Paint. The art of scam. (23 page)

Polly pulled out
one of her stylish business cards from her pocket and handed it to him.

‘Why don't you
hang on to these and think about it for a while? Here's my number and if I
don't hear from you in a few days, I'll pop in and pick them up. Ok?’

‘Yes. Yes Ok,’
replied Carva.

‘I trust you will
be discreet about this matter Mr. Carva. As you know it is perfectly legal to
do this but, a tinge unconventional.’

‘Of course,’ said
Carva indignantly.

Polly left him
gazing at the paintings. She could see the wheels turning in his head, as she
headed for the door.

‘See you soon Mr.
Carva.’

‘Yes. Yes Mrs.
Capital I may be in touch.’

By the time Polly
got home, Seymour was cooking dinner. Not only had Seymour become a dab hand at
cooking, he was actually enjoying it. He was also making a passable
contribution to domesticities, which gave a welcome harmony to their life. The
only duty in which he did fail miserably was tidiness, but nothing would change
that. The sheer simplistic beauty of his work, came from the chaos that Seymour
was: deep inside. Polly had learned to live with it and despite the wake of
homespun debris around Seymour, managed miraculously to keep her side of the
studio tastefully in order.

‘Hello darlin’,’
said Seymour as he expertly tossed the steaming wok. ‘How’s things?’

‘Oh, I've had a
big day. Good though.’

Polly was always
grateful that Seymour never asked her in detail about her movements, but then
she wouldn't have it any other way.

‘Some bloke
called Simon Carva called just a minute ago.’

‘Oh really?’

‘He said for you
to either call him, or he'll call back later.’

‘Great!’

Polly had decided
on the way home not to tell Seymour about Carva; just in case it fell through.
She had got herself and Seymour excited before about possible opportunities,
that had turned out to be nothing more than her own wishful thinking. Polly was
learning fast never to assume anything: Seymour's cynicism didn't need feeding.
But this was different. Carva's prompt response could only mean one thing.

‘Seymour, I think
I've got a gallery to show your work.’

‘Oh great,’ said
Seymour trying his best to sound sincere. ‘Which one?’

‘The Carva
gallery.’

Seymour smiled
and looked across at Polly.

‘You mean that
one near Olympia, near to the tattoo place?’

‘No. There's no
tattoo place.’

‘Probably closed
down. Thought the gallery had too.’ said Seymour as he sniffed at the steam
from the Wok. ‘I've seen it. That's one of the straightest, stiffest and
stuffiest places in town Polly. Why would they be interested in my work?. I'm
still alive for one thing. They specialise in dead artists.’

‘They are
changing their style. Honestly, I was talking to him this afternoon. Carva
really likes your work.’

Seymour gently
placed the wok tools on the bench and looked at Polly through the steam.

‘You'd have to
pay them to show my work Polly. I'm sorry darling, but I'm just trying to be
realistic. Nobody will show work that won't sell. That's how they make money.’

‘But Carva thinks
they will. Ok!’ said Polly, getting irritated. ‘You'll see!’

Seymour nodded. ‘Good.
Can't wait.’

Polly stormed up
to Seymour and stomped her foot.

‘Fuck you
Seymour!’ screamed Polly. ‘I've been working my ass off trying to get this
thing happening and all you can fucking do is put me down!’

‘Ok, Ok!’ said
Seymour backing away to the sink.

‘No Seymour, it's
not Ok. I'm sick to death of you. You ponce around like some fucking old Queen
with your head up your ass and what have you done to help me? Huh? Fuck All!
That's what!’

‘Ok, I'm sorry.’

‘Sorry my ass
Seymour. Fuck you. You go and get a job. I've had it!’

Polly grabbed the
boiling wok, threw it into the sink, turned and stomped toward the door.

‘Polly!’
bellowed Seymour.

Seymour's booming
voice crashed through the air and stopped her in her tracks. She stood there,
gripping the door handle, looking at Seymour holding the empty wok in front of
him, his eyes alternating between its emptiness and then to Polly.

