The Art School Dance (34 page)

Annoyingly
so.

‘
The
baby’s crying!’ Barney complained.

‘
I know
she is!’ said Julia, and she knew, too, that she would have to be
the one to deal with the infant. The cries were just as distracting
as Barney’s two-finger tapping on the keyboard, that halting dance
which made her want to scream and tell him, over his shoulder, that
it was there, the key he was looking for, just beneath the little
finger which he could never quite manage to bring into
use.

With a weary
sigh she swung her legs from the bed, the action fluid because she
was tired and moved as if through a dream. Her figure was trim
despite the recent pregnancy -not that Barney would notice- her
complexion fresh, unaffected by subsequent sleepless nights; this
she noted as she ran a hand across her face, rubbing the sleep from
her eyes, and as she caught a glimpse of herself in the wardrobe
mirror, gliding from the room with the silk of her nightgown
billowing behind. She was still not wholly sure if she was dreaming
or not, that the baby’s cries were a part of her nightmare, but as
she neared the nursery door there was little that was dreamlike or
imaginary about the noise; Barney could argue all he liked about
what was real and what was not, but there was no escaping the fact
that the baby was awake and would remain in that state until she
was comforted.

She leant into
the cot and picked up the sweating straining bundle.

‘
DidDaddydoitden?’ she says, juggling the baby over her
shoulder. ‘Eh? Did Daddy do it to Dee with his noisy typing? Dere,
dere, dere.’

The cries,
punctuated by sniffs and sobs, would only die down gradually, so
Julia took her daughter through to the study.

‘
Well?’
she demanded of her husband.

‘
Well,
what?’

‘
Do you
intend beating the hell out of that keyboard all night? ‘Cause if
you do then the baby and me might as well go downstairs. We’ll
stand more chance of getting to sleep on the sofa.’

‘
This is
important,’ said Barney, his back still to her so that all she
could see of him were his shoulders and the tight wad of black
curls which brushed his collar. ‘I have to get this ready for the
morning and I’m stuck for somewhere to go after Cartesian
doubt.’

‘
I could
think of a place or two,’ said Julia acidly, but there was no
response. She peered over his shoulder, read snatches of what he
had written. ‘Now why do you have to ‘God damn’ the students’
Catholic upbringing?’ she asked. ‘Anyone would think you’re a
Fascist bigot instead of a free-thinking artist.’

‘
There
are too many of the buggers, that’s why. They’re the worst of the
lot, absolutely intractable. You can’t have a Catholic art student,
Julia, it’s a contradiction in terms. You have to beat the faith
out of them before you stand even a ghost of a chance of turning
them into artists.’

Julia waltzed
the baby around the room, dizzying her to stop the last of her
cries, swept past the tiers of books which lined the walls; the
standard art texts were the dustiest, the histories of the
Renaissance and the coffee table tomes on Impressionism which had
lain untouched for so many years; the well-thumbed volumes were now
those which dealt with modern aesthetics and philosophy.

‘
Why
can’t you just let the poor sods paint?’ she asked, as she
completed her circuit of the room. ‘That’s what they were expecting
to do, after all.’ She thought of how peaceful life had been when
Barney had painted, rather than simply thought noisily about the
activity. ‘Jesus, Barney, why don’t you pick up a paintbrush again,
do what you used to do, instead of screwing everyone up with your
abstract considerations and keeping us awake night after night with
your bloody typing?’

His answer
came pat, as if by rote, it had been formulated years before and
never varied.

‘
Painting is a redundant activity,’ he replied.

‘
That’s
bloody marvellous, that is, coming from a man who’s paid to teach
people to paint.’

Barney sat
back from the keyboard, his hands folded across his lap.

‘
I am
not paid to teach people to paint, Julia. I am paid to teach people
to think. Art is a thinking process, not an acting
process.’

‘
Don’t
start lecturing me,’ she warned him.

‘
I'm
not.’

‘
Talking
to me as if I was one of your students.’

‘
I'm
trying to explain.’

‘
Yes,
but some other time. Not now. It’s late.’

