Usher became intense, almost pleading. ''Listen, if you turn me down, I may have to start painting houses. Don't you see--I must have a gallery!''
''You will survive, Mr. Usher. In fact you'll do very well. In ten years' time you will be England's top painter.''
''Then why won't you take me on?''
Dixon sighed impatiently. He found the conversation extremely distasteful. ''We're not your sort of gallery at the moment. As you know, we deal mainly in late-nineteenth-century painting, and sculptures. We have only two living artists under contract to our galleries, and they are both well-established. Furthermore, our style is not yours.''
''What the hell does that mean?''
Dixon stood up. ''Mr. Usher, I have tried to turn you down politely, and I have tried to explain my position reasonably, without harsh words or undue bluntness--more courtesy, I feel sure, than you would grant me. But you force me to be utterly frank. Last night you created a terribly embarrassing scene at the Belgrave. You insulted its owner and scandalized his guests. I do not want that kind of scene at Dixon's. And now I bid you good day.''
Peter stood up, his head thrust aggressively forward. He started to speak, hesitated, then turned on his heel and left.
He strode along the corridor, through the foyer, and out into the street. He climbed onto his bicycle and sat on the saddle, looking up at the windows above.
He shouted: ''And fuck you, too!'' Then he cycled away.
He vented his rage on the pedals, kicking down viciously and building up speed. He ignored traffic lights, one-way signs, and bus lanes. At junctions he swerved onto the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians, looking distinctly manic with his hair flowing in the wind behind him, his long beard, and his businessman's suit.
After a while he found himself cycling along the Embankment near Victoria, his fury exhausted. It had been a mistake to get involved with the art establishment in the first place, he decided. Dixon had been right: his style was not theirs. The prospect had been seductive at the time: a contract with one of the old-line, ultrarespectable galleries seemed to offer permanent security. It was a bad thing for a young painter. Perhaps it had affected his work.
He should have stuck with the fringe galleries, the young rebels: places like the Sixty-Nine, which had been a tremendous revolutionary force for a couple of years before it went bust.
His subconscious was directing him to the King's Road, and he suddenly realized why. He had heard that Julian Black, a slight acquaintance from art school days, was opening a new gallery to be called the Black Gallery. Julian was a bright spark: iconoclastic, scornful of art world tradition, passionately interested in painting, although a hopeless painter himself.
Peter braked to a stop outside a shop front. Its windows were daubed with whitewash, and a pile of planks lay on the sidewalk outside. A signwriter on a ladder was painting the name above the place. So far he had written: ''The Black Ga.''
Peter parked the bike. Julian would be ideal, he decided. He would be looking for painters, and he would be thrilled to pull in someone as well-known as Peter Usher.
The door was not locked, and Peter walked in over a paint-smeared tarpaulin. The walls of the large room had been painted white, and an electrician was fixing spotlights to the ceiling. At the far end a man was laying carpet over the concrete floor.
Peter saw Julian immediately. He stood just inside the entrance, talking to a woman whose face was vaguely familiar. He wore a black velvet suit with a bow tie. His hair was earlobe length, neatly cut, and he was good-looking in a rather public-school sort of way.
He turned around as Peter entered, an expression of polite welcome on his face, as if he was about to say ''Can I help you?'' His expression changed to recognition, and he said: ''God, Peter Usher! This is a surprise. Welcome to the Black Gallery!''
They shook hands. Peter said: ''You're looking prosperous.''
''A necessary illusion. But you're doing well--my God, a house of your own, a wife and baby--you realize you ought to be starving in a garret?'' He laughed as he said it.
Peter jerked an inquiry toward the woman.
''Ah, sorry,'' Julian said. ''Meet Samantha. You know the face.''
The woman said: ''Hi.''
''Of course!'' Peter exclaimed. ''The actress! Delighted.'' He shook her hand. To Julian he said: ''Look, I wondered if you and I could talk business for a minute.''
Julian looked puzzled and a little wary. ''Sure,'' he said.
''I must be off,'' Samantha said. ''See you soon.''
Julian held the door for her, then came back and sat on a packing case. ''Okay, old friend: shoot.''