‘That, Polly,’
shouted Seymour angrily, ‘Was the last of my fresh ginger in that wok!’

Polly's eyes
fired at him. She yanked at the door and left, slamming it behind her.

Seymour waited,
listened. Nothing. He went over to the front window and eased back the curtain.
He could just see her, walking down the street; the faint furious click of her
heels on the pavement fading, as she disappeared out of sight.

Seymour returned
to the sink and wondered if he should attempt to salvage the dinner. It seemed
a shame to waste it. But then again, there are all those mysterious, deadly
bugs lurking in the U bend. He'd seen them in a Drano ad on the TV, when he was
ten and had worried about them ever since.

Seymour hoped
that maybe Polly would have the foresight to pop around the shop and get some
more ginger when she calms down from her ridiculous tantrum. If they've got any
ginger that is. He'd walked all the way over Waitrose to get that last lot. It
was expensive, but worth every penny compared to that dried crap. God! He hoped
she doesn't get the dried crap. Still, got everything else. He'd make another
meal. Have a whole new stir fry sorted out by the time she comes back. That’s
the thing about ginger. If you cut it up small enough you can literally add it
last. In some ways it tastes better that way, as its unique flavour doesn’t get
lost in all the other herbs.

Polly kept
walking. She had no idea where she was going, but reached Kensington High
street and remembered there was an opening, down at The Warehouse, a new
gallery just opened in the seedy end of Kensington. She felt calm now, her
spontaneous outburst at Seymour had left as quickly as it had erupted via her
pounding feet. She thought about phoning him but decided to let him sweat.

Polly slipped in
through the door and swam through the mumbling crowd to find the drinks,
overhearing snatches of conversation en route and cowering under a lacerated
male shop window mannequin stuffed with dummy grenades with a huge rubber
octopus placed where the genitals should be.

‘But surely lack
of aesthetic appeal ostracises the virgin viewer from the desire to co-operate?’

‘Helen darling,
how was the trip?’

‘Anyway enough
of me, what do you think of my new book?’

‘Hi Sarah
darling, so glad you could make it!’

‘Oh really, I
thought it rather trite to be honest, still.’

‘My dialock
should only be heard by ze peoples who wish to take ze time to look and listen.’

‘But surely if
you are going to display your work in public, you must have a need to communicate.’

‘Ya. But if you
find zis ugly you have a closed mind. Your concept of beauty is already
defined. You must challenge beauty and zen your vision will have no cupboards
to hide in. Maybe if a man made zis you would accept it easily but because I am
ze woman you have a problem with it yes?...You would rather I make knitting
maybe?’

‘Now there's an
idea,’ thought Polly smiling, dodging a raised elbow as she reached the drinks
table. She was in luck, there was bubbly on offer. She took a glass; proper
flutes, she noted, exchanging a smile with the handsome Spanish looking young
man, who was pouring.

She took the
first sip, it was a good sparkling Chardonnay, perfect, this was a good show.
She scanned the room, yup, there they were, same old crowd, plus a few Civil
Servant looking types, who wore fixed smiles that had to give out sooner or
later. Must be funded by some government art grant, maybe elections coming up.

‘What do you
think then?’

Polly turned to
face the deep voice behind her. It was Harry Steadman, a tall, always
immaculately dressed, elderly gentleman she had met previously at other
openings and had shared many a glass of free wine with. Harry was a retired
Daily Mirror journalist, attempting to ward off boredom by writing critiques on
contemporary art that never got published. He was also a painter himself, was
writing a book called The Human Tribe, or something, and came to art openings
to get pissed for free. He also had a genuine interest in artists, not so much
their work, more why they do it. It was all something to do with redundant
instincts according to Harry. She had picked up a few useful tips from him.

Polly held up her
glass to Harry's and chinked it.

‘What you mean
that thing in the middle?’

‘Yes, rather
O.T.T. for me.’

