by Bill James
Enzyme made his voice soft and gentle but dismissive when describing these three possible explanations, as though to say all of them were more or less sensible, but only more or less, and – sorry! – he would have to show that, overall, they were rubbish.
Ralph stayed quiet, took a sip of the Armagnac. Once more he had that weird feeling about Enzyme’s features – that they lacked permanence and might have been rearranged by the next time he was around. Ralph knew he would detest them, however they assembled themselves. Enz’s nose was so wide-nostrilled that Ember felt he could look up it and see what was in his head.
‘Again I ask for your tolerance, Ralph. I’m going to be rather blunt.’
‘We are adult.’
‘Naive, Ralph.’
‘What is?’
‘Those standard attitudes towards big art transactions. Oh, yes, occasionally the passage of a work to and from one of the auction houses is a straightforward matter, but this is rare, very. I mentioned Beijing Poly. Think China, Ralph.’
For God’s sake – this gabby twerp could go global. ‘China?’
‘OK, it’s not Britain, and things are much darker and more chaotic in art trading there. I refer to it only as a vivid example of market intricacies. China is awash with fake paintings. Thousands of auction sales never get completed because the “buyers” come to doubt the authenticity of what they’ve “bought”. The emerging and emerged super-rich class there want something worthwhile to spend their money on. So they chuck bids about but then have second thoughts. To feed this new appetite, forgeries thrive. Because the Chinese revere the past there’s always been a tradition of skilled copying in China – some jokingly call this repetition l’art d’echo – and now what used to be a fine, respectful tradition has been turned into a multi-mill racket. It’s said that in twenty cities about two hundred and fifty thousand people are producing fakes. Art is used like money for backhanders to government officials – a practice known as ya-hui, elegant bribery.
‘That’s China, and a long way off, but I wonder if you realize, Ralph, that the art market here has its own problem areas. The people I associate with from time to time are in touch with the more roundabout, even mysterious, ways great works can disappear, reappear, disappear again, re-emerge, lie low, and finally, perhaps, show themselves openly at a point of sale.’
‘Which people?’
‘These are people known in the trade as “facilitators”. Indeed, possibly, because of my relationship with some of them, I might be described as a facilitator myself. Or an apprentice facilitator, anyway. Art is something I feel very congenial with, Ralph. A natural response and affinity. It could be a genes matter.’
‘From which side?’
‘Which side of what?’
‘Gordon or Loam?’
‘The thing about art is it exists to be looked at,’ Enzyme replied.
‘True.’
‘This is its sole function.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s not like, say, a valuable, beautiful watch. The watch will also exist to be looked at, but its role goes beyond that. The watch might get looked at, but when it is looked at it supplies something – the time.’
‘Point taken.’
‘Art is different. Looking at it is the full experience, the whole experience, no extras, such as the time with a watch. True, I heard that the poet W.H. Auden was cold in bed and took down a framed picture and put it on top of the blankets for warmth. So you could say that in his case art did have a functional role. This is very unusual, though. If you see that Constable picture, The Haywain, you can enjoy the viewing of it, but you can’t shift hay with it.’
‘Correct.’
‘Therefore display is crucial. It is as if the painting has no existence unless it is on a wall so people can gaze.’
‘I follow.’
‘But now we come to the contradiction, the irony, in so much art buying and selling. A large proportion of the works for sale have elements of considerable doubt in their background. The main area of such doubt is to do with possible theft. Has the work – have the works – in question at some point in its – or their – history been stolen, looted, hijacked? Is the apparent owner the true owner? And what does ownership mean here? If someone has bought a painting in good faith, wrongly believing it to have been lawfully acquired by the seller, does ownership rest with the new buyer or with the person or institution the work has been stolen from? The police and courts in different countries vary in their attitudes on this question.
‘Because of these kinds of anxieties, the purchased item – or items – although it – they – only exists – exist – to be put on show cannot in many cases safely be put on show at present. That’s why I referred to stages, Ralph. It might mean a work – works – has to – have to – remain out of sight for a while, even for a very long while, until, perhaps, it – they – is – are – forgotten about or lost in the great crowd of other paintings without impeccable histories. It is because of this contradiction, these contradictions, this irony, these ironies, Ralph, that the facilitator can provide such timely and skilled aid.
