Westie always thought of the authorities as ‘they’.
One of his first portfolio pieces had been a manifesto, printed in black against a glossy blood-red backing.
They Are Out To Get You
They Know What You Do
They See You As Trouble . . .
At the very bottom of the canvas, the printing had switched to white-on-red for Westie’s coda: But I Am Better At Art Than Them.
His tutor had only just agreed, scoring him a ‘narrow pass’. The tutor was a big fan of Warhol, so Westie’s next piece had been calculation itself: a stylised Irn-Bru bottle against a custard-yellow background. The mark had been more favourable, sealing (though he couldn’t know it then, of course) Westie’s fate.
He was in his final year now and had almost completed the portfolio for his degree show. It had struck him only recently that there was something odd about the whole notion of a degree show: if you studied politics or philosophy, you didn’t attach your essays to the walls for strangers to read. If you were going to be a vet, you didn’t have the general public watching as you put some poor animal to the knife or stuck your arm up its backside. But every art and design college in the land expected its students to parade their shortcomings to the world. Was it attempted humiliation? Preparation for the harsh realities of life as an artist in twenty-first century philistine Britain? The space for Westie’s showcase had already been allocated - deep in the bowels of the college building on Lauriston Place, next to a sculptor who worked with straw and a ‘video installationist’ whose main claim to fame was a looped stop-motion animation of a slowly lactating breast.
‘I know my place,’ was all Westie had said.
Influenced (retrospectively) by Banksy, and spurred on by his experience with the Warholesque Irn-Bru bottle, Westie’s stock in trade was pastiche. He would copy in minute detail a Constable landscape, say, but then add just the tiniest idiosyncrasy - a crushed beer can or a used condom (almost his signature, according to the other students) or a scrap of wind-tossed rubbish such as a Tesco bag or crisp packet. A Stubbs portrait of a proud stallion might feature a jet fighter in the distant sky. In Westie’s version of Raeburn’s The Reverend Walker Skating, the only perceptible difference was that the man of the cloth now found himself sporting a black eye and stitches to a cut on his left cheek. One of his tutors had gone on at length about ‘anachronism in art’, seeming to think it a good thing, but others had accused him of simple copying - ‘which is by no means the same as art, merely capable draughtsmanship’.
All Westie knew was that he had a marketable-sounding nickname and only a few more weeks to go before the end of term. Which meant he should either be applying for postgraduate places or else looking for gainful employment. But he’d been up half the night working on a graffiti project: stencils of the muffled face of the artist Banksy with the words ‘Money In The Banksy’ and some dollar bills painted above and below. The stencils were anonymous. He was hoping the local media would pick up on the story and make ‘the Scottish Banksy’ a fixture in the public imagination. It hadn’t happened yet. His girlfriend Alice wanted him to become a ‘graphic artist’, meaning comic books. She worked front-of-house at an artsy cinema on Lothian Road and reckoned the way for Westie to become a top Hollywood director was for him to start drawing cartoons. He would then move into promo videos for indie rock bands and from there to the movies. The only problem with this - as he’d pointed out to her several times - was that he had no interest whatsoever in film directing . . . she was the one who wanted it.
‘But you’re the one with the talent,’ she’d responded, stamping a foot. That gesture said quite a lot about Alice - an only child raised by doting middle-class parents who had praised her in everything she’d ever attempted. Piano lessons were going to turn her into the Vanessa Mae of the keyboard; her songwriting would see her sharing a stage with Joni Mitchell or at the very least K.T. Tunstall. She’d thought herself a prodigy as a painter, until her teacher at the fee-paying high school put her right. Having dropped out of university (Film and Media Studies with Creative Writing), she was pinning her scant hopes on Westie. The flat was hers - no way he could have afforded the rent. It was owned by her parents, who dropped by sometimes and never failed to be unimpressed by their daughter’s choice of live-in boyfriend. He’d overheard them one time asking her a heartfelt question - ‘Are you quite sure, dear?’ - knowing they were talking about him, their golden child’s bit of rough. He’d wanted to barge in, trumpet his working-class credentials - the Fife coalfields; Kirkcaldy High. Nothing given to him on a plate. But he’d known how it would sound to their ears . . .
Cretins.
Another time, he’d told Alice about a screen academy that was setting up in the city - she could do it part-time, learning all about film-making. Her excitement had lasted until a trawl of the internet had revealed the potential financial outlay.
‘Mummy and Daddy will be happy to pay,’ Westie had suggested, and she’d blown up at him, accusing him of accusing her of being a leech, of bleeding her poor parents dry. Another stamp of the foot and she’d bounded out of the room, slamming the door after her and causing one of his drying canvases to fall from its easel on to the floor. He’d managed to calm her down eventually with tea and a cuddle in the flat’s cramped kitchen.
‘I only need to work for another ten years and I’ll have savings enough,’ she had sniffled.
