does art really go that quickly? Perhaps that’s all it is, after all, just a question of time. The people who do graffiti in the Métro might be exhibited at the Louvre one day. What do you think?”
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