‘A complicating factor in this is that some paintings, sculptures, figurines are bought – perfectly legally bought and for huge sums – only to disappear, untraceably disappear, perhaps into a billionaire’s secure warehouse. They are not displayed, possibly because their owners fear robbery or vandalizing. These are works that seem to defy the generalization I offered just now – that great art has to be seen or it suffers a loss of purpose – that purpose being to get looked at. For instance, Ralph, there is the famous Picasso painting, Garçon à la Pipe, completed when Pab was in his twenties, sold to an anonymous buyer for more than one hundred million dollars in New York, but whereabouts now unknown. Likewise pictures by Cézanne, Renoir, Van Gogh. The facilitator can sometimes help in locating even some of these. The collector who pays millions to hide away a work or works will still want to be informed when something interesting is coming up for private sale. So, although ownerships might seem to be anonymous that isn’t completely so. Some gallery, some dealer, some facilitator is privy to the supposed secret. The facilitator, above all, hears trade talk, lives among trade talk, and will be able to put the prospective seller in touch with the right kind of prospective buyer.
‘You’ll ask, what do I mean by “right kind”? But, excuse me, Ralph. You don’t like that type of construction – the “you’ll ask” construction, regarding it as a presumption, me forecasting your reaction. And that’s a reasonable objection, entirely reasonable. Very well then – I’ll ask myself. What do I mean by right kind? Paintings on the market carry variable degrees of doubt as to where they’ve come from, and how. In many deals, therefore, a certain amount of risk is involved. Some buyers will want a particular work so badly that they are ready to accept a high degree of uncertainty as to its background, as long as the price makes allowance for this kind of serious gamble.
‘Let’s suppose we’re talking about a Jackson Pollock. A potential purchaser might have seen a photograph of the work on a well-meant, TV culture programme and found that the dots and swirls and stripes really speak to him or her, in some unexplainable fashion. The fact that it is unexplainable is not a deterrent, though. The very opposite! The mysteriousness of his – her – response is what intrigues, what makes the would-be buyer more determined to own it because of this unique, undefinable link.’
Enzyme grew passionate and almost shrill. ‘There might be plenty of works with obvious, easily described attractions – light, colour, intensity of portraiture. But that kind of appreciation might come to seem workaday, banal to our collector. The Pollock, on the other hand, unlocks somehow previously unsuspected qualities in the collector’s psyche. He – she – thinks that perhaps ownership of the painting and the opportunity to gaze upon it whenever he – she – wishes will constantly reaffirm the presence of something numinous, yes, something profoundly spiritual in her – him. To be elevated in th
is fashion is judged to be worth almost any level of risk. And from his knowledge of the trade and its people, the facilitator should be able to bring together a suitable pair – buyer and seller – to clinch the deal.
‘And, likewise, the facilitator will provide a link for buyers who insist on only a moderate amount of risk and are willing to pay for the additional assurance of probable OKness. Plus, of course, the facilitator will know of potential buyers who are interested exclusively in works that have no worrying aspects at all, are clean, exemplary, their market profiles available and righteous, and will fork out accordingly.’
Occasionally, Ralph still wondered if it was out of proportion to decide Basil Gordon Loam would have to go. His offence – offences – was – were – bad, but as bad as that? Although Ember would definitely subsidize Enzyme’s family for a while after his death, Ralph recognized that money and income might not be the only consideration. Irene and the children quite possibly felt something for Enz, despite how he was. Ralph began to soften slightly towards him.