''I've left the Belgrave,'' Peter said. ''I'm looking around for a new place to hang my daubings. I think this might be it. Remember how well we worked together organizing the Rag Ball? I think we might be a good team again.''
Julian frowned and looked at the window. ''You haven't been selling well lately, Pete.''
Peter threw up his hands. ''Oh, come on, Julian, you can't turn me down! I'd be a scoop for you.''
Julian put his hands on Peter's shoulders. ''Let me explain something to you, old mate. I had twenty thousand pounds to start this gallery. You know how much I've spent already? Nineteen thousand. You know how many pictures I've bought with that? None.''
''What's it all gone on?''
''Advance rent, furniture, decoration, staff, deposits on this, deposits on that, publicity. This is a hard business to get into, Pete. Now if I were to take you on, I'd have to give you decent space--not just because we're friends, but also because otherwise it would get around that I was selling you short, and that would harm my reputation--you know what an incestuous little circle this is.''
''I know.''
''But your work isn't selling. Pete, I can't afford to use precious wall space for work I can't sell. In the first six months of this year four London galleries went bankrupt. I could so easily go that way.''
Peter nodded slowly. He felt no anger. Julian was not one of the fat parasites of the art world--he was at the bottom of the pile, along with the artists.
There was no more to be said. Peter walked slowly to the door. As he opened it Julian called out: ''I'm sorry.''
Peter nodded again, and walked out.
He sat on a stool in the classroom at seven-thirty, while the pupils filed in. He had not known, when he took on the job of teaching art classes in the local polytechnic, how grateful he would one day be for the PS20 a week it brought in. The teaching was a bore, and there was never more than one youngster in each class with even a glimmering of talent; but the money paid the mortgage and the grocery bill, just.
He sat silent as they settled behind their easels, wait ing for him to give the go-ahead or to begin a lecture. He had had a couple of drinks on the way: the expenditure of a few shillings seemed trivial compared with the disaster which had overtaken his career.
He was a successful teacher, he knew: the pupils liked his obvious enthusiasm and his blunt, sometimes cruel assessments of their work. And he could improve their work, even the ones with no talent; he could show them tricks and point out technical faults, and he had a way of making them remember.
Half of them wanted to go in for Fine Art qualifications, the fools. Somebody ought to tell them they were wasting their time--they should make painting their hobby, and enjoy it all their lives while working as bank clerks and computer programmers.
Hell, somebody ought to tell them.
They were all here. He stood up.
''Tonight we are going to talk about the art world,'' he said. ''I expect some of you hope to become part of that world before too long.'' There were one or two nods around the room.
''Well, for those who do, here's the best piece of advice anyone can give you. Forget it.
''Let me tell you about it. A couple of months ago eight paintings were sold in London for a total of four hundred thousand pounds. Two of those painters died in poverty. You know how it works? When an artist is ali
ve, he dedicates himself to art, pouring his life's blood out on the canvas.'' Peter nodded wryly. ''Melodramatic, isn't it? But it's true. You see, all he really cares about is painting. But the fat guys, the rich guys, the society women, the dealers, and the collectors looking for investments and tax losses--they don't like his work. They want something safe and familiar, and besides, they know nothing--sweet FA--about art. So they don't buy, and the painter dies young. Then, in a few years' time, one or two perceptive people begin to see what he was getting at, and they buy his pictures--from friends he gave them to, from junk shops, from fly-blown art galleries in Bournemouth and Watford. The price rises, and dealers start buying the pictures. Suddenly the artist becomes (a) fashionable and (b) a good investment. His paintings fetch astronomical prices--fifty thousand, two hundred thousand, you name it. Who makes the money? The dealers, the shrewd investors, the people who had enough taste to buy the pictures before they became trendy. And the auctioneers, and their staff, and the salesroom, and their secretaries. Everybody but the artist--because he's dead. Meanwhile, today's young artists are struggling to keep body and soul together. In the future, their pictures will sell for astronomical sums--but that's no good to them now.
''You might think the Government would take a cut on these big art deals, and use it to build low-rent studios. But no. The artist is the loser, always.
