Benjamin Wood - The Ecliptic

As it turned out, the only painting that did not sell at the private viewing was the work I was most proud of: a diptych that Dulcie had agreed to include in the show by way of a compromise. I had called it Godfearing. The left-hand panel was six feet wide and four feet tall, depicting a layered mountainscape in dark grey oils that I had dragged through repeatedly with the edge of a plasterer’s trowel, dulling the paint in sections with the heels of my hands (you could see the grain of my skin impressed in some of them). Across one corner of this image, a dazzle of blurred white stripes was roughly scraped on a diagonal. These stripes flowed into a right-hand panel of the same height and half the width. This smaller canvas showed the hollow profile of a baby. It was a ghostly figure that touched the edges of the space, as though enwombed by the frame; a faceless shape, hiding behind a gauze of pallid streaks. Its arching back was pressed against the left side of the canvas and seemed to hold up the landscape behind it. From afar, the baby appeared to be damming an avalanche with its shoulders, and, in turn, the jagged rocks seemed to keep the baby from toppling backwards. I had mounted the two panels a quarter of an inch apart, hoping to imply a sense of conjunction between them. It was the point of much discussion over dinner at Wheeler’s that night.

‘I’m surprised nobody took it, given the others went so quickly,’ Max Eversholt said. He offered to fill my glass with Chablis and I shook my head. ‘Still, I have to say it looked a tad incongruous. The title alone was a challenge for some people. Ted Seger’s wife didn’t even want to stand near it — and we all know who controls the chequebook in that particular household.’

‘The Segers haven’t bought a piece from us in years,’ was Dulcie’s response. ‘I only invited Ted because he’s a handy chap to have in my pocket in certain situations: tax season looming and all that. Besides, the diptych will find a home eventually. You know what they say in Egypt. .’ This caused both of her assistants to chuckle, and Max threw me a helpless look. I could only blink back at him.

‘We seem to have walked into a private joke,’ he said. ‘How unfortunate.’

Dulcie straightened her face. Her assistants went quiet. ‘Just something we were talking about on the way over here. In Egypt, when you come to the end of a good meal, it’s respectful to leave a small amount of food on your plate.’

‘I see. Respectful to whom?’

‘To the cook.’

‘Well, terrific. Thank heavens you invited so many Egyptians tonight — oh, no, wait ,’ Max said, beaming.

‘Not for the first time, old love, you’re rather missing the point.’ Dulcie shucked an oyster, barely gulping. ‘If we’d sold all nine pieces already, what would I tell collectors once the reviews start coming in?’ She made a telephone of her thumb and pinkie: ‘ Yes, that’s right, sir, only one left, I’m afraid — oh, by far the most progressive piece in the show, yes, sir — it would take someone with a particular insight just to see its — pardon me? The price? Well, hold on a sec, and let me check the book for you. I’m not sure the artist really wants to part with it. . ’ Dulcie retracted her fingers. ‘Don’t you know anything about the market, Max? I thought this was your game.’

‘You’re forgetting who brought Ellie to your attention in the first place. I didn’t hear you patronising me then.’ He gestured at the waiter. ‘Another round of number twos over here, please!’

Dulcie laughed. ‘I do wish they’d call them something else.’

‘Never. It’s half the fun of eating here.’

I had become accustomed to this sort of discussion — the type in which I sat as an observer, hearing my own work being spoken about without being invited to contribute an opinion. I was passed around between people like the head on a coin, regarded only when questions needed a quick answer or small points required clarification.

At least I was not the only person who was adrift from the conversation that night. The young man in the seat opposite had not said a word since ordering his green salad, which he had proceeded to nudge around his plate with a lot of indifferent forkwork. He had told me his name on the pavement outside the gallery, but I had misheard it in the drawl of passing traffic and been too embarrassed to ask for it again. It had sounded like ‘Wilfredson’.

He had a smooth, slender face and an attractive way of smoking with one arm slung over his chair-back, as though entirely bored by everything Max and Dulcie had to say. The jacket he was wearing had neat cross-stitching around the lapel in yellow thread, and he kept more pens in his breast pocket than I suspected he required. His blond hair was thickly pomaded, but it flicked into a strip of tight dry curls above his brow, giving his head a curious lopsidedness. ‘If I might ask something about the diptych,’ he said, gazing at me. ‘Unrelated to the pounds-and-pence of things. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.’

‘Why would she be uncomfortable?’ Dulcie cut in.

‘Sometimes it’s difficult for artists to explain their work.’

‘This is just a friendly dinner, not an interview — I thought I’d made that clear.’

Wilfredson tapped his cigarette. He seemed irritated by the interruption, resetting his gaze on the table before addressing me again. ‘For what it’s worth, I thought it was the only thing in the show of any substance. Which is probably why nobody paid it the least bit of notice all evening. And why no one bought it. Sorry if that’s a bit forthright. It’s only my opinion.’

I was about to say thank you, but Max got his words out first: ‘Dulcie just said the very same thing.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Wilfredson. ‘Though I admit I wasn’t hanging on her every word like you were.’

‘Well, I’m telling you she did. Progressive — that’s what she called it.’

‘Really. Gosh. That’s even more egregious.’

Dulcie wafted the smoke from her face. ‘They warned me you had an attitude. I can see I needn’t have worried.’

Wilfredson gave a flickering smile. ‘I’m just wondering who decided to shunt the best work to the back end of the room tonight. Can’t think it was the artist’s choice. I mean, I know the Roxborough’s a commercial gallery, but do all the hangings have to look like they’ve been thought out by an Avon lady?’

‘Steady on,’ said Max. ‘No need for that.’

Dulcie’s two assistants blushed on her behalf. But she would not be distracted from her plate of oysters. She picked up another shell and tipped its glistering flesh right down her throat. ‘Please, go on. I’m not one to stand between a man and a good tirade.’ She reached for her wine glass. ‘Just keep in mind: we only show the work, we don’t make it. So if you’re going to attack the gallery or its staff in print, don’t be surprised to get uninvited to our shows.’ Dulcie tidied the sides of her grey bob and sat back, awaiting a response.

‘Oh, you’ve nothing to fear in that regard. I don’t mention the names of incidental people in my reviews.’ Wilfredson let ash fall upon his meal. His arm was still slung around the chair. ‘Enough old faces in the room tonight, I noticed. You’ll get your flatter-pieces in the broadsheets, no question. How much do you have to pay those good old boys, by the way, Dulcie? They must charge by the adverb, from what I’ve seen.’

‘Tread carefully now. I’m losing my good humour.’

He grinned. ‘I just thought I’d take the opportunity to let Miss Conroy know what I truly think of her work. Before those other critics go parroting your press release and fill her head with applause. If that’s OK by you.’