‘
I
thought you’d be able to understand,’ her husband huffed. ‘I
thought you’d be able to help by taking an interest in what I’m
doing, but all you’re doing is disturbing my train of thought. You
and her.’

‘
The one
you’re referring to as ‘her’ is your daughter, your only child. Her
name is Dee, not ‘her’, and since she came along the only thing
I’ve come to understand is how much hard work motherhood is. I
don’t have the time to be an academic anymore, nor the strength,
nor the inclination.’

‘
Hush,
Julia, I’m thinking,’ said Barney, hunched forward again, poised
over the desk and ready to attack the keys.

‘
Well do
us both a favour and try to think a little more quietly,’ Julia
said, walking towards the door, the baby’s head now resting more
heavily against her shoulder.

‘
I’m
coming back, you bastards,’ Barney chuckled to himself, reading
through what he had written and imagining how his students would
react. ‘This is really going to fuck you up, have your minds in
torment.’

*

Barney was a
wiry man, with tightly knitted black curls and a permanently
knotted brow, a little on the short side but always with the air
about him that he’s ready to sort someone out. The long-haired
slobs in the painting studio were his favourite targets, and he
didn’t just mean the girls, either; females were generally to be
discounted, in fact, for they either wept or whimpered or ran when
he approached, were incapable of taking strong criticism. No, it
was the likes of Griff, who wanted to do paintings which were like
pop songs -‘immediate and accessible’- and Ceri, who threw paint
about the studio and thought it was expressive. These were the ones
he was after. He didn’t want just any long-haired pillocks smoking
hash and flinging paint about the place, not unless they could
justify themselves.

And what
justification was there for the sight that met him in the studio,
when he returned from his spell of paternity?

None that he
could think of.

‘
Tits
and bums!’ he cried, staggering about the studio like a shocked
maiden aunt, gingerly touching the raw sienna breasts and vivid
pink vaginas. ‘Tits and fucking bums! What’re they doing
here?’

‘
It was
Walter’s idea,’ someone told him.

‘
Screw
Walter! Get the bloody things down!’ he roared in disgust. ‘And
you,’ he said to Pam, ‘get your fucking clothes on!’

‘
But-’

‘
Just
get dressed and get out!’ he snarled, and stormed from the
studio.

There was just
enough time for the paintings to be cleared and then Walter made a
rather more ceremonious entrance, bowing and scraping and all but
genuflecting as he ushered a bleary-eyed Principal before him.

‘
Breasts
and buttocks,’ he was saying, ‘that’s what it’s all about. Breasts
and buttocks. You master those and-’

Walter stopped
short when he noticed that there was a marked absence of these
particular appendages about the place. As tall as he was it took
only a couple of quick strides for him to reach the centre of the
floor.

‘
They’ve
gone!’ he exclaimed, looking about in consternation. ‘Where have
all the paintings gone?’

‘
Barney
told us to take them down,’ he was informed.

‘
To hell
with Barney!’ he said, turning and running from the studio, leaving
Teacher confused, tired and hungover in the doorway.

Up a narrow
flight of stairs, Walter reached Barney’s room and burst in on
him.

‘
Not so
noisy, Walter, I’m working,’ said Barney, his fingers tapping away
at another keyboard.

‘
But the
students aren’t!’

‘
No.
They’d be getter off playing with themselves than doing crap like
that. It’s purely masturbatory.’

Walter fumed.
‘But I asked them to do that- that work!’

‘
Yes,
Walter. Who else but you?’ With an exasperated sigh, Barney added,
‘Bloody paintings.’

‘
Bloody
paintings?’ Walter echoed. ‘Bloody paintings? But this is a bloody
art school! They’re supposed to do bloody paintings!’

‘
Bugger
off, Walter. Stick with the ladies’ evening class where your
talents might be appreciated.’