''Let me tell you about me. I was somewhat exceptional--my work started to sell well during my lifetime. I took out a mortgage and fathered a child on the strength of it. I was England's up-and-coming painter. But things went wrong. I was 'overpriced,' they say. I went out of fashion. My manners don't quite fit in with polite society. Suddenly, I'm desperately poor. I'm on the scrap heap. Oh, I've still got enormous talent, they say. In ten years' time I'll be at the top. But meanwhile, I can starve, or dig ditches, or rob banks. They don't care--you see--'' He paused, and realized for the first time how long he had been speaking, and how engrossed he had been in his own words. The classroom was completely silent in the presence of such fury, such passion, and such a naked confession.
''You see,'' he said finally, ''the last thing they care about is the man who actually uses his God-given gift to produce the miracle of a painting--the artist.''
He sat down on the stool then, and looked at the desk in front of him. It was an old school desk with initials carved in the woodwork, and ancient ink stains soaked into its wood. He looked at the grain, noticing how it flowed like an op-art painting.
The pupils seemed to realize that the class was over. One by one they got up, put their things together, and left. In five minutes the room was empty but for Peter, who laid his head on the desk and closed his eyes.
It was dark when he got home to the small terraced house in Clapham. It had been difficult to get a mortgage on the place, cheap as it was, because of its age. But they had managed it.
Peter had turned handyman and created a studio out of the upper floor, knocking down internal walls and making a skylight. The three of them slept in the bedroom downstairs, leaving one living room and the kitchen, bathroom and toilet in an extension at the back.
He went into the kitchen and kissed Anne. ''I relieved my feelings by shouting at the kids, I'm afraid,'' he said.
''Never mind,'' she smiled. ''Mad Mitch has come to cheer you up. He's in the studio. I'm just making some sandwiches for us.''
Peter went up the stairs. Mad Mitch was Arthur Mitchell, who had studied with Peter at the Slade. He had become a teacher, refusing to go into the risky, commercial business of being a full-time artist. He shared Peter's utter contempt for the art world and its pretensions.
He was looking at a recently finished canvas when Peter walked in.
''What do you think of it?'' Peter said.
''Bad question,'' Mitch replied. ''It invites me to pour out a load of bullshit about movement, brush-work, design, and emotion. Better to ask whether I would hang it on my wall.''
''Would you hang it on your wall?''
''No. It would clash with the three-piece suite.''
Peter laughed. ''Are you going to open that bottle of scotch you brought with you?''
''Sure. Let's have a wake.''
''Anne told you?''
''She did. You've discovered for yourself what I warned you of years ago. Still, there's nothing like finding out on your own account.''
''I'll say.'' Peter fetched two grubby glasses from a shelf, and Mitch poured whisky. They put on a Hendrix record, and listened to the fireworks from the guitar in silence for a while. Anne brought cheese sandwiches, and the three of them proceeded to get drunk.
''The worst of it,'' Mitch was saying, ''the kernel, as it were, of the shit, as it is--''
Peter and Anne laughed at the mixed metaphor. ''Go on,'' Peter said.
''The fundamental piece of godawful bollocks, is the uniqueness of a work. Very few paintings are unique in any meaningful sense. Unless there's something very tricky about it--like the Mona Lisa smile, to take the outstanding example--then it can be repeated.''
''Not exactly,'' Peter put in.
''Exactly where it matters. A few millimeters of space, a difference in color which is only just noticeable--these things don't matter with your average fifty-thousand-pound painting. My God, Manet didn't paint an exact replica of an ideal picture in his head--he just put the paint roughly where he thought it ought to go. He just mixed the color until it seemed about right.
''Take the Virgin of the Rocks. There's one in the Louvre, one in the National Gallery. Everybody agrees that one of them is a fake--but which? The Louvre's, say the London experts. The National Gallery's, say the French. We'll never know--but who cares? You just have to look at them to see their greatness. Yet if somebody found out for certain that one was a fake, nobody would go to see it anymore. Bullshit.''
He drank from his glass, and poured more whisky. Anne said: ''I don't believe you. It would take almost as much genius to copy a great painting, and get it right, as it would to paint it in the first place.''
