Pumping Up Napoleon (5 page)

Gordon Gifford: I remember his first name because he suffered for it in the seventies, when ‘Gordon is a moron', that line from the song by Jilted John, pursued him round the playground of our comprehensive school. But what did he look like? There is only one clear visual memory of him lodged in my mind, relating to an incident way back in primary school, when Gordon's illicit use of a ballpoint pen, and his persistent chewing of its top, left him with ink all over his mouth and chin. He looked like a blue-blooded boy who'd been punched in the mouth. I remember the look of confusion on his face as he tried to work out why his chin was wet, and the fleeting thrill I felt, wondering if he would actually be poisoned to death in front of me, or merely disfigured for life with a blot of indelible blue.

Neither had happened, obviously, because here was Hannah, his only daughter, all grown up and ready to show the world what she's made of. Literally, as it turns out.

Hannah is naked; or would be if she were not wrapped in cling-film. The effect, against the white walls, is of fragmented water. Leaning forward a little on her pedestal, which is also painted white, she looks as if she is up in the air, but going somewhere. Or she looks like a mummy in a hurry, wrapped in transparent bandages; or an ethereal speed skater.

She does not move. When I first see her, I can't help but think of those mimes that pose as living statues. In particular I remember a clown who would drop his trousers and raise his wig if a child (it was always a child) toddled up and put a small coin in the hat at his feet. But at Hannah's feet there is no box for taking money, nor does she respond when anyone walks into the gallery or makes some comment on her work or her appearance (these being, to a great extent, the same thing).

Whispers are amplified, distorted and then lost in the high-ceilinged room. Low voices sound more urgent than the words that are spoken justify, as they seem to make the walls vibrate. What are they saying? Mostly they are being very nice, so as not to upset Hannah. A few people enter with children and take them away again quickly, though there is not a nipple or a wisp of pubic hair to be seen. I suspect it is because they know the children may say potentially embarrassing and true things and ask awkward questions, such as, ‘What is that lady doing?' – to which neither the parents, nor I, would feel qualified to give an answer.

Still, the visitors do come. Word has got around.

On Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, I visit the gallery in order to spy on people's reactions. To disguise my intentions, I sit and appear to be listening to Judy, the volunteer in charge of the table at the door. The exhibition is free, but Judy smiles at the visitors and informs them that they might like to make a donation. They also have the opportunity to sign a sort of visitors' book. In fact, this is an A4 ruled sheet on a clipboard, with space for name, address and comment.

Judy sits with her back to Hannah and I sit at right angles to Judy, so that I can see the whole room, while pretending to listen to her waffle. Despite my best efforts, I find myself knowing far more about Judy and her life than I would like: I learn of her adventurous cats, the squeak in her washing-machine that sets her love-birds chirping in a competitive manner, why one should never groom a horse while wearing cashmere. I am having difficulty keeping my eyes open; it is a struggle to tune Judy out and focus on the hushed comments of the visitors as they circle the Girl on the Pedestal. Luckily, as the week progresses, there is a tendency towards more forthright opinion.

‘How silly!' says one elderly lady, using the right to free speech they issued with her bus pass. ‘What is the world coming to?'

To Hannah's credit she does not react. I wonder how long she will stand there without a break. Hours, as it turns out. When she wants to get down she simply straightens up, stretches and jumps to the floor. When she wants to get back up she borrows Judy's chair.

How does she manage to pee, I'd like to know. I would ask her but she won't speak to me, and I do not wish to invade her privacy to the extent of following her to the Ladies. I do hang about in the corridor, however, and through a crack in a door leading to an office, see Stew, sitting in front of a computer monitor. I knock and go in.

‘What's up, Stew?' I say.

He says ‘Hi' and leans back in his chair. He's looking at a screen showing the gallery. I hadn't realised the whole exhibition was being videotaped. ‘Is this part of it?' I say. ‘Or is it just for security?' You know how worked up people can get about art.