‘Maybe I can bump up my prices at the degree show,’ Westie had offered. But they both knew this wasn’t exactly feasible - he was probably going to sell next to nothing. No matter how good his draughtsmanship, in terms of actual artistry he was still that same ‘narrow pass’, at least in the eyes of the people whose marks counted most. The head of department - old Prof Gissing - had never been a fan. Westie had looked up Gissing himself once and had found that the grumpy old sod had pretty well stopped painting in the 1970s, meaning all he’d done these past thirty years was write articles and give boring lectures. Yet people like him, they were the ones who’d give the thumbs-up or thumbs-down to Westie’s whole future as an artist. Westie, the son of a postman and a shop assistant, sometimes felt that there was a conspiracy afoot to stop the lower orders being recognised as any sort of creative force.
Having finished the joint, Westie, arms folded, took a stroll around the room. Alice didn’t come in here very much any more. She stuck to the kitchen and bedroom. The mess irritated her, yet she was reluctant to tidy up in case it interfered with his creativity. She’d explained about a poet she’d been friendly with at college whose flatmates had done this big spring-clean of his bedroom one time and surprised him with it. He’d tried to be grateful but hadn’t been able to write poetry in there for weeks afterwards. Westie had considered this, then had asked just exactly how ‘friendly’ the two had been.
Cue another lovers’ tiff.
When the doorbell sounded, he realised he’d been practically asleep, staring out of the window at the passing traffic for at least a few minutes. Bed was one answer, but Alice would be expecting him to have achieved something with the day. The doorbell rang again and he considered who it might be. Did he owe money? Would Alice’s parents want a quiet word, maybe slip him a few quid to clear out? Someone rattling a tin for charity or needing to know his political leanings? Last thing he needed in his life were these constant interruptions. He was meant to be working . . . putting the finishing touches . . . surfing the junkyards and bric-a-brac merchants for cheap gilt frames into which to place his Stubbs, his Constable, his Raeburn . . .
Instead of which, he found himself opening the door to one of those people whose marks counted most: Professor Robert Gissing, in the flesh, and apologising for the intrusion.
‘Looked for you in the studios, and then in your allocated exhibition space . . .’
‘I keep most of my paintings here, tend to work on them at night.’
‘Hence the bleary expression, eh?’ Gissing was smiling. ‘Would it be all
right with you, Mr Westwater, if we were to come inside for a moment? Rest assured, it won’t take long.’
‘We’ because there were two other men with him. Gissing introduced them as ‘two friends’, but didn’t mention names, and Westie didn’t recognise their faces. Dealers, perhaps, or maybe collectors, here to make pre-emptive bids on the contents of his degree show? He didn’t think so, but he led the way into the living room. Gissing had taken charge and was gesturing for them all to be seated. One of the ‘friends’ made to remove the covering sheet from the sofa.
‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ Westie warned him. ‘Got it from a skip . . . a few interesting stains.’
‘And the aroma of turps,’ the visitor decided.
‘To cover the more interesting smells.’
Gissing was sniffing the air. ‘It’s not turpentine I’m detecting, Mr Westwater, it’s something much more akin to our old friend Cannabis sativa.’
‘Guilty as charged,’ Westie said. ‘Helps my brain to get moving.’
The three visitors nodded slowly, and silence descended. Westie interrupted with a cough. ‘I’d offer tea or something,’ he apologised, ‘but we’re all out of milk.’
Gissing waved this aside, then rubbed his hands together, making eye contact with the classier-looking of the two strangers. It was this man who eventually spoke.
‘What we’d like to do,’ he said, ‘is help you buy yourself a new sofa - and maybe a few other bits and pieces besides.’ He hadn’t sat down, and was inspecting some of Westie’s work instead. The accent was local and hadn’t travelled too far from the tenements.
‘You’re in the market for a painting?’ Westie shifted a little. ‘I didn’t think the professor was my biggest fan.’
‘I can see you have a talent,’ Gissing objected with a thin smile. ‘And I’m enough of a “fan” to ensure that you pass the course with distinction. You know what that would mean - a real chance of being accepted for something in the postgraduate line.’
‘Is this some sort of . . . what do you call it . . . ?’
‘Faustian pact?’ Gissing offered. ‘Not a bit of it.’
‘Though there would be that cash incentive,’ the stranger reminded him.
‘As head of the College of Art,’ Gissing added, ‘I’ve taken a look at your file, Westie. Each year you’ve applied for every bursary and hardship grant going.’
‘And been turned down for all of them,’ the student reminded him.
‘So what’s your debt up to now? Five figures, I’m guessing . . . Fresh start, clean slate - that’s what’s on offer here.’
‘Well, I’d be happy to show you some of my work . . .’
‘I’m looking at your work, Mr Westwater,’ the talkative stranger said.
‘Everyone calls me Westie.’
The man nodded. ‘I’m pretty impressed.’ He had picked up the Stubbs horse. Its coat shone like a freshly peeled chestnut. ‘You’ve an eye for colour. Besides which, we already have it on the professor’s authority that you know what you’re doing when it comes to copies. But we wouldn’t be buying off the peg, Westie . . .’
