Ken Follett: The Modigliani Scandal (1976)

Dixon stood up as Peter walked in. He was a tall, spare man with half-lens glasses and the air of a general practitioner. He shook hands without smiling, and briskly asked Peter to sit down.

He leaned his elbows on the antique desk and said: ″Well, what can I do for you?″

Peter had been rehearsing the speech all the way up on his bicycle. He had no doubt that Dixon would take him on, but he would be careful not to offend the chap, anyway. He said: ″I haven′t been happy with the way the Belgrave is handling me for some time. I wonder whether you would like to show my work.″

Dixon raised his eyebrows. ″That′s a bit sudden, isn′t it?″

″It may seem so, but as I say, it′s been simmering for a while.″

″Fair enough. Let′s see, what have you done recently?″

Peter wondered briefly whether Dixon had heard about the row last night. If he had, he was not saying anything about it. Peter said: ″ Brown Line went for six hundred pounds a while ago, and Two Boxes sold for five hundred and fifty.″ It sounded good, but in fact they were the only pictures he had sold in eighteen months.

″Fine,″ Dixon said. ″Now what has been the trouble at the Belgrave?″

″I′m not sure,″ Peter replied truthfully. ″I′m a painter, not a dealer. But they don′t seem to be moving my work at all.″

″Hmm.″ Dixon seemed to be thinking: playing hard to get, Peter thought. At last he said: ″Well, Mr. Usher, I′m afraid I don′t think we can fit you into our roster. A pity.″

Peter stared at him, flabbergasted. ″What do you mean, can′t fit me in? Two years ago every gallery in London wanted me!″ He pushed his long hair back from his face. ″Christ! You can′t turn me down!″

Dixon looked nervous, as if fearing the young painter′s rage. ″My view is that you have been overpriced for some time,″ he said curtly. ″I think you would be as dissatisfied with us as you are with the Belgrave, because the problem is basically not with the gallery but with your work. In time its value will rise again, but at present few of your canvases deserve to fetch more than three hundred and twenty-five pounds. I′m sorry, but that′s my decision.″

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.″