And then Gordon Loam suddenly started to make things worse for himself. He’d had a couple of sips of the Armagnac, but he definitely wasn’t drunk again. He didn’t show any special appreciation of the Kressmann, as if to suggest he routinely drank only the highest quality liquor. That’s the kind he was – arrogant, ungrateful, casual. He had to go. He wanted to talk about a foul, sniggering newspaper gossip column published locally under the byline ‘I Spy’. It would be picked up by the national media, no question. He obviously thought the writer offered a delicious joke when he – or she – said art was not a usual topic of conversation at The Monty, the hint being that normal conversation in the club was crude, uncivilized, uncultured. Plainly, also, Enz considered it a real hoot when The Monty got the description ‘refined’. Enzyme’s idea of the club, like ‘I Spy’s’ idea of the club, was the sort of idea Ralph longed to escape from. Basil G.L. was actually in The Monty’s precincts now, surrounded by its very texture and ambience, graciously allowed in, contrary to the all-time ban, and yet he could hold this traitorous opinion of it. When moving towards the stairs to the office, they had stepped very close to the actual area of wall space where the paintings would probably hang, totally free now from Worcestershire sauce stains. Gordon Loam’s attitude was gross, surely, sickening.
‘The “I Spy” is an amusing wink-wink piece, isn’t it, Ralph?’ he said. ‘You come out of it well: that proud refusal of guilt cash. I’m the bad guy.’ He spoke this as though many – in fact, most – must find this notion ludicrous. Ralph would have liked to ask how he could come out of it well if his club was mocked and more or less portrayed as a cess pit – the club he loved and cherished and would take forward into new distinction and esteem. Enzyme could not see that Ralph and The Monty were one. Another novel Ralph had read during the Foundation Year was Wuthering Heights. The heroine, Cathy, cries out at one point about her soul mate, ‘I am Heathcliff.’ That’s how Ember felt about the club. Enzyme would destroy Ralph if allowed to continue, and therefore he must be destroyed.
Enz grew serious. ‘But although the “I Spy” squib might be charmingly witty and ironic—’
‘Fucking sarky.’
‘Well, all right, Ralph, mildly sarcastic.’
‘Basely sarcastic.’
‘The point is, Ralph, putting aside its tone for a moment – on which you are definitely entitled to hold very personal views – but temporarily forgetting that, there could be certain practical results from the publicity. No, there will be certain practical results. The column says you are hoping to buy some paintings. That’s the sole point some will take from these paragraphs. They’ll discount the irony, tongue-in-cheekness, whimsy. This concentration on a few words will lead to approaches. You are known as someone of weighty financial resource. You would not be in the market for cheapos. You’ll want quality. You’ll be thinking in terms of at least hundreds of grand, yes, hundreds of grand per pic, at least. That kind of potential sale will be of some interest. You’ll get an array of high-price, would-be vendors.’
It struck Ralph that the way Enz’s features appeared unfixed on their current sites resembled some famous Pablo Picasso paintings where the eyes, noses and chins of people seemed to be in the wrong places; an eye where you’d expect an elbow, for instance, as if Picasso wanted to assert total artistic freedom by refusing to accept the usual, arbitrary layout of faces. Why should noses be central or an ear on each side of the head and level with the one on the other side? Picasso would probably have to admit that for most people things were like that, and he’d expect the women in his life to have their various parts in the customary bodily spots. But an artist, a big fan of the imagination, didn’t have to be bound by mere actuality in his or her work. Had Enz ever ‘facilitated’ one of these paintings and afterwards, still very impressed, tried to imitate it by giving his own various phiz-bits their occasional ticket-of-leave liberty? Enz had mentioned Picasso just now; there was a possible familiarity.
‘Main reason I’m here, Ralph – the main reason I bring an apology – is that I recognize – and how, how could I not recognize? – I recognize that I’ve put you in a situation. I concede that the episode with the gun and the Blake and the side-issue of the Worcestershire sauce is not helpful to the club’s aura. And it is this aura you so earnestly, indeed, commendably, seek to improve, to perfect, in fact. I acknowledge – have acknowledged already – Basil Gordon Loam’s part in putting that purpose at gratuitous risk. These art sales people will also recognize it, Ralph. They’ll see through the tact and obliqueness of the “I Spy” joshing. That word “explosive”, so early on, plants the idea of cordite, of bang-bangs from the start.