While I'm looking a man comes into the gallery and looks around. I imagine he's thinking: ‘Is this it?' Leaving Stew, who is biting his nails, I hurry back upstairs.

On the desk Judy is oddly quiet. The man is prowling round the empty pedestal. Again, I have the feeling, as I did with the man in the pub, that his face is familiar. Another good-looking fella. Hallelujah. Pity he's interested in this stuff, though he keeps looking over at me. When Hannah comes back, she breaks silence at sight of the man. ‘Dad!' she says. ‘What are you doing here?'

So that's it. This is Gordon Gifford. This is what he looks like at forty – unrecognisably handsome without a trace of blue ink.

But he has no time to answer because people are clumping up the stairs and Hannah has to get back up on her pedestal. She grabs the chair I was about to sit on and carries it over. Gordon offers her a hand up but she bats it away. Once in position she shoos him off, and he picks up the chair and brings it over to me.

‘Here,' says Gordon to me. ‘Have a seat.'

‘Don't we know each other?' I say.

‘Do we?' says Gordon. ‘Oh yes.' He runs a hand through his hair, distracted. ‘Of course.' But he says nothing else and goes to stand by the wall as the group comes in.

What do I expect – some declaration that he has loved me all his life and never been able to get my youthful beauty out of his mind? Hang on; he's married anyway, isn't he? So let him wait over there, arms folded, scowling at anyone who stares too long at his daughter.

Uncomfortable in his presence, the group – a family of tourists in shorts – does not linger. We hear them giggle and exclaim as they go down the stairs.

‘Dad,' hisses Hannah, when this group has gone. ‘Go away.' It appears she is embarrassed. Looking at Gordon's body language, I would say the feeling was mutual and that, besides this, he considers her to be somehow in danger.

Gordon comes back every day, but shows no inclination to talk about old times. Just as well, as I would perhaps have felt a little awkward if we had become chummy. My review of Hannah's work is, on the whole, unfavourable. In the circumstances, I cannot take both pieces of my editor's advice. In this case, faithfully reflecting public opinion precludes me from appearing neutral.

The comments generated by the exhibition are overwhelmingly either bewildered, as in, ‘What?' and ‘I waited for ages for something to happen'; or decidedly negative. ‘A bad case of Emperor's New Clothes' is a line I intend to quote. For me it sums up Buckington's considered response.

Judy has been persuaded to provide me with photocopies of the comments sheets, in case my editor, or anyone else, requires proof that these are not my own words. I do also mention, of my own volition, that large numbers of people have attended, and I use the words ‘brave', ‘audacious', and ‘avant-garde', because I find it rather touching that anyone could think of making a living with such rubbish. Hannah is, I'm afraid, like so many others before her, just playing at it, even if she has chosen to do this in a most difficult and embarrassing manner.

Every day she stands there, motionless, for far longer than an artist's model would have to endure. She does not complain, neither does she waver. Such strength and dedication are admirable, but why is it any different from sitting, or standing, on a pole, or living in a glass box for forty days? That isn't art; it isn't even magic. Perhaps it is spectacle. That is all I can say.

On Thursday evening, I attend the ‘Interactive Opening', having spent the day writing and rewriting my copy. In the end my editor accepts it despite the negativity of its tone, because I have shown him the comments sheets. I rejoice in being able to offer him the views of the majority.

There is quite a queue to get into the arts centre, headed by Hannah's father. Gordon manages a pensive nod. I confess I am a little disappointed that he doesn't seek my good opinion, but I gather that he does not care to have it, either for himself or for his daughter's work. Something else is troubling him.

I do not have to wait in the queue, of course, but can go right in – except that I am locked out. Reduced to knocking, I am further embarrassed when the door is opened a mere chink and I find myself being scrutinised by a fierce woman I think I recognise.

‘Press,' I say, holding up my pass.

