Murder as a Fine Art (18 page)

Grinning, Richard took her by the arm and marched her across the main gallery to the smaller one at the far end. Shapes, made of plaster and glaringly white under the bright lights, were grouped together on the floor.

“They look like so many toad stools and mushrooms,” said Laura. “Do you know what they're supposed to be?”

“Did I not promise you a wonder?” Richard waved his arm expansively. “Welcome to the
Urinary Garden
!”

Laura glanced again at the installation, then went over to read the write-up stapled to the wall. “That's the best part,” said Richard. “It's hilarious.”

The write-up explained how the artist had been exploring aspects of sexuality by making works that referred to the female body — usually her own. The series, called the
Urinary Garden,
had been produced during the artist's two-week residence in the colony. The works were “biological images made from life” — plaster casts of female and male urinations in the snow.

“I remember hearing about an artist from Wales waiting for the right snow conditions,” said Laura. “Now I guess we know why.”

“Keep on reading, “Richard told her. “Look at all the grants she received for this project. The lady is a grant junkie.”

“She certainly knows how to work the system,” agreed Laura as she read the grateful acknowledgments of grants from the Canada Council, the Guggenheim, and two other foundations whose names she didn't recognize. Under the heading
Contributions
, the artist thanked all those who had contributed to the project. Laura recognized a couple of names: Charlene Adams, the lesbian printmaker, and, among the men, Jeremy Switzer. Trust Jeremy to get involved in something like
this. He would load up with a couple of beers and laugh with delight as he peed into the pristine snow.

The attendant was still immersed in her book as they left. Richard, who was enjoying himself enormously, stopped at her desk to tell her how fortunate they were to have caught the exhibit before it was taken down.

“Oh, but it's been extended for another month,” she said.

“That's odd. I thought it had to come down to make room for John Smith's performance.”

“That's been moved. Haven't you heard? There's been so much interest in his recital that they've decided to transfer it to the Eric Harvie Theatre. Look at the poster by the main door as you leave.”

They stopped to examine the poster, which was just inside the front door. A wide band of paper announcing the change in venue—” by popular demand”— had been pasted diagonally across the poster.

“What do you think of that?” John Smith suddenly appeared in the doorway. Uncharacteristically, he seemed almost excited.

“Congratulations,” said Richard. “This should make you famous.”

John Smith's thin lips tightened. “Fame means nothing to me.”

“Come off it,” Laura scoffed. “You're a performance artist and, by definition, performance artists need audiences. The bigger the better.”

John Smith gave her a measured look, then drew himself up. “As usual, you are right. When John Smith creates Art, he wants the world to know about it,” he chuckled as if suddenly struck by an amusing idea.

“I'd like to show you something,” he said, falling into step beside them. “Why don't you both come to my studio?”

Richard cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Laura, and she nodded. Viewing John Smith's art usually meant being the victim of it. Nevertheless, she was curious to see what went on in his studio. He had the Ron Thom Studio, designed by the late Toronto architect, located directly across from Richard's studio and next to where the boat studio had once stood.

John Smith unlocked his studio door and waved them in with a low bow. Inside, five female mannequins, all of them naked to the waist, were the first things that caught the eye. They were grouped by themselves in a dark corner. Thinking there would be a video camera somewhere, Laura kept her face expressionless as she gave them a cursory look. One mannequin clutched the bars of a small cage, another was lashed to a cross, the third was tied to a chair, and the remaining two were shackled together.

But John Smith didn't seem interested in the mannequins. Maybe they were props from a past installation, or part of a project he had abandoned. He didn't so much as glance at them as he led his guests over to a paint-daubed bench beside an equally splattered sink — the Thom Studio was normally used by painters. He had assembled what looked like a junior crime lab on the bench. There was a small microscope, a magnifying glass, a fingerprint kit, a test tube rack, and various small jars and plastic bags. The display looked like the sort of thing that a pre-teen playing detective might have put together. Laura looked for her lock of hair among the objects littering the bench, but it didn't seem to be there. But there were plenty of other items with a human connection: a cigarette butt smeared with lipstick, a sheet of music — Marek's probably — the notorious slice of tape, a number of Polaroid prints, one of which, disturbingly, showed the interior of
Laura's studio. Richard swore under his breath and picked up a typed sheet of manuscript covered with penciled notations.