‘I think it's
bloody ugly.’

‘Yes, quite. So
how are you Polly?’

‘I'm fine, how
about you?’

‘Oh you know
doodling along. That's Ingrid, the artist over there. Amazing lady.’ said Harry
jerking his glass in the direction of a hard looking woman with a severely cropped
punishment hairdo; who wore clothes, probably designed by a Russian
interrogator.

‘Bitter and
twisted old dyke if you ask me.’

Harry laughed. ‘Yes
maybe. But nonetheless she has a mind to be reckoned with, you should see her
early work. Astounding.’

‘Then why is she
churning out this rubbish?’

‘Because she can
I suppose. Still, everything is art Polly, everything is art.’ said Harry
downing his glass in one gulp.

Harry often said
things like that. Polly grabbed two full glasses of the chilled fruity, sparkling
Chardonnay from the passing tray carried by an agency waitress, who would much
rather be at home watching telly with her unemployable boyfriend.

‘Yes, everything
is art Harry, once you isolate it and put it on a stage, that's what you said
before, remember?’

‘Well, yes of
course.’

‘How's the book
coming along?’ said Polly offering one of the glasses to Harry.

‘Reached a bit a
block to be honest, got to this point where I thought I'd come up with the
origins of art.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well. If
everything is art, and I think you'll agree Warhole made that perfectly clear,
then there are definitely only two types of art.’

‘I'm intrigued.’
said Polly in a mocking tone that she knew she could do with Harry.

‘Good and bad.’ said
Harry wisely.

‘And how can you
tell the difference?’

‘Only you can
know that.’

‘That sounds like
a cop out to me.’ said Polly.

‘Mmmm, does
doesn't it, still not to worry.’

Harry looked sad
in a theatrical way, he was thinking. Polly waited, Harry hadn't finished, she
could tell by the way he looked at his glass.

‘You see Polly,
art became art the moment man stepped out of nature. How on Earth that happened
is another issue. But when he did, well, he had to do something didn't he. So
with the total preoccupation of surviving, eliminated as a daily necessity, he
had the possibility to suddenly be creative, to reflect on his life and
represent it in a manually contrived form. Pretty strange behaviour, when one
stands back and looks at it. That doesn't mean he developed a superior
intelligence mind you. Just means he's got more time on his hands and a couple
of juxtaposing thumbs, not to mention multiple blood groups. You see what I
mean Polly?’

Polly watched
Harry, he was wavering.

‘Yes. Yes I do,’
said Polly. ‘So art comes from bored men.’

Harry nodded,
thoughtfully. ‘Good point Polly, good point. Having time to contemplate what
life is, and therefore challenge it, was probably the tipping point that is
leading us to the demise of our species. And art is the very symptom of that.

‘So an artist's life
is just an argument and art is the result.’ said Polly, remembering Tracy’s
words.

‘Mmmm,’ said
Harry. ‘Never thought of it that way, but yes. Maybe you're right.’

Harry was chewing
over Polly's words when suddenly, from nowhere, a screeching voice cut through
them like a falling axe.

‘Oh Harry
darling! How are you?’ Came a deep husky female voice followed by its owner, a
loud gushing woman in her sixties and leader of two other lower ranking blue
rinse ladies in tow. Harry discreetly rolled his eyes but went along with the
woman's absolute thrill at seeing him, by being absolutely thrilled to see her.
Polly took the chance to slip away and glided around the walls looking at the scratchy,
meaningless sketches, mounted in driftwood frames. Then, as she turned, she
spotted someone through the crowd, over in the corner, something about him seemed
familiar. Then it clicked. It was Carva. She watched him for a moment. He
looked uncomfortable in his dour, conventional tweed jacket, collar and tie and
matching body language. It was as if he were sneaking around in the dark,
hoping to pass unseen, his eyes darting around the room. A passing waitress
offered him a glass of wine. He refused at first, then grabbed one at the last
minute as she turned away, apologising for his indecision.