''Rubbish!'' Mitch exploded. I'll prove it. Gimme a canvas, and I'll paint you a van Gogh in twenty minutes.''
''He's right,'' Peter said. ''I could do it, too.''
''But not as fast as me,'' said Mitch.
''Faster.''
''Right,'' said Mitch. He got to his feet. "We'll have a Masterpiece Race.''
Peter jumped up. ''You're on. Now--two sheets of paper-we can't waste canvas.''
Anne laughed. ''You're both mad.''
Mitch pinned the two bits of paper on the wall while Peter got two palettes out.
Mitch said: ''Name a painter, Anne.''
''All right--van Gogh.''
''Give us a name for the picture.''
''Umm--The Gravedigger.''
''Now say ready, steady, go.''
''Ready, steady, go.''
The two began painting furiously. Peter outlined a man leaning on a shovel, dabbed in some grass at his feet, and started to give the man overalls. Mitch began with a face: the lined, weary face of an old peasant. Anne watched with amazement as the two pictures took shape.
They both took longer than twenty minutes. They became absorbed in their work, and at one point Peter walked to the bookshelf and opened a book at a color plate.
Mitch's gravedigger was exerting himself, pressing the shovel into the hard earth with his foot, his bulky, graceless body bent over. He spent several minutes looking at the paper, adding touches, and looking again.
Peter began to paint something small in black at the bottom of his sheet. Suddenly Mitch yelled: ''Finished!''
Peter looked at Mitch's work. ''Swine,'' he said. Then he looked again. ''No, you haven't--no signature. Ha-hah!''
''Balls!'' Mitch bent over the picture and started to sign it. Peter finished his signature. Anne laughed at the pair of them.
They both stepped back at once. ''I won!'' they shouted in unison, and both burst out laughing.
Anne clapped her hands. ''Well,''
she said. ''If we ever hit the breadline, that's one way you could make a crust.''
Peter was still laughing. ''That's an idea,'' he roared. He and Mitch looked at one another. Their smiles slowly, comically, collapsed, and they stared at the paintings on the wall.
Peter's voice was low, cold, and serious. ''Jesus Christ Almighty,'' he said. ''That's an idea.''
IV
JULIAN BLACK WAS A little nervous as he walked into the entrance of the newspaper office. He got nervous a lot these days: over the gallery, the money, Sarah, and his in-laws. Which were really one and the same problem.
The marbled hall was rather grand, with a high ceiling, polished brass here and there, and frescoed walls. Somehow he had expected a newspaper office to be scruffy and busy, but this place looked like the lobby of a period brothel.
A gold-lettered signboard beside the ironwork elevator shaft told visitors what was to be found on each floor. The building housed a morning and evening paper as well as a clutch of magazines and journals.
''Can I help you, sir?'' Julian turned to see a uniformed commissionaire at his shoulder.
''Perhaps,'' Julian said. ''I'd like to see Mr. Jack Best.''
''Would you fill in one of our forms, please?''
Puzzled, Julian followed the man to a desk on one side of the foyer. He was handed a little green slip of paper with spaces for his name, the person he wanted to see, and his business. This kind of screening process was probably necessary, he thought charitably as he filled out the form with the gold Parker in his pocket. They must get a lot of screwballs coming along to a newspaper office.
It also made you feel rather privileged to be allowed to speak to the journalists, he thought. While he waited for the message to be taken to Best, he wondered about the wisdom of coming in person. It might have been as well just to send out press releases. He smoothed his hair and straightened his jacket nervously.
There had been a time when nothing made him nervous. That was many years ago. He had been a champion schoolboy distance runner, head prefect, leader of the debating team. It seemed he could do nothing but win. Then he had taken up art. For the umpteenth time, he traced his troubles back to that crazy, irrational decision. Since then he had done nothing but lose. The only prize he had won was Sarah, and she had turned out to be a phony kind of victory. Her and her gold Parkers, he thought. He realized he was clicking the button of the ballpoint compulsively, and stuffed it back into his jacket pocket with an exasperated sigh. Her gold everything, and her Mercedes, and her gowns, and her bloody father.