“This is mine. What are you doing with it?”

“I like to have little mementos of my friends,” replied John Smith looking amused when Richard folded the page and put it in his pocket. Laura was sure he would have a copy somewhere. He made no attempt to explain what he was doing with the equipment and the bizarre collection of personal items. He seemed content to have them know they were there. As so often was the case with him, the symbolism seemed more important than the reality. While he hovered over the bench, Laura glanced around the cluttered studio, looking for the video camera. Intentionally or otherwise, John Smith had transformed the studio into a surrealistic happening. Masks and costumes were strewn about everywhere; some were hanging on the walls, others were lying on the floor and along the back of the sofa. A muffled whirring sound gave away the camera's location. It was hidden inside a grotesque mask that John Smith had once worn to a “Bad Dreams” party at the Centre. The mask had a gaping mouth that accommodated the camera's wide-angle lens. It was probably capable of filming almost everything that took place in the studio.

Laura decided to ignore it, and turned back to John Smith with a look that seemed to ask, “Is that all there is?” He smiled thinly, pulled a lever, and a figure, arms flapping wildly, sprang up from behind the sofa. Its blue mouth leering horribly, it swayed from side to side before finally coming to rest.

“This is quite a collection of toys you have here.” Richard gave the dummy a push, making it sway on its springs again.

“It's better at night with the lights off,” John Smith said, with a look of childish disappointment. “His face glows in the dark.”

Laura, who was beginning to relax and enjoy herself, sat down on the sofa, ready for whatever other treats John Smith might have in store for them. A Bible lay open on the coffee table. Wondering whether it would explode in her face, she picked it up. It was opened at the Book of Revelation. Watching her, John Smith nodded approvingly. “That's what I'm going to call my performance. Revelation.”

“Revelation about what? Or need I ask?”

“You'll find out at the proper time.” John Smith tried to look omniscient, but only succeeded in looking smug.

“Is it all right if I move this?” Laura pointed to a gorilla mask glaring over her shoulder.

“If it bothers you, yes.” John Smith seemed to feel he had scored a minor victory.

“It doesn't bother me. It's just in my way.” Turning to pick up the mask, Laura saw a large paper dragon lying on the floor behind the sofa. It looked oddly pathetic, as if it were dying. Then Laura saw that what she at first had taken to be wounds were just the spaces where John Smith had yet to finish covering the bamboo frame with crepe paper. The dragon was red, or would be when it was finished. Looking more closely, Laura saw that it was designed to be worn as a costume. There was an opening in its belly where an actor, presumably John Smith, could put it on.

Revelation. Laura's parents had dutifully sent her to Sunday School until she convinced them that her time would be better spent painting. By then, however, she had been exposed to the apocalyptic visions in the Book of Revelation. It was a nightmarish watercolour she did of the fifth angel, his trumpet blaring while a
blazing star fell from heaven, and fire and smoke rose from the bottomless pit that finally persuaded her parents to let her stay home.

“The great red dragon. Wasn't he ...?” Laura picked up the Bible, turned some pages and began to read aloud. “‘And another portent appeared in heaven; behold a great red dragon, with seven heads and seven diadems upon his heads. His tail swept down a third of the stars of heaven, and cast them to the earth.'” She closed the Bible and placed it back on the table. “Is the great red dragon going to be your messenger?”

“Very good, Laura. You're very quick. But you'll have to wait for the night of the performance.”