‘They’ll realize that you, prompted by your inalienable mission to bring The Monty to its full flowering, to its splendid latent potential, will do almost anything to cancel the ill impression caused by the shoot-out – caused, that is, I fear, by myself, though a self essentially different from my true self owing to Jack Danielses. Aware that you believe fine art can help annul the effects of that unseemliness, dealers will come to you with works that might help rectify matters and help also with your glorious, famed aim. But they’ll want you to pay a glorious price for it, for them. It’s a seller’s market. Art is what they call “currency neutral”, meaning it will keep its investment value regardless of fluctuations in the pound or the dollar or the euro or the yen or the rouble. Have a look at prices in the Frieze Art Fair auctions of modern stuff. The world’s rich flock to these gaudy sales and fight to get their bids in first. They might ask for a piece to be put on “hold” for an hour while they make up their mind and look at other works. And the gallery will say, “Ten minutes only,” because they’ve got a queue of potential buyers eager for a deal. And – new factor, increasing the rush – a lot of them these days are young. They’ve made their lot in pop music or IT, or London property, or soccer – as players, managers, owners or agents, especially agents. They’re ready to fling the cash about. Art has become not just a juicy investment. Possession of fashionable, super-expensive works is a route to chic social standing – or more chic social standing, because some of these people will already have bought their way into select, modish company.
‘And in some ways, this is your aim, too, isn’t it, Ralph? You’d like to elevate The Monty. Dealers will spot that urgent need. They’re experienced at it. They’ll try to exploit your admirable ambition. I, conscious of my part in bringing these difficulties on you, Ralph, am here to look for forgiveness and to provide in solid terms a recompense. I can facilitate for you. I can show these predatory, avaricious dealers that you have a clued-up, very motivated ally. I can assist in getting those works you need and getting them at a fair, non-opportunist, non-inflationary price.’
Ralph could admire the ardent, phoney logic of it. Enzyme really did need to be put down, as painlessly as possible, yes, but, in any case, put down. He made a parade of his original gun-craziness, and then said he could en
gineer everything back to normal, and to normal plus, by middle-manning Ralph’s expensive purchases – and, naturally, collecting an unspoken-of commission from the dealers. Enz saw it all so neatly, clearly, egomaniacally. He regarded the appalling treatment of the Blake as a positive step in the furtherance of trade.
‘Because of proximity, Ralph, and a precedent set by your old mate, Manse Shale, you’ll probably be thinking of Jack Lamb as provider of the new works.’ He went very clipped and absolute. ‘OK, but care needed.’
‘I haven’t thought of anyone.’ Bollocks to Enzyme’s clairvoyance.
‘Wise.’
‘But if I was thinking, why do I need caution with him?
For a while Enz acted out honest bafflement, held his hands up in a surrender sign, frowned, did a terrifically flamboyant lips-purse. ‘Not sure, Ralph. Something, though. That’s the talk in London. Rumour at this stage. There’s a firm called Cog, part of the art commerce machine. It’s possibly something to do with them. George Dinnick. He can be so gentle and polished and vicious. Maybe Cog received a load of stolen stuff and want to flog some of it to Lamb. Cog have a strong connection in Belgium. Ghent. This is very productive. The pics flow from, as well as to. Or it could be a theft raid planned on Lamb’s present items. The tale is he’s got some nice Dutch school pieces. He maintains his own continental link, maybe Belgium too, but not Ghent. Antwerp.
‘Ralph, Lamb’s is a sector best treated warily, but certainly a possible. If he is pillaged – well, he’s got a pal high in the police, apparently. Harpur? That’s the talk. He’d really go after anyone who robbed his chum. But I can cater for that kind of complication. Normally, Lamb wouldn’t be able to report a theft to the law because thieved items might have been pre-thieved and criminal. But Harpur is obligated. And he’s skilled at doing things his own way on the quiet. Then, above Harpur, there’s that supreme froth-gobbed sod, Iles. I’m not saying he’s a friend of Lamb as well. But he can be totally vindictive if he thinks big criminality, such as art theft, has taken place on his ground. That’s how he talks about it – his ground. He’s the king, the despot. Well, you’ve probably met both buggers, so I don’t surprise you. They’d make things very tough for anyone who’d had recent dealings with Lamb, suppose his gallery is stripped. I could forestall that as well for you, Ralph.
