Jose Somoza: Art of Murder

Clara was still immobile when they left. Wonderful, wonderful, but you won't buy me. That's obvious from a mile off. She knew it was not good to let her mind wander while she was in the trance-like state of quiescence, but could not help it. She was worried no one would buy her.

What was wrong with Girl in Front of a Looking Glass? The canvas was nothing extraordinary, but she had been bought as worse things. She was standing completely naked, her right hand covering her pubis and the left one out to the side, legs slightly apart, painted from head to toe in different shades of white. Her hair was a dense mass of deep whites, her body gleamed with brilliant glossy tones. In front of her stood a looking glass almost two metres tall, inserted directly into the floor without a frame. That was all. She cost two thousand five hundred euros, with a monthly rent of another three hundred euros – not exactly expensive even for a second-rate collector. Alex Bassan had assured her she would be sold at once, but she had been on show for almost a month now at Gertrude Stein's gallery in Madrid's Calle Velazquez, and as yet no one had made any firm offer. It was Wednesday 21 June, 2006, and the agreement between the painters and GS expired in a week. If nothing had happened by then, Bassan would withdraw her, and Clara would have to wait until another artist wanted to use her to paint an original. And in the meantime, what would she live off?

Without the paint, Clara Reyes had slightly wavy, platinum blonde hair that reached down to her shoulders, blue eyes, high cheek bones, a look that lay somewhere between innocent and mischievous, and a slender frame that gave her a delicate appearance which was belied by her surprising strength. And to keep it that way, she needed money. She had bought a white-walled attic in Augusto Figueroa, and in the living room had set up a small gym with a Japanese tatami mat surrounded by mirrors and apparatus.

Whenever the galleries were closed and she had no chores to do, she went swimming. Once a month she went to a beauty clinic. She used three kinds of cream each day to keep her skin as firm and gentle as canvases should be. She had got rid of two small moles from her body, and had had a scar removed from her left knee. Her menstruation had stopped as if by magic thanks to a special treatment, and she used pills to control her bodily needs. She had removed all her body hair completely and permanently, including her eyebrows; all that was left was her hair. Eyebrows and pubic hair are easy to paint if the artist so wishes, but they take a long time to grow. None of this was a whim – it was her job. Being a canvas cost a lot of money, and she could only make a lot of money by being a canvas. A strange paradox that made her think that Van Tysch, the greatest of them all, was right when he said that art was nothing more than money.

Yet this had not been a bad year for her. A Catalan businesswoman had bought her for Christmas as The Strawberry by Vicky Lledo – but then Vicky had a very faithful following, and sold all her works at a good price. In that painting, she had been with Yoli Ribo. The two of them were seated on a pedestal painted in skin tones, arms and legs intertwined, a plastic strawberry painted in quinacridone red held in their mouths. It was an easy position to hold, although they had to use an aerosol every day to reduce the saliva they produced ('Just imagine a painting that dribbles’ Vicky had said. 'Can you think of anything less aesthetic?') When you got used to it, having to put up with a plastic strawberry in your mouth for six hours a day seemed like the simplest thing in the world. And thanks to hyperdramatism, the exchange with Yoli had been ideal: they shared the strawberry, their breath, looks and touch like real lovers. Vicky had signed them on their deltoids with a horizontal V and L in red. They spent a month in the businesswoman's house before they were replaced. And then Clara had to find more work. In March she had taken over from a French model in an open-air piece in Marbella by the Portuguese artist Gamaio, and in April had replaced Queti Cabildos in Liquid Element II by Jaume Oreste, another open-air work, this time in La Moraleja, but she did not earn as much as when she was the original.

Then in May, good news. She got a call from Alex Bassan. He wanted to paint an original with her. 'Alex, you're an angel,' she thought. He was someone who didn't apply himself to his work, but sold well. He had already painted Clara in two originals a few years back, and she was used to his way of working. Quick as a flash she accepted.

She came to Barcelona at the start of May and installed herself in the split-level apartment on the avenida Diagonal where Bassan lived and worked. Bassan and his wife lived on the upper floor of the apartment, while Clara slept on one of the three fold-up beds kept in the atelier. The other two beds were inhabited by a young Bulgarian (or was she Romanian?) girl who must have been about eleven or twelve, and who Bassan used as a sketch from time to time, and another sketch called Gabriel, nicknamed Misfortune by the painter because the first time he had used him had been for a work with that title. Misfortune was skinny and submissive.

While Clara was at work, the young girl wandered round the atelier like a ghost, clutching one of those Japanese toys that you have to push buttons to feed, raise and educate. During the fortnight Clara spent at Bassan's, this was the only thing she ever saw her with: it was as if the girl had come without any possessions or clothes. And all Misfortune did was come and go all the time. Clara guessed he must be working with several artists in Barcelona at the same time.

Bassan had made several studies before Clara arrived. He had used a North American sketch called Carrie. He showed her the photos: Carrie standing, Carrie on tiptoe, Carrie kneeling – always in front of a looking glass placed at varying distances from her. But the results had not satisfied the artist. For the first few days, he used Clara without a glass. He painted her black and white with trial aerosols, and tested her against strong lights on a dark background. He sprayed her hair and had her stand on one leg for several hours. 'What is it you're trying to achieve, Alex?' she asked him.

Bassan was a huge, strong man built like a woodcutter. The hairs of his chest protruded above his artist's overall. He painted the same way he talked: in great bursts. His thick fingers sometimes grazed Clara's skin when he was outlining a delicate area.

'What am I trying to achieve? That's some question, Clara my love. How the fuck should I know. I have a looking glass. I have you. I want to do something simple, with simple colours, perhaps a range of brilliant whites. And I want you to express… I'm not sure… I want you to be sincere, open, with no barriers… Sincerity, that's the word. To discover what we are, to pass through the looking glass, see what it's like to live in a looking-glass world…'

Clara did not understand a word of this, but then she never understood any of the painters. That didn't worry her: she was the painting, not an art critic; her job was to allow the painter to use her to express what was in his head, not to understand what that was. Besides, she had a blind faith in Bassan. With him, everything was unexpected: he found what he was looking for by chance, all at once, and when that happened it touched your soul.

One day midway through the second week, Bassan put a looking glass on the studio floor and told her to crouch on it naked and look at herself. Several hours went by. Hunched up on the mirror, Clara could only see rings of condensation from her breath.

'Do you enjoy looking at yourself?' the painter asked her all of a sudden. 'Yes.' 'Why?' 'I think I'm attractive.'

'Tell me the first thing that comes into your head. Come on, don't think about it, just tell me.' 'Navel,' said Clara. 'Someone's navel?' 'Not someone's. My navel.' 'You were thinking about your navel?'