But Laura wasn't listening. One of the mannequins had moved! The telltale movement was almost imperceptible, just a slight rise of a breast as she eased the pressure of the thongs that bound her to the cross. Laura was mildly surprised that she hadn't spotted her before, but John Smith had cleverly managed to divert their attention. Now that she knew what she was looking for, it was easy to detect the slight movement of the model's chest as she took a shallow breath. A quick glance at the other figures confirmed that they were “real” mannequins. Once again, John Smith had stood reality on its head.

“She must be terribly uncomfortable holding her breath like that,” Laura remarked casually.

“She likes it,” John Smith snapped. He looked thoroughly put out. Laura was puzzled as to what the “fake” mannequin was doing there. John Smith could-n't have known she and Richard would be coming back to the studio with him. Maybe it was a rehearsal, or more likely, John Smith had deliberately gone looking for some unsuspecting victims he could lure into the studio and startle out of their wits when the mannequin
suddenly came to life. He must have been hugging himself with glee when she and Richard agreed to visit him.

“Are you all right?” Richard asked the woman with genuine concern. While this had all the earmarks of one of John Smith's performances, it was possible that she had been tied up against her will.

“I'm okay,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“It's Charlene, isn't it?” Although her shorn blond hair was covered with a black wig, Laura recognized the printmaker who worked part-time in housekeeping. Laura had seen a revealing collection of Polaroid's in Charlene's studio in the art building. The walls were lined with pictures of Charlene and her girlfriends laughing, drinking wine, hugging and kissing one another.

“Yeah,” she replied with another shrug. Suddenly the thongs fell away from her wrists, dropping to the floor with a soft thud. Rubbing her wrists, she stepped away from the cross and unhurriedly took her shirt down from a hook and slipped into it.

Richard signalled that it was time to leave. As they walked toward the door, John Smith placed his hand on Laura's arm. “You're very good, you know. Very observant. I like that. How would you like to assist me with my project?”

Remembering how the performance artist had fixated on Erika in the days before her death, Laura wondered if she was to become his next subject. She had no intention of letting that happen.

“I'm sure that would be very interesting,” she said. “But I'm totally wrapped up in my own work at the moment. As a fellow artist, I know you will understand.”

Put that way, John Smith had no choice but to accept her refusal. But there was something threatening in the scowl that darkened his face as Richard held the door open for her and followed her out.

“Listen,” said Laura as she and Richard crossed the footbridge. “It's Schubert,” she said as the gentle notes wafted through the air. “That must be Isabelle practicing the sonatas.”

The window was partially open and a gentle breeze tugged at the lightly woven drapes, spreading them slightly apart. Isabelle was seated at the Baldwin, her back to them as her fingers moved over the keys. They lingered for a few moments while Laura fed the scene into her visual memory book. She would paint it, sooner than later.

“Are we going to see each other tonight?” Richard asked as they resumed their leisurely stroll.

“Not tonight. I've got some serious reading to do.” Laura paused and laid a hand on Richard's arm. “I took one of Henry's books out of the library. I need a block of time to really delve into it.”

Richard stared at her for a moment, then shrugged, and said, “Everyone to their own taste,” as they walked on.

Propped up in bed, Laura opened
Demystifying Deconstructionism.
Its weight made her grateful that she had brought her portable reading stand from Denver with her. She had expected Henry's book to be heavy going, but soon found that it was highly readable. The sarcasm and condescension that marred his every day conversation were totally absent in his writing. It helped that she agreed with his central thesis — that deconstructionism was a self-destructing philosophy that failed to recognize that the whole could be more that the sum of its parts. Looking up from the page, Laura nodded to herself. Henry's book itself was an example of what he was saying. In addition to the
words and the ideas, there was also his prose style, sure-footed and lucid. If, as the deconstructionists would have it, you took that away and broke the text down into the individual words, attaching equal weight to each one, the whole exercise would become meaningless. Unavoidably perhaps, Norrington occasionally lapsed into professional jargon, twice forcing Laura out of bed to consult her dictionary. But she always enjoyed learning new words, no matter how arcane.