This was the
final insult for Walter; he strode purposefully across the floor,
spuns Barney around in his swivel chair and pulled him to his feet
by the lapels. Surprised that he had such strength in him, and that
his anger could be roused to such a fierce pitch, he looked in
wonderment at Barney’s face suddenly raised to the level of his
own. It was in this moment of hesitation -what do I do next, now
that I’ve yanked him up here?- that Barney’s hand flicked out and
the knuckles rapped him hard on the bridge of the nose.

‘
You-!’
Walter cried, letting Barney drop back into his seat, and clamped a
hand to his nose which was already beginning to pump
blood.

‘
You
really are a nuisance, you know that, Walter?’ said Barney. ‘All
the noise, all the aggravation. How am I supposed to work with you
up here?’

He gathered
together his papers and walked from his study, no longer the
private sanctum it was supposed to be. At the bottom on the stairs,
outside the studio, Teacher fell into step beside him and they
reached the lift together.

‘
You’ve
upset Walter,’ said the Principal.

‘
More
than you know, Teach.’

The bell
pinged and the lift doors opened. They stepped inside.

‘
Where
to? Which floor?’ asked Teacher.

‘
I’ll
try the library, see if it’s quiet enough in there to work. It’s
like a madhouse up here sometimes.’

‘
Don’t I
know it?’ Teacher pressed the button for the first floor. ‘Don’t
you think we could make an effort to make life more peaceful,
Barney? Couldn’t we reach a compromise or two?’

‘
Are you
thinking about me and Walter?’

‘
Well
ideally I’d like everyone to be happy; you and Walter, Edith and
Bobby, Ron, Joan, everyone. But yes, I’d settle for peace between
you and Walter to begin with. A little harmony in the studio would
be nice, it would be lovely to see the two of you working in
tandem.’

Barney nodded
his agreement. ‘It just so happens I’ve been dwelling on that very
matter while I’ve been off, the reorganisation of the fine art
department. What I plan is that Walter should take over the
foundation course, he’ll like all the young girls there, and any
vocational courses, and of course the ladies’ evening classes.’

‘
Will
he?’

‘
He’ll
love it,’ Barney assured Teacher. ‘He always gets in there first
for the ladies’ evening classes. Now me-’ The doors parted at the
first floor and Barney pulled Teacher out after him. ‘-me, all I
want is first year fine art. This year, next year, the year after.
Just first year fine art. What I want is to get the new intake
before anyone else can.’

‘
But in
three years time you’d have the whole fine art course under your
wing.’

‘
So?’
Barney could see no problem there. ‘They’re wasted on Walter,
Teach. You saw the crap he had them doing up there.’

‘
As a
matter of fact I didn’t, Barney. By the time I got to the studio
you’d got rid of all their work.’

‘
Then
you were spared. You should thank me.’

‘
Thanks,
Barney,’ said Teacher uncertainly.

*

The morning
after Barney’s attack on Walter there were photocopies -bloodstains
and all- of a typewritten sheet tacked to the notice boards, and a
whole festival of balloons and streamers filling the painting
studio.

‘
Looks
like Christmas has come early,’ McCready remarked, bursting one of
the balloons with the tip of his cigarette. ‘What’s this all about,
Griff?’

‘
Here,
read it,’ Griff told him, taking down one of the typed sheets and
handing it to him.

McCready
read:

‘‘
The
project. Draw, with as much precision as your limited talents will
permit, one balloon and the accompanying section of streamer, using
nothing other than an HB pencil. You are to devise instrumentation
which will measure the deflation of the balloon over the following
fourteen days. Should a balloon burst or fall down you will not
replace it but will indicate the event in your drawing. You will
not, however, precipitate such an occurrence in order to ease your
boredom. You will consider the fact that the balloon is
transparent, but only in so far that it will furnish you with
information concerning the inner and outer surfaces of the balloon;
you will not consider any object other than the balloon. Consider
line and tone, but not colour. For the purpose of this project you
will forget inventiveness, originality, creativity and anything
remotely resembling a tit or bum; there are no sexual connotations
to be found in the shape of a balloon. You may consider
mindlessness, miniscule and microscopic variation, rechauffe…’ What
the fuck is rechauffe?’ McCready asks Griff.