‘I know who you are!' barks the woman, acting out her role of guard dog. Of course she does. The recognition is now mutual and complete, though I don't know her real name and can't quite bring myself to address her as Brown Owl in this context.

‘Can I come in?' I say.

‘You
can
,' she says, ‘but whether you
may
is another matter.'

Oh, ha ha. ‘I'm expected,' I persist.

‘Well, nobody told
me
.'

‘Nevertheless.' I push the door and slide through. Once in, I ignore Brown Owl and sweep upstairs.

I'm surprised to see someone I know in the gallery. It's the handsome stranger from the Boar's Head, the one with the familiar, but unplaceable features. Judy is there too, twittering on, something about money (the soaring cost of birdseed, probably), but I manage to evade her.

‘Hi,' I say to the handsome stranger, taking care not to call him that to his face. ‘We sort of met the other night.'

‘Oh, yes,' he says. ‘Aren't you the art critic?'

I wonder how he's come to hear about me. Does he mean ‘the art critic for the
Buckington Bugle
' or ‘The Art Critic'?

‘What do you think of it?' he says.

‘It' isn't actually happening at this point. The Pedestal and the Girl are hidden behind what looks like a white shower curtain.

‘Well, it's different,' I say, brightly, not wishing to make ‘cruel' the first impression he has of me. Or the second. His first impression, thinking back to my behaviour in the pub, was probably ‘unfriendly'. I smile again, hoping to obscure that thought.

Just then the doors open and we part to let people through, though not without a look at each other that promises future conversation.

When the room is full, music begins to play, a tinkling, mechanical tune, such as you might hear from a musical box, very like the theme tune to
Camberwick Green
.

People stop murmuring and wait expectantly. Slowly, slowly, the shower curtain rises, like a white shroud, pulled up by a rope running through a pulley attached to the ceiling, unsheathing Hannah's cling-filmed form, posed as before. Her father is standing very close, as if he's afraid she might fall. Most people here have seen her already. I wonder why they've come back for more.

The music changes to a fanfare of trumpets and Stew emerges from behind a white screen, dressed in a white fencing outfit and carrying a foil. It is painted black, and this, together with Stew's dark hair, stands out against the white walls, so that as he walks, head and sword seem to float.

As he approaches the pedestal he swishes a few cuts of the foil. ‘Ooh,' says the crowd, moving back. Gordon goes into a crouch. Stew, in a classic lunge, leans forward and pushes an invisible button with the tip of his foil. As the pedestal begins to revolve, so Hannah comes to life. She looks bewildered, then, seeming to notice how high she is above the ground, falls to her knees, gripping the sides of the pedestal. Stew goes back behind the screen. Gordon stands up again, glancing anxiously at Hannah. Stew reappears with an axe.

His intention, I presume, is to take the axe to the Pedestal, not to Hannah, but he doesn't get a chance to swing it once, as Gordon puts a hand on his shoulder, which seems to have the same effect as a Vulcan death grip. Stew crumples to the floor. Hannah says, ‘Da-ad!'

‘Blimey,' says someone. ‘Is this all part of the act?'

On the whole I'm sorry I haven't been able to report the whole fiasco. I suppose if I was really keen on the job I would revise the story and email an update. However, I feel my original words will not only be justified, but seem lenient and forbearing in the circumstances. Besides, there has been no death to report: Gordon and Stew have been parted and the axe taken into custody. Hannah has left in what looked to me like a sulk. I have plenty of material for next week's column. Besides, I'm keen to catch up with the mystery man.

I see my stranger talking to Judy and spot my opportunity to rescue him and earn his undying gratitude.

‘Have you met our new patron of the arts, Nathaniel Green?' Judy says. ‘I was saying to you earlier; he's buying the exhibition.' She would say more, but people are moving towards the doors. ‘Duty calls!' she says, and excuses herself to go stand by her collection box and offer audience response questionnaires.