‘A commission?’ Westie was almost bouncing on the spot, even though he still didn’t feel comfortable. Why didn’t the other stranger say anything? He just kept checking his phone for text messages.
‘A secret commission,’ Gissing was correcting him. ‘No questions asked.’
But now the talkative stranger was looking at the professor. ‘Thing is, Robert, I can see that Westie here’s not stupid - he’s suspicious, and rightly so. We can hardly keep the project a secret from him, can we? He’ll find out eventually.’ He was homing in on Westie now, still holding the Stubbs in one hand as he walked to within a foot of the student. But when he spoke, Gissing still seemed his target. ‘We need Westie to be part of it, and that means trusting him.’ He smiled for the young man’s benefit. ‘The professor tells me you have an anarchic streak - you like to poke fun at the art establishment. Is that right?’
Westie didn’t know which answer would serve him best, so he just shrugged instead. The man who had yet to talk made a show of clearing his throat. He had finished with his phone and was holding up a used stencil, which had been teased out from below the sofa.
‘I’ve seen these around town,’ he said - posh Edinburgh tones - keeping his voice low as if fearing being told off.
The other stranger examined the stencil, and his smile broadened. ‘You want to be the next Banksy?’
‘There was a story in the papers,’ the second stranger said. ‘Police seemed very keen to talk to the artist responsible . . .’
‘That’s the anti-establishment stance I was talking about.’ The first stranger faced Westie again and waited for him to say something. This time, Westie decided to oblige.
‘So you want me to copy a painting?’ he blurted out.
‘Half a dozen, actually,’ Gissing corrected him. ‘All of them from the national collection.’
‘And it’s to be done without anyone knowing?’ Westie’s eyes were widening. Was he stoned and imagining this whole thing? ‘They’ve been stolen, is that it? And the gallery doesn’t want any of the public to get an inkling . . .’
‘I told you he was smart.’ The visitor was leaning the Stubbs back against the skirting board. ‘Now then, Westie, if we’ve whetted your appetite, maybe we can take you to the professor’s office and show you just exactly what we’re after . . .’
8
The four of them sat at individual desks in Robert Gissing’s room. He still gave occasional tutorials, hence the chairs with writing surfaces attached. His secretary had left for the day - at Gissing’s request. Mike and Allan had eventually introduced themselves to Westie by their first names, having decided that it would be too cumbersome to use aliases. After all, it wasn’t as though Gissing could use one, and if Westie went to the police with the professor’s name, it wouldn’t take a Columbo or a Frost to connect Mike and Allan with him.
Mike wasn’t sure why Allan had said so little back in Westie’s flat - cold feet, perhaps, or maybe it was because Mike had already stated his intention to bankroll the operation. Stood to reason they’d need funds, and Mike was the one with cash to spare. For a start, he was sure Westie would need paying - payment for his silence, as well as his expertise.
At this stage, of course, it was still a game they were playing. Making the copies didn’t mean they had to take the scheme any further. Allan had seemed to accept this, but maybe also thought that Mike, being willing to pay for the privilege, should be the one to do the talking.
‘Whatever I end up forking out, I might still be getting a masterpiece on the cheap,’ Mike had assured him.
‘Not that we’re doing this for the money,’ Gissing had growled.
The professor’s room was chaotic. He had already cleared some of his bookshelves into boxes in preparation for retirement. There was a stack of mail on his desk, along with a computer and an old golfball-style typewriter. More books were heaped either side of the desk, and piles of art magazines were threatening to topple. The walls were cluttered with prints by Giotto, Rubens, Goya and Brueghel the Elder - these were the ones Mike recognised. There was a dusty CD player on one shelf and half a dozen classical titles. Von Karajan seemed to be the conductor of choice.
The blinds had been closed, leaving the room in semi-darkness. A screen had been pulled down from the ceiling immediately in front of the bookcases, so that Gissing could show them a wide selection of slides from the collection of the National Galleries, everything from Old Masters to Cubism and beyond. On the way over, Mike had explained a little more of the plan to Westie, who had slapped his knees, laughing with glee. Maybe it was just the dope kicking in.
‘If I can help, count me in,’ he’d said between gulps of air.
‘Don’t be too hasty,’ Mike had cautioned. ‘You need to think things through.’
‘After which, if you still want in,’ Gissing had added, ‘you’ll
have to start taking it a bit more seriously.’
Now, as they looked at the slides, Westie slurped cola from a vending machine can. He sat forward in his chair, both knees pumping.
‘I could do that,’ was his refrain as the slides came and went.
Gissing, Allan and Mike had already pored over the slides, all of them showing items held in the overflow warehouse. Where possible, Gissing had found reproductions on paper to accompany them. These sat on the various desks, but Mike and Allan felt no need to study them further - they had already chosen a couple of favourites apiece, as had Gissing himself. But they needed to be confident that the young artist would cope